/lit/ - Literature

Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Three black SUVs. Men in dark trench coats. Beating their drums of war and veiled under a cloud of ash. They think they can keep their prying eyes covered under black wayfarers: spooks, abstractions, and illusions is what these shadows are. Hazy silhouettes that aren’t even beings-in-themselves they’re the darkness closing in on my peripheries that soon will tunnel in my reality. I’ve seen too much.

Trying to make a 1st person short story about 'gangstalkers' who unbeknownst to the protagonist are just mafia.