Wyatt Gallowsby

Nothing but the ghosts of dead colors graze desperately.

trying to be blue, whites yearning for silver, sickness straining for a touch of yellow.

And soon, there's only the yearning, which itself grazed for time, becoming something else, something leaner or primal.

It becomes hunger.

You think death will take us away?

Foolish little captain of men.

Why, it was death who put us here to begin with.

And in so doing, has washed its hands of us.

For we are where we belong here.

And we are all around you.

Why, Captain, I'm always willing to converse.

Oh, I can see why that might be confusing.

You see, Franklin is not my name, not truly.

It was merely the name of the last one who fed the hunger I mentioned earlier.

The one who stirred within me the relentless need to know something, anything.

Anything at all that might, if only for a fleeting moment, soothe the void forever gnawing at my being.

Soon, however, I will have a new name.

A temporary one, as all names are.

Don't you agree, Captain?

Lisa and Frank... I'm afraid the time for talking is over.