Private Me-Mont - Science Fiction
by: Ed and Marianna Calhoun
(c) Ed and Marianna Calhoun
Private
Me-Mont
>
(excerpted from
Chapter II)
by: Edward and
Mariana
Calhoun
The floating bag, rising amongst
the
towers of the golden city. The tall skyscrapers shone a myriad of
reflections
in the sunlight. From his parents penthouse young Timmy
watched the bag rising up. The
creature loomed over young Jenkins.
Its brain, he noticed, in the odd moment, was
partially exposed. Was
that the doctors madness? The experiments inside the locked
and
hallowed bungalow, destroyed a mere half hour ago by the hidden bomb.
The bomb
he himself had planted, at the behest of Adaline. The beast
cast around, its nose
searching for his scent. Luckily, he was
downwind. The sand was damp . He was going
straight to hell. He knew.
He should have kissed her when he had the chance. Now it
was far too
late. In order to kiss her, he would have to kiss the beast hunting
for
him, and that would, to say the least, invite death. No, he
sighed to himself, getting
up as the beast itself unwound itself
along the scent of his trail.
Back at El Dorado, the Blackness was
coming. The bases
underneath the ground held no recourse for the last
of the Scientists. All the girls
were wild now. In that they held
even more beauty. There were many letters from the
office. Many
memos, with all the stuff blacked out. Like the eyes from that
one
comic he'd found, Lil Orphan Annie, only someone had gone through and
blacked
out all the eyes. In the hallway he found the folded over
newspaper with the comics
page exposed, the characters eyes all
blacked out. Was someone following him, trailing
him? But who, and
why leave this clue of blacked eyes? He didn't know, he couldn't
say.
He returned to the office. No one but him, and the dentists office
had known
about his appointment. He was getting his teeth whitened.
The manner in which his
words could be construed for the purpose of
mixing trees. His passion for tattoos and
bamboo. The week in the
daily monstrously. His hands covered the scabs behind his ear.
He
could still pick at it when he wanted, in private. He drove over the
road. Up
amongst the bumping of the little track that his neighbor
called a road. What could he
do. The movement was by far too rough.
His dreams were liquid. His hands just wanted
to scratch the itch.
The dream was liquid. His hand could scratch the itch. His
hand.
Already, edging up into his inner ear. The path followed a circular
route. He
cast a glance in his mirror. A vision was there. A series
of 4 pyramids, each with a
flat top, each in utter ruin.
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