The Fog Catchers 005
My mum died two and a half years ago. It was the night the screens went dark, and the satellites fell from the sky.
Vision burn of memory. No escape. Dad’s drinking getting worse, fuelled by black moods. Some mornings I couldn’t wake him.
So I’d go up to the roof alone, work the nets, hanging out with the other crews. I’d even do the image peeling myself. Best I could.
I remember the dreams he used to tell, when we first started off catching fog, of netting a famous image-ghost one day…
…Maybe a full scene from some old video, a good five minutes of Lady Diana or Madonna or Brando, names that meant nothing to me.
But dad talking crazy of selling the ghost on for big money, enough for us to start a new life, a proper life. Whatever that might mean.
A week passed by since Jake’s warning. No trouble. I started to forget about it. And then, one sunrise I climbed up to the roof…
And there was our net, the Mystical World Crew net. I felt sick. It was torn, slashed all over, rent in two right down the middle.