I turn the corner of the street, not missing a beat. I’ve been commissioned to take photos of working people in Cincinnati for a puff piece a local Newspaper is running. I’m on the job per usual; the camera’s in a heavy bag on my back, and my smoking pouch is at my side. My pipe is empty but wedged in my teeth because I’m afraid I’ll break it if I keep it in my bag as I chug along.
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The old ones cry out from the dark, moss mottled labyrinth within me. I sit, huddled in my office waiting for it to find my scent. I hear it sliding down the hallway now, mandibles chittering, tentacles search every crevice, every nook, as it sniffs for my natural light.
Only my pipe is with me to comfort me in my time of distress. My faithful friend in hand.
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