Part snake, part spider, the evil looking, eight foot, nine hundred pound, glistening creature moved. Its eight hairy legs consolidating each forward advance with piercing, rotating claws, while its enormous, bloated, snake-like body slithered forward another two feet. Slowly, it continued its wiggle-grasp-slither-walk up the carpeted staircase.
Jill had just sent the twins to bed, while she continued to prepare for the arrival of her estranged husband, Jack. Jack was an encyclopedia client consultant. He believed in knowledge, to the extent that he had taken on the responsibility of dropping by each evening to read a section of his forty volume demo set to the twins, at their bedtime.
On the staircase landing the creature had paused a moment, its beetle-like eyes giving off an eerie sheen in the dim half-light of the stairway. Its horribly shaped head tilted slightly to the left, appraising the portrait hanging there. Before continuing, the creature sent an unseen signal to its third left leg, the one with the razor sharp pincers. With unbelievable speed, it grasped the lower left corner of the prortrait and slowly leveled it. Only then, did it continue up the stairs. Dragging behind the creature were three sticky and disgustingly foul-smelling cocoon like pods, exuding the pungent rotting odor of partially decomposed victims. The hideous cargo made bumping and thumping sounds, as the creature squiggled- wiggled- walked- squirmed its way up the few remaining stairs.
"Is that you Jack?" Jill called. "Wow, I can hear that you brought the entire set with you tonight. They must be heavy. Go ahead and start with the twins and don't forget to tuck them in carefully. I think they are coming down with something. I'll be out in ten minutes."
The creature blinked his horrible amber colored eyes several times. Its slimy tentacle and sickle shaped antenna seemed to sense which door led to the children's room. The creature's right front leg, the one that had what looked like a baseball catchers mitt with sticky goo on it, shot out, grasped the door knob and slowly opened the door.
The twins had fallen asleep. Each sprawled in her bed, the covers off. Their blond curls forming gossamer ringlets upon their pillows in the soft moon light. The creature's antenna tensed, as it sensed a slight chill entering from the window. With deceptive speed, its second leg, a ratchet vice like claw, lowered the window. It paused then to look at the children for what seemed a long time. Then, the black creature moved. Slowly, almost painfully, it maneuvered its gross body into position, so that each of its fourth legs, the ones with the almost human appearing fingers, could grasp. And then, moving almost imperceptibly, proceeded to slowly, carefully, tenderly, lovingly draw the covers over each child, tucking each one in securely. Then, with more speed than before, it backed its hideous body and unbelievingly vile smelling cargo, out the door and down the stairs.
Jack was on the front porch, fumbling with his keys, when the creature opened the door. Jack looked up and fainted immediately. The creature blinked several times before beginning to exude a slimy rope-like tendril from deep within its palpitating foul smelling maw. Then, with the utmost care it began to wrap, wrap, wrap with unerring dexterity, the entire forty volume set of encyclopedias, before dragging-slithering-wriggling-walking in the direction of the dark, dank swamp, behind the house.
Gleek grudgingly conceded that there were advantages in that. One could wretch and hack in public, still... He didn't want any part of it. He knew that if he were to meet someone with a hacking cough, he would be in even deeper trouble than he was in now.
Gleek knew that there were three things he must do (Gleek had been trained by his first Earth Commander that in any any emergency there were always just three things to do. Anything more than that was was administrative overburden, anything less, irresponsible inadequacy). The first thing he had to do was find a place where he could relieve himself in the manner to which he had become accustomed since early childhood potty training. The restrooms were out. They had all been converted into fast food restaurants. The second thing he had do was to avoid, at all costs, being zapped by one of the Gluck Guard's street roving, nose picking, surgical teams, who, he knew, were known to be nosing around this area. The third thing that Gleek had to do was watch where he sat. Because, ever since the Glucks had landed, all food was being served on chairs and in the kind of trouble Gleek was in, he definitely wasn't hungry.
Gleek was free at last. Free from the fear that he would have to sit on his dinner in order to eat. Dinner was Gleek's big meal. Thinking about it now, Gleek realized that he had not eaten since before his unfortunate arrival in the domain of the Glucks in the city they called Evil Contempacancy.
