It was quiet, midday, on an immodest suburban street, somewhere in North America. Nearing the end of their Twentieth Century. Visiting that girl again. That was as much as she could keep track of, when it came to such affairs. It was, more or less, accurate.
The thing just kept walking. Nobody was sure what it was. However, that did not matter to them, because they could not see it at all. Not at all. Well, perhaps nobody was a slight exaggeration. After all, the thing could see herself.
I do not like the girl. She can see me.
The sign on her left indicated her whereabouts. Reason Place and Ridicule Lane. She knew herself to be both far from Reality Street, yet still somewhere in the 'R' section of the city as she rounded the corner. Her hooves met the warm cement of the road with a carefully paced clip-clop that went unnoticed.
Miss Georgette LaBeau kept working in her front yard's beautiful flower garden. She just kept pruning the roses, only looking up once. And that glance was given to the chattersome squirrel that ran up a tree at the streetside. Strangely, it was not given to the thing.
I do not like the air. It is unlively.
The thing just kept walking, and made her way down the street with her tasseled tail wagging gently. The street curved, gently, and now she saw the court at the end of Reason Place. It was as quiet as the rest of the suburban street.
She came to rest in the center of the court, hooves silent and both furry legs unmoving. With a long-nailed hand, she wiped her nose. Then she twitched it, curiously. It was triangular and pink, like a cat's nose. And she had whiskers.
I do not like the air. It is unfresh.
She began to adjust her tuxedo-top. It was getting uncomfortable, as the summer air was stifling at noon. Then, she gave a nervous glance at her silver pocket watch.
She analyzed the strange runes, that no human could understand. And, in case she had to make conversation, she converted it all to something more human. 17:03 Greenwich Meridian Time, Friday June 14th, 1996 Common Era, or alternatively, Anno Domini. She surmised that that must be more or less accurate. Then, a whirring noise interrupted her thoughts.
I do not like the noise. It is impolite.
An adolescent boy, which she deemed to be no more than twelve or thirteen Earth-bound years, was pushing a hefty metal cart of sorts over the grass of one house's front lawn.
The creature stood in the exact middle of the court, watching him with mild, yet fading, interest.
He had messy, tousled brown hair. Grass-stained jeans, cut below the knee into shorts. A white and blue sports jersey, probably baseball or perhaps football.
Oh, wait -- the humans here call it soccer.
And he had a distracted look on his face, as he pushed the cart through the grass. Then, she noticed that, in its wake, the grass was shorter. This concept amazed her. And now she, more or less, understood the noise.
I like the noise. It is purposeful.
And, with that absent-minded look, he was staring through the creature, which he could not see, to the other side of the street. He had a forlorn look on his face, as of day-dreaming and admiration.
She turned around, away from the boy as he awkwardly, and accidentally, ran the machine over a plastic bag that littered the lawn. As it came out in shreds and he cursed under his breath, she was now looking across the street at what had so captivated the boy's attention.
That girl, she has grown! My reason for being here.
The girl, as young as the boy, smiled when she saw that the invisible creature in the middle of the court had finally noticed her. She was swinging, idly, on a tire swing that hung from the tree on the lawn of the yard across from the boy. Her bright eyes scanned the beastly lady before her, and she frowned ponderously; biting her lower lip with her front teeth.
"Heh heh, your horns are much longer. Now, tell me, satyr, why have you returned?" The question was whispered calmly, so as not to draw attention. The girl's pink legs swayed back and forth, to keep the swing going, beneath a frilly black dress.
"Annabell," the creature addressed her, in a London accent, as it stood at the curb. "You can see things that you should not." She bodes ill for my world. I shall pray that she is no harbinger of what is to come.
Across the empty cement court, the boy stopped the lawn mower abruptly. His mouth hung low, gaping.
"Hee hee," she laughed cheerily, looking over the satyr's shoulder. "I'm not the only one, it seems."