ZERO PARADES
field manual
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The script
1,293
Looks like some trash managed to escape its bag on the way out.
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Looks like you're on your own. If you're going to believe in anything, shouldn't it be the friends you've brought along with you?
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Lots of imported spices.
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LOUDSPEAKERS SO THE CITY CAN ANNOUNCE IDEOLOGICAL CHANGES ON THE FLY.
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Lovers have scratched their initials into the railing.
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Lush.
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M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.
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Mailboxes: the best way to get to know someone without having to talk to them.
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MAINTAIN CLEANLINESS, RESIST LAZINESS, RESIST CORRUPTION!
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Many tears have been spilled here.
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Masonry shifts beneath your feet.
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Medicine bottles. Good stuff's gone already.
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Metal lungs, straining to exhale as they once did.
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Metal on these water pipes is covered in scratches. Means it's likely lead.
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Metal shudders and groans beneath your feet, reverberating downwards.
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Might be worth popping this thing open, yeah?
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Mind the gap.
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Mind your ankles.
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Mold devours the actress's face.
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More faded notes have fallen behind the console than remain taped to the wall.
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More takeout boxes that once held fried shrimp.
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Most demolition here was intentional, but this was time's wrecking ball.
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Motherly.
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Movement at your peripheral vision.
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1,020
Mud-slick, treacherous ground.
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Muffled humming. The radio's on low.
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Murmurs drift from the apartment balcony above.
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Muscle and metal, a compromise at your centre.
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Must be the groundskeeper's shed.
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Must have spry knees for such a fashionably low bedframe.
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Musty damp envelopes, salvaged from the flooded basement.
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Nature is reclaiming this place -- watch for things that bite.
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Nearly-identical sets of shirts and trousers, ironed and folded.
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Needles in the red.
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New wires cleanly spliced into old circuitry. Days, maybe weeks of work.
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News from the crash site: Recovery crews have pulled a scorched orange box from the wreckage.
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Nighttime. The moon enters its waning cycle. High up in the firmament, a few malignant stars awaken.
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Nitrogen, hastily discarded.
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No encoded messages here. Just dirt.
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No fan is a match for the doctor's boiling temperament.
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No stand... doesn't mean he isn't selling something.
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No wall lasts forever when built against the tide.
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No... soda all over this poor console...
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Nobody will see a hand slip into a postbox in this dark corner.
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Non-perishable food and toiletries, packed as if for donation.
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Non-zero chance the fluids in that sink will one day form new life.
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Nothing can be seen through the opaque glass of that narrow window, but you know exactly what's on the other side: a cramped, dirty…
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Nothing hidden here -- just an abandoned shoebox full of recipes.
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Nothing means what it seems to mean. In fact, safer to assume the opposite.
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Odd place for a filing cabinet.
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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 14 of 26