He was standing watch with Borf, when Borf screamed suddenly. Gleek, in his state of hungry but well-intentioned exhaustion, felt the strange sensation of opposite gravitational force on the left side of his body. By sharp contrast, he felt the reverse of that force on his right side. Borf said, "This ship is going warp speed." To this Gleek replied, "Well, hey, that's what the Captain wanted." To which Borf blurted out, "But, not sideways." Gleek, remaining calm, said, "Well, change direction ninety degrees." "But, the steering mechanism is not responding," whimpered Borf. "Put flax seed oil on it." Gleek calmly responded. "But, there's no time," said Borf in a high whiny voice that had an eerie and disconcerting edge in it. "Well," drawled Gleek, "Go to cosmos command and rotate the entire cosmos ninety degrees so that we're are flying forward, sideways." Borf returned from total panic with the clipped response, "Right." "Now," Gleek, speaking even more slowly than before, "Full warp speed ahead." "What direction?," asked Borf inquisitively. "Ahead, you fool." Gleek's voice had a hard cutting edge to it. "But that would be sideways," whimpered Bork. Gleek glowered at Bork. "That's right, you idiot, forward is sideways, since we turned the cosmos." "But, I can't see where we are going, there are no windows on the side of the ship."
Gleek didn't hear. Gleek was asleep.
This novel is continued.
Fletch came alive, as he did each day when the boy warned him of the arriving stage coach. But today there was something more. Fletch didn't like cruelty to animals in any form and some of the clown's shots were coming dangerously close to the seals. Some of the crowd was already down. Fletch thought, but couldn't prove, that there might be a correlation between those persons laying wounded and those persons who hadn't donated to the clown's booty.
Fletch came alive. And in one smooth, continuous, uninterrupted motion, rocked the chair, in which he had apparently been sleeping, forward. With his left hand he tossed the boy a coin, slid his wide brimmed hat back on his head and in the same movement caught a fly heading for Greta's Chuck House Diner. He pinched it, just enough, so that it wouldn't feel anything as he flung it smoothly into the air and shot it. Then, still in the same motion, his momentum carried him into a perfect hand stand on the hitching rail. The pointy toes of his boots pointed majestically toward the clear New Mexico sky, while his spurs sounded out the first three bars of "Home, Home On The Range...". In that moment the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life stepped down from the stage coach and curtsied.
What was it Hazel had said? If I could remember, she might be able to help me out of this mess even though in absentia. Then I remembered. "You boys shouldn't wrack my brain that way. I'm the only one who should do that." So it was up to me. As I rolled my eyes in silent acknowledgment of Hazel's wise council, I noticed a hot air duct. Not big enough for my body normally, yet bound as I was, I knew that if I could reach that duct, I had a chance.
The place where I was was crawling with cockroaches and they were eating my socks. I set a mental time limit. I had to reach that duct and wriggle through, to who knew where, before my socks were gone, and before they turned the heat on. Otherwise, I would lose my last pair of calf length executive Gold Toes and suffer heat prostration at he same time.
What else had Hazel said? "Hey! Look before you leap next time." Well, it was too late for that wise council, even though, I vowed to remember it, if I ever got out of this mess.
Suddenly, water. I was aware of water. Water! Water rising in the steel boiler where I was held captive. Now I remembered. The water hose that was used when they tortured me, had been left on! "Well, that was a lot better than if it had been left in.", I thought ruefully. The thought set my mind in motion.
It became a calculus problem. Would the water level in the steel boiler, where I was held captive, rise sufficiently enough (given the quantity of small openings from which the rising water could escape from the steel boiler in which I was held captive)? Would my body, bound as it was, have sufficient buoyancy to rise to the occasion, if it presented itself to me bound as I was? Would the diabolical criminals, working near the boiler, where I was held captive, notice and turn the water off, before buoyancy occurred? Had someone forgotten to pay the utility bills? Did I get my parking ticket validated before I was captured?
I immediately realized that these thoughts were beyond my control. And I began to focus on those things I could control. While I waited for the water to rise, I began to relax my entire body using the deep breathing exercises that they taught us at the Agency, and think of Margaret.
Zeb let the last of the sand trickle through his fingers.
He was pleased with the result. It gave the map on to which it fell the
3-D effect of mountain ranges where there were none. Still, it brought
comfort to this mountain man. Made him think of the mountain ranges where
he was born. And how his ma had read to him from the good book, seated
in her inseparable rocker, from in front of the small fireplace in their
small but humble log cabin set back in the hills where he and his ma
were born.
