She had gone to bed, the photographer. For hours she had stood above the crystal bowl, taking so many countless photographs. Drip, drop, drip, drop. Hundreds and hundreds, hours and hours. It was as if she would never stop, but stop she did.
With a sigh, the photographer gathered her equipment, and put it away, and stepped out of the room, and silence reigned. For a moment, all was still. Then, slowly, a ripple formed in the water lying in the bottom of the bowl. From that ripple rose a tiny pod of water, like a liquid finger poking through. It swayed there, unsteady for a moment, but grew stronger as the minutes passed. It twisted about, as if looking around, and then began to grow further out of the water, stretching itself, floating through the air. It grew, until it was as round as a forearm. It hovered there, making not a sound, and then as if it had finally made a final decision, it shot through the room and disappeared through the doorway.
The photographer, asleep in another part of the house that night, never even had time to scream. |
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