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Paul had placed his trousers in the washing machine, the first round of what would become an assault of the highest biological order. If the rest of society scrutinized his every detail as he surmised then any blemish, smear or smell, however small, would become a glowing beacon of idiocy. And should that be the case he would rather see them burned or buried than put on his person again, let alone donated to charity.
He'd decided to do a full cleansing and stripped down to his underwear, jogging back up to his room in his boxer shorts and socks. Grabbing a pair of slacks from the end of his bed, he sat at the edge rocking back and forth as he kicked his feet into the legs. It was during this motion that Paul caught sight of the open wardrobe in front of him, or more specifically the jacket that hung towards the end of the rack. Something about it seemed to jump out at him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what that was. He stood up without yet having pulled his pants up to the waist and made his way over to the closet, pulling the coat from off the peg. It was an old and dusty bomber jacket, and the shear sight of it made him want to sneeze. The shit brown certainly wasn't the kind of colour that he'd be seen dead in nowadays, but being the sentimental person that he was there would always be a home for it whilst he could provide one. The embroidered badge on the breast ignited some fond but also unwelcome memories from his late teens, it was an insignia for the High Flyers Society and it depicted a Cessna plane with three smoke streams tailing off from the rear; each intertwining as if creating a loaf of plaited bread. The image reminded Paul of the last time he'd worn the jacket, it was on the day of his inaugural flight with the society which hadn't gone well. He'd taken ill during the day's events and passed out on the train home as a consequence. The recollection suddenly made clear what had allured Paul to the jacket, his mind's eye replaying the earlier experience on the tube. He'd seen the guy's reflection hadn't he? Surely. Try as he did though Paul couldn't picture the face, just a low turned head nodding towards the floor. A daydreaming fool might have got big ideas and set off on an adventure, back to the station in search of clues of this mystery. And seeing as that is what he was, that is exactly what he did.
A chapter I submission for the Odyssey II Clive Barker project.
antipax Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012
Fingers crossed for the submission!
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Submitted on
October 19, 2012
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