The Satyr's Head: Tales of Terror
“Sutton AT THIS TIME in the morning, the sun showers a blinding swirl of motes through the branches of a nearby tree which, spilling through the window, scatter about the room. It is one of those superb, warm mornings in late spring when not a breath of wind stirs outside and one sits, cosy and contented with the tingle of summer in one’s nostrils. Outside, the occasional car shunts past, disturbing the air, caught hard and bright in the sun’s perpetual gaze. Passersby appear infrequently, devoid of coats and ready for the heat of the afternoon. There is a kind of hazy, half-life to the scene, as though people and their attendant technology had become immured indoors waiting; this early dazzle of summer perhaps merely an hallucination, not to be trusted.
I used to sit by the window sometimes and gaze across the street watching life pass by in its lazy fashion. Watching the still, sombre houses on the opposite side of the road face the challenge of harsh daylight, their red bricks... soiled with grime, windows dark, half-lidded with mesh curtains.MoreLess
I used to sit by the window sometimes and gaze across the street watching life pass by in its lazy fashion. Watching the still, sombre houses on the opposite side of the road face the challenge of harsh daylight, their red bricks... soiled with grime, windows dark, half-lidded with mesh curtains.MoreLess
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