[ WP ] The ones who wander

The beings that flit between worlds can only be seen in passing, by most. The colored shapes we see when our eyes are closed are the Wanderers. If you open your eyes fast enough, you can catch them before they hide themselves. That split second, before your irises set and the world is blurry, that's when the weak and the dying let themselves drop to a layer we can see. Even then they dance in an out of the periphery, seeking energy, trying to escape the nothing. They're like us, in that sense, afraid of what comes next. 
 
 Some people, people like me, can see them in full form. They're parasites, two dimensional beings in a three dimensional world. They cling to people like leaches, suckling off of their energy. Most people have an average of around thirty shapes clinging to them at any one time, crops of sharp angles and neon colors spiking out of them. It's a stain glass portrait, a thumb print attached to every host. Mine like to crawl up and down my arms, my hands, like little blue and red soldier ants patrolling their nest. 
 
 There was this one old man in a library, he had wings. The wanderers clung to his shoulders and to each other, folding over themselves again and again, fluttering behind him, almost in beat to with his breathing. They were such beautiful reds and yellows, with tints of purple around the edges. When he had his back turned to grab a book, I reached out and plucked a piece of him. 
 
 I think he was like me, that nameless man. He stopped in his tracks, and I could see a shudder roll through the wanderers, emanating from their missing brother. Bright red, then that beautiful purple. Their owner turned, and I could see the distress on his face, the anguish. I looked at him, and pressed the piece I stole into my own arm. Imagine my surprise when my own little soldier ants identified the intruder, and swarmed it. There was a bright flash of purple beneath swarms of red and blue, and a small, beautiful note. 
 
 The old man fled before I could take more of his friends. That was a little disappointment. It was so exciting incorporating a piece of some one else. I should like to try it again. Every once and a while, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of color dancing along my arm. Feel a little pull. I have no illusions that the wanderer I collected is still alive. I saw it torn and consumed, felt it integrate. 
 
 I think what's left of it is trying to get back to its own host. Leading to the old man. I hope that's the case. I would like to have wings. 
 
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