'They' by Philip McGann

They came in black, in the hollows, like dreams. In the same matter-of-fact, unquestioning way. They were always passing outside the edges of your vision, and they were always leaving. For a while, nobody thought to speak of them, as if they must have been a singular anomaly. But once the first person mentioned them, in passing, just to say something, it was as though they had been waiting on the tips of everyone’s tongues—and then they were all that anyone could speak about. Of course, people became determined to understand them, to chase one of them down and confront them. But they never did. 

To those who never saw them, it’s hard to convey (though, really, no one ever really saw them). But they would only appear when you had forgotten that they were there, and they moved like the spots in the corner of your eye; as you moved, they would move, and then they would disappear out of sight. And so we never understood them, or contained them. And they left, as a dream. They left people’s words and minds, and were forgotten, just as soon as they came. You can only hold on to the edges for so long. 

The last time I saw them, I’d just finished my shower and was lost in thought, looking into the bathroom mirror. And I saw waves of them behind me, in pairs or small groups, passing away into the narrow strip of dusk. I watched, until I could hardly see their figures any more. I turned to open the window, to hold on to the frame, to lean out and stare into the dark. But they were gone, even as no one was really sure that they were ever here.