Still, it was small pleasure, pinned down as he was, in this buffalo wallow in the middle of Death Valley by Apaches. It made him wish that he hadn't insisted on bringing his ma with him on this trip. And her inseparable rocking chair. It was difficult to carry horse back. The high back of the rocker smashing the high crown of his Stetson with each stride the big Arabian stallion took in their wild gallop across the flat desert flatlands.
Yet, here she was, refusing to lay flat in the burning dessert; saying it wasn't ladylike, a sittin' and a rockin' and a readin' from the good book as if them Apaches wasn't there, and with two arrows stuck in the high back of the chair not two inches from each side of her pretty little head. And them Apaches bodies were still piling up in front of their buffalo wallow.
Zeb had one of them Apache arrows sticking through the fleshy part of his head. So that if the wind came up suddenly at least his hat wasn't going anywhere. Ma was laughing now, apparently finding something funny in the good book. Still them Apaches kept coming. They sure had a hankering for ma's scalp. Maybe death was too good for them.
Maybe Zeb should let 'em come on in by the camp fire, and let ma read 'em from the good book. She'd send 'em back to their wikiups full of her fire water and brimstone following her perception of Christian ways. But if one of them Apache arrows came any closer she wasn't going to read from the good book no more. And then, maybe Zeb could get away on that old razorback line dun without doing further damage to his Stetson.
Zeb, pulling his hat down over his eyes, began easing in the direction of that razor back line dun, and as he eased past his ma, he eased a rock under one leg of her inseparable rocker. Deep down Zeb knew, that a moving target was harder to hit.
Zeb turned, holding the revolver loosely in his hand. At that moment he noticed a black inverted funnel shape, with an arrow sticking through it, appear outside, above the swinging doors of the tavern. Zeb knew that what was to happen next had to be perfectly timed. And, noticing a chalk drawing on the floor near him said, "Someone sure knows how to DRAW around here." The short man wearing the pointed black hat had just begun to push his way through the swinging bar-room doors. He only heard the word "draw," and with lightning speed, he drew his hand back to slap leather. Unfortunately, the fingers of his gun hand were crushed between the bat-wing doors and he fell forward to his knees and looked up, in abject agony, into Zeb's unwavering Revolver.
"Hello, Basil," Zeb said stiffly. "I been watin' for ya." "Zeb! I shoulda knowd it was you. Ya hurt my gun hand." "Well," said Zeb appraisingly, "I'm a reasonable man. How's about a poker game? I'll riffle the cards. The last time you riffled 'em, you riffled me with a rifle." "I say riffle, you say rifle," sang Basil jocularly. Then, "Go ahead and deal. Winner gets that high back rocker the old lady is sittin' on over there in the corner." "Wha..." , exclaimed Zeb, articulately, "Ma!". "Hello, Son, I knowed you would make it. Can I sit in?" Zeb took off his hat and lovingly caressed its high crown. "Sure, Ma," he said wistfully, "Glad to have ya."
This novel is continued.
Her first reaction was sorrow. Sorrow that she had asked Vernon to help her move in the first place. Her apartment had been everything she could have wished for. Then she was enveloped with yet a deeper feeling; that she was not experiencing her loss in the proper sequential order. First there was to be anger, then denial. It was all wrong. In the past, she had always sought refuge in her copy of The Road Less Traveled Handbook, given to her by the stepfather of the roommate of one of her girlfriend's boyfriend's half brother's cousin. But there was no time for that now. Time. How often had she wondered about it. About how if time were a valid concept founded in reality, then it would surely have its Zenlike counterpart in no-time. And that if this were true, then the entire time clock industry would have to recall and redesign all the time pieces in the world, in order to include no-time on the each clock dial. And that perhaps this concept would be better realized by adding a third dimension to each chronometer so that no-time could be shown in an imaginary plane perpendicular to the clock face. And how this would not involve a high cost since no hands would be needed to indicate the precise moment of no-time. Only the shimmering of the sun's rays through the added prism causing cascading, over the face of all the watches of the world, all the colors of the rainbow adding counterpoint and delight to the ravages of time.
And time was something she was going to be running out of in no time. if she didn't do something sometime soon. It was going to be up to her this time and this time was no time for it to be her time to be up.
Suddenly, she remembered that the truck was equipped with an elevator extension on the back. Vernon had showed Veronica how to work it as they were loading her water bed, which she vowed she kept for use in case of fire and not for any carnal pleasure derived from it. The outstanding veins in Vernon's neck, bobbing Adams apple and bulging eyes every night since they had been living together not withstanding.
