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Midaugust days have the tendency to heat up in the bulge of an indian summer. The temperatures squeezing from a point to a rotund center back to a point like a lemon. The day Jonathan Brown was first contacted by forces unknown, in order to do biddings that could only be seen by the best of diviners, occurred in mid-August. He could never pinpoint the date in his head, only the feeling of sweat on the nape of his neck, and the cold feeling of a glass in his hand poking out like a knife in his memory. He'd had a lemonade, he felt, one could never be certain, his memory choosing a meandering form of rememberance involving specific tactile feelings and each gear-tick of his brain. The sun was hot but it was dry out, as it gets in so-called deserts, leaving him with a feeling of confusion at the sweat leaking from his neck like a cracked dam. The sun had just slid behind one of the micro clouds that seem to form to perfectly obscure the sun on mostly-clear days, giving a false sense of relative brightness until the sun is allowed out again. A fairly simple machination without warning and quite unexpectedly entered his head, "Go to the store."
The sweat poured further down his back, leaving a half canoe stain of salt and water. He put down the glass, the liquid (yellow or maybe the light brown of tea) shuddered as it does. "Go to the store" seemed a confusing concept to him, blunt in its straightforwardness yet lost
in its indefinence. He felt the mishappen dumbbell of his key ring in the basket and grabbed it, their jangle lost to the static fuzz of memory, but the cold metal heating on contact with his hand kept around for convuluded reason. The grocery store seemed like a good enough place to define as store. He got in his car and went, a shifting in his brain causing his normally pristine driving, meant to enjoy the simple pastoral prominence of the rural life he pays so little to live, was moved up a gear. A side-swipe may have occurred, the thought of the store causing a tingling behind his left earlobe provided an ample enough distraction for him to not notice or know now.
He arrived with a screech to find the store closed for renovations, an oddity considering the store's centralized location and lack of competition for, at the very least, twenty miles in any given direction. He got out of the car to look, to this day he presents only confusion when you ask him why, for one reason or another the inner-workings of his brain decided not to be recorded. It was there, standing, arm splayed across the top of his car door, right foot still clinging to the fabric of the car, that the voice first spoke to him in its booming and exasperating way.
"YOU ARE MY FRIEND AND FOLLOWER"
Jonathan nearly shit himself before, and quite promptly, he returned himself to the car
Midaugust days have the tendency to heat up in the bulge of an indian summer. The temperatures squeezing from a point to a rotund center back to a point like a lemon. The day Jonathan Brown was first contacted by forces unknown, in order to do biddings that could only be seen by the best of diviners, occurred in mid-August. He could never pinpoint the date in his head, only the feeling of sweat on the nape of his neck, and the cold feeling of a glass in his hand poking out like a knife in his memory. He'd had a lemonade, he felt, one could never be certain, his memory choosing a meandering form of rememberance involving specific tactile feelings and each gear-tick of his brain. The sun was hot but it was dry out, as it gets in so-called deserts, leaving him with a feeling of confusion at the sweat leaking from his neck like a cracked dam. The sun had just slid behind one of the micro clouds that seem to form to perfectly obscure the sun on mostly-clear days, giving a false sense of relative brightness until the sun is allowed out again. A fairly simple machination without warning and quite unexpectedly entered his head, "Go to the store."
The sweat poured further down his back, leaving a half canoe stain of salt and water. He put down the glass, the liquid (yellow or maybe the light brown of tea) shuddered as it does. "Go to the store" seemed a confusing concept to him, blunt in its straightforwardness yet lost
in its indefinence. He felt the mishappen dumbbell of his key ring in the basket and grabbed it, their jangle lost to the static fuzz of memory, but the cold metal heating on contact with his hand kept around for convuluded reason. The grocery store seemed like a good enough place to define as store. He got in his car and went, a shifting in his brain causing his normally pristine driving, meant to enjoy the simple pastoral prominence of the rural life he pays so little to live, was moved up a gear. A side-swipe may have occurred, the thought of the store causing a tingling behind his left earlobe provided an ample enough distraction for him to not notice or know now.
He arrived with a screech to find the store closed for renovations, an oddity considering the store's centralized location and lack of competition for, at the very least, twenty miles in any given direction. He got out of the car to look, to this day he presents only confusion when you ask him why, for one reason or another the inner-workings of his brain decided not to be recorded. It was there, standing, arm splayed across the top of his car door, right foot still clinging to the fabric of the car, that the voice first spoke to him in its booming and exasperating way.
"YOU ARE MY FRIEND AND FOLLOWER"
Jonathan nearly shit himself before, and quite promptly, he returned himself to the car
