Rubber Village

“What’s in your briefcase? Will you be the one to tell me?”

The same blank stare. The eyes aren’t real; they’re rubber just like the rest of the face.

“Then can you show me?”

He opens the briefcase without signs of objection. A little hastily in fact. This was a surprise, but the emptiness of the briefcase was not. I don’t expect logic here.

“Why do you all carry briefcases if you’re not going to use them?” A pointless question.

The rubber-faced man begins to walk away, then to jog, then to sprint. He sprints along a distant treeline until he enters the woods and exits my vision. Men with rubber faces. What I initially thought to be masks. Everybody here looks the same; grotesque rubber faces, tweed suits and black briefcases.

Less like a village, more like a factory. Totally devoid of colour. And now, a rubber man is dancing alone, trampling on colourless flowers and swinging his briefcase like a brainless child.

“How do I leave this place? Please.” Unhidden desperation.

A new rubber faced man points to the edge of a cliff.

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