Carefully, she removed her panty hose in order to lasso the speeding flat bed truck's rear elevator's platform control lever in order to break her fall. As she did so, she looked up into Vernon's bulging eyes.
Now, my idea would be, to attach a huge platform to the balloon for the gullible public to stand on. Then, I think the feasibility of the idea, as well as its usefulness to the world, would increase dramatically. For, the more gullible public placed upon the platform, the more politicians required to lift it. Thus, not only would the idea of perpetual motion be attained, but at the same time, the practical purpose of ridding the planet of two unnecessary aspects of humankind would be served. I fully realize that to embrace this idea too enthusiastically could create a separate problem for National Space Agencys the world over. However, this concern, I feel, could be minimized by having each country perform their launching operations from programed locations, in vertical single file. This approach would also ease the important logistical considerations accompanying large volume balloon and platform manufacture, together with mass people handling, with the limited personnel left on Earth to perform the work.
Slowly, achingly, inexorably, the sun's tendrils crept tentatively over the
yawning city with pussy-footed stealth. He was big for a small man. And as small men go, he went. Slowly. Still, I wasn't the worrying type. I knew that whereever he went, he would leave a wide trail of forensic evidence for the forensic boys to follow. And follow they would. Slowly. For they were large, plodding, hamfisted men who, unlike their criminal counterpart, hated their job. I began to worry.
Al, one of the forensic boys (the blind one), felt my concern. I slapped him aside. But my concern was growing larger. I slapped it aside.
I'm a big man. And as big men go, I went. Slowly I began to realize that speed was fast becoming the essential element in this case. Slowly, I eased my big frame closer to the fast forward button. It wasn't going to be easy since the forensic boys were still there, but I knew that if I could hit that button it would be one of the few things in this case that wouldn't hit back. I also knew that Al was going to continue to feel my concern. If I didn't get away from this crime scene and fast.
It wasn't going to be easy since I was in the far corner of the coat closet, where the unthinkable crime took place, and the corner farthest from the door. I had to ease my big frame across the room without being seen, or felt, by the forensic boys and fast.
Slowly, an idea began to creep over my large frame. There was an overcoat hanging among the garments. If I could chin myself on the coat hanger, and button the coat, before they saw me... I just might be able to ease my big frame closer to the door, and safety, without being seen, and especially felt, by the forensic boys.
Just as I was buttoning the top button of the overcoat, one of the forensic boys got the bright idea to search the pockets of all the garments hanging there. Luckily, he didn't feel my concern. But, I could feel his hot whisky breath breathing down the neck of the overcoat. And just as I could feel one of his ham fists reaching for the inside overcoat pocket, I eased my big frame out of its hiding place. And as big men go, I went. Slowly but stealthfully.
She knew, as the sand-laden wind swept a tumbleweed over the trunk of
her '79 Nova, that Eduardo would not come back.
She knew this, of course, because she had just emptied an .45 automatic
into his body, watching him jerk and her hand bounce with the recoil in
rhythm, in that bizarre dance of death that bound killer and victim.
And yet, she wondered, was "victim" really the right word for him?
Hadn't he seduced her, taking her away from the comfort of her little Iowa
farm town, located just far enough from Des Moines to be called well and
truly, "the sticks"? Hadn't he brought her here, with whatever malevolent
designs lurked in his twisted head, using his accent to lure her on, forcing
her, without ever saying so, to participate in all of his illegal schemes and
scams? And hadn't he, finally, shown his true colors by announcing calmly,
baldly, even as they were just passing the outskirts of Tucumcari,
that there was someone else and always would be, and that there would never
be anything she could do about it, because Frederico had things she never
could, even if she had operations in Denmark or someplace?
Well, of course he had, and so he'd gotten what he deserved when he pulled
off the road a half-hour later to relieve his bladder after all the cheap
beer he'd been drinking.
Following the unfortunate bucking of his horse when it was startled by the posse's shots, Tex (who now lay in a disheveled heap in the sagebrush) pushed back his sweat-stained Stetson from one deep-set eye, spat a stream of tobacco juice at the nearest cactus, and reflected momentarily that the men approaching him with a rope probably weren't just out for a skip, and (if they were) his freshly broken ankle would have to cause him to decline any entreaties to join them