Phil Part 1

A piercing ray of light traveled through the air. It struck the dust motes that were slowly falling from above. Dust is rarely beautiful, yet even the vilest goat would call this dust stunning. Words cannot describe how amazing the dust was, so I won't even try, unless I need to. The warehouse door swung open, and Phil Burns walked in. His little cart followed behind, pulled by his arm. Both man and cart went straight through the dust, ruining the beauty. In fact, the dust now looked like a small chair with a shoe on it. The cart saw this, and was revolted. He decided to tell Phil his thoughts. "Hey Phil, that dust is pretty ugly, you know that?" "Huh," said Phil, "What do you mean?" "Well just look at it! It's like a chair with a shoe!" said the cart rather angrily. He didn't understand how Phil could miss the sheer hideousness of the falling dust, as it slowly tumbled down to the warped boards that served as a second floor. No one had ever bothered to try and get to the first floor, there were no doors into it, and no one had ever cared what lay beneath. But the mystery of the first floor would end that day, and it would change the world, unless it was a Thursday, and then the world would simply move on, without even caring.

A gang of thugs, the Westside Coke Kings, ambled down the street. They had all left school during B lunch, and were now headed to the other side of town to meet their rivals, the Eastside Pepsi Punks, in a fight to the death. They of course liked to pretend that no one outside the two gangs knew about the fight, but news travels fast in the city, so 75% of the teenage population had left during their lunches too, because a fight like this only happened once a week. Stepping into the appointed arena, the middle of a warehouse district, the Kings looked around. Their opponents were already there, straight across the street, ready to fight. The spectators had formed a ring, to keep the fight contained, and to keep the authorities out. The Westside leader stepped forward, to face the Eastside leader. No words were spoken, or if they were, we can't publish them here. The appointed referee, a midget from Downtown stepped forward, and was about to say "Fight!" when a crashing sound erupted from the warehouse to the left of the Kings. Everyone turned, saw no knives, saw no guns, heard no curses, lost interest, and went back to the fight.

Phil woke up on the floor, a pain shooting through his left leg, and a stupid smile on his face. He had always wondered what was below the second floor, and now he knew. It was completely empty and full of dust, as if no one had been there for several decades. Thinking about where he was, Phil supposed that no one had been there in at least several decades, maybe more. The cart came rolling over, and stopped next to Phil with a slight sigh. "Are you alright?" it asked. "Yes, I think I am, except for the fact I must have died," said Phil. "Oh, you don't need to worry about that, your heart is still working," came the carts reply. Phil liked the sound of that. He liked being alive, and planned on continuing the activity for several years. That's why he was glad he had got the robo-cart. He had found it yesterday, sitting next to an old bum on the street, who looked a lot like Einstein, or Elvis, or someone else who started with an E. Phil had tried to ask the bum what the cart was for, but all the man would say was "Just take it, before the cow comes!" Phil had never learned the meaning of those words, only that they seemed to carry some importance. Turning back to the warehouse, Phil saw a pile of newspapers. The last one on top was today's, which Phil hadn't seen yet. The headline read "Homeless man killed by escaped bull". Phil put down the paper in disgust; he didn't really care about that. What he cared about was a ladder, or some other way out of the mysterious empty room. He looked around, and gasped. Over there, in the corner, there was a.

To Be Continued.