Rod Serling’s Predator

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Picture if you will a quiet suburban Sunday in spring. Windows are open, the sun low. The TV burbles downstairs, Evan Parker duels with Shakira on neighbour’s radios carried on a soft breeze. All seems calm and normal but not for one Bruno Silva. Bruno lies back on his bed thinking about an old late night TV show and listening to the regular clatter of the kitchen melt into the old guy next door gardening, the rhythmic click of a typewriter. He is unable to shake the echoes of a dream he has had. A sense of space blows through him, at times quite explicitly, more discretely at others, and unease creeps into his room. The colour and form of things are melting away from him, increasingly abstracted and ghostly. In a moment he awakens to find himself at a strange intersection in a shadowland…

serlingsmokes

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