Spines like Braille.

            The clouds seemed to creep like tigers in the foliage, undulating slowly in the night sky.  Their sinewy, black bodies, distended round the middle with the dense concentration of vapor, quivered and roared on contact, eyes flashing with the harsh glow of lightning.  Beneath them, separated by a pane of glass, the child drifted slowly to sleep within the confines of its crib.  Dark, half-lidded eyes gazed up drearily at the mobile that swayed lightly above its head; a mobile of wooden, prehistoric fossils.  The child’s gaze shifted slowly from the triceratops, to the brontosaurus, to the tyrannosaurus rex, and finally to the pterodactyl.  With a small grin, the child admired the pterodactyl, its frame suddenly lit by the flashes of lightning.  The wooden skeleton, shadows deepened by the bright light, seemed to glow.  Reaching two tiny hands up toward the mobile, the child stared intently at the pterodactyl, its body held out of reach by two tiny strings.  The strings were wrapped around its spine; a dainty, curved spine, each tiny vertebra exactly like the next until the end of the tail, where it became smaller and smaller replicas of the original, ending in a sharp bone tip.  There was something about the structure that amused the child, and it giggled.  Soon, it slept.

-                           

            Not much seemed to change in the world of Maxton Price.  Still, at age twenty-four, he admired that mobile – keeping it hidden within a box, pushed into the farthest recess of his closet.  It represented, in his eyes, each childhood memory that he held so dearly.  Yet, it remained an object for his eyes only – much the way his other projects were. 

            The day started for Maxton Price much the way it started for any other working American citizen.  His alarm clock rang at 6 AM sharp, and he awoke in darkness.  Getting dressed, eating breakfast, and packing his things for the day put his exit at 7, and he was on his way to work.  He held a job that was much akin to that of nearly every other citizen – a menial one, paying only what it takes to survive comfortably, employed by a faceless company.  He didn’t toil, per say, but rather sleep-walked through his daily duty.  To Maxton, his job was as simple as breathing, and he gave it about as much thought.  When the day was over, he would return home promptly.  Rarely did he say more than a “Hello” or “Good day” to his coworkers, and they recognized it – and thusly left him alone.