unholy separation in the desert floor and the cords of tubular matter shot up like so many jellyfish tentacles searching for prey.
While these tentacles bore every resemblance to the things that pro truded from the heads of the creatures, they came independently, feelers and ropes. One latched onto the side of the bed, followed by a sec ond, then yet another. There appeared to be no threat of their tipping the truck as they burst easily beneath the butts of the rifles. I grabbed hold of one, steeling my nerves against its coolness as I wrapped it around my wrist, heaving upward. The problem with trying to detach it from its source was that the cord’s slack was as incalculable as the depth of the fissure. Nonetheless, I felt resistance as the cord drew half-taut with a quivering spray of wet foulness. It was elastic as I kept winding and pulling, searching for the snapping point.
I felt its pulse in my palm and forearm, my own heartbeat threatening to join it. The line grew thinner and thinner as I was too committed now to unreel it and leap out of the truck like everyone else. The crack seemed to have opened as far as it was going to and still I concentrated on this lifeline from the pit of fucking Hades. “Hang tight!” came a voice from my right, outside the truck, then the blade of a hunting knife appeared. Another hand, fine-fingered and familiar, reached out of the darkness to grasp the wrist of the knife holder. The silvery arch of the blade caught the moonlight as the knife, followed by its wielder, fell into the chasm.
The rope shuddered as the hand reached up to seize my throat. Christ Jesus and the Cross as the hollowed-out face of its owner appeared, tubes dancing around a visage I recognized even in its ragged fleshlessness, only now more so because of the totally unobstructed view of her black soul. Though she’d no mouth, I could have sworn I heard her laughing as her tubes found my head and she swept up like the maw of oblivion to devour me.
A shot sounded in my ears. The tubes withdrew wetly. Jagged’s face was the same pit it had always been as it hovered, knowing me. Then finally the cord snapped and down she went in a blaze of black nothingness, and maybe just maybe, as determined bodies managed to get the truck pushed up over the rim, I was going to get to see the other side of goddamn New Mexico.
Making Sense
U ntil he looked out the window that morning, Craig had almost decided to skip riding up to the spot where he had seen the thing. His ambivalence had calmed as he sat over coffee and nothingness, the wisdom of waiting a day or two filling the gulches left by last night’s brutal dreams. But then he went to the kitchen and opened the roller blind to the bright March day. He found the faces out in full expression. Which was to say, possessing none at all.
Props.
Frau Schneider across the street looked back at him as she swept the already perfectly clean sidewalk in front of her house. She stood about four and a half feet tall, but her cast was no warmer for her diminutive stature. In fact it seemed the diametric opposite—if stoicism knows degrees. Craig waved, and she nodded in reply. The lines of her face never changed.
While Craig washed his mug and the coffee pot, Herr Friderich appeared, walking over from his house next door to visit with Frau Schneider. They spoke a few words, then in unison turned to look at Craig in his kitchen window. The stares cooled him more than they used to, even the dishwater losing heat around his hands. Someone went by on a scooter, older gentleman quintessential in his cap and patterned knee-high socks, looking for nowhere.
Props. Reminders.
Craig took his morning valium and put on his sweats and jacket and sunglasses. He stuffed two beers in a backpack otherwise empty, fetched his bike from the garage. The landlord and lady met him on the drive, their own aspects red with the exertion of being aspects. Their eyes and mouths
While these tentacles bore every resemblance to the things that pro truded from the heads of the creatures, they came independently, feelers and ropes. One latched onto the side of the bed, followed by a sec ond, then yet another. There appeared to be no threat of their tipping the truck as they burst easily beneath the butts of the rifles. I grabbed hold of one, steeling my nerves against its coolness as I wrapped it around my wrist, heaving upward. The problem with trying to detach it from its source was that the cord’s slack was as incalculable as the depth of the fissure. Nonetheless, I felt resistance as the cord drew half-taut with a quivering spray of wet foulness. It was elastic as I kept winding and pulling, searching for the snapping point.
I felt its pulse in my palm and forearm, my own heartbeat threatening to join it. The line grew thinner and thinner as I was too committed now to unreel it and leap out of the truck like everyone else. The crack seemed to have opened as far as it was going to and still I concentrated on this lifeline from the pit of fucking Hades. “Hang tight!” came a voice from my right, outside the truck, then the blade of a hunting knife appeared. Another hand, fine-fingered and familiar, reached out of the darkness to grasp the wrist of the knife holder. The silvery arch of the blade caught the moonlight as the knife, followed by its wielder, fell into the chasm.
The rope shuddered as the hand reached up to seize my throat. Christ Jesus and the Cross as the hollowed-out face of its owner appeared, tubes dancing around a visage I recognized even in its ragged fleshlessness, only now more so because of the totally unobstructed view of her black soul. Though she’d no mouth, I could have sworn I heard her laughing as her tubes found my head and she swept up like the maw of oblivion to devour me.
A shot sounded in my ears. The tubes withdrew wetly. Jagged’s face was the same pit it had always been as it hovered, knowing me. Then finally the cord snapped and down she went in a blaze of black nothingness, and maybe just maybe, as determined bodies managed to get the truck pushed up over the rim, I was going to get to see the other side of goddamn New Mexico.
Making Sense
U ntil he looked out the window that morning, Craig had almost decided to skip riding up to the spot where he had seen the thing. His ambivalence had calmed as he sat over coffee and nothingness, the wisdom of waiting a day or two filling the gulches left by last night’s brutal dreams. But then he went to the kitchen and opened the roller blind to the bright March day. He found the faces out in full expression. Which was to say, possessing none at all.
Props.
Frau Schneider across the street looked back at him as she swept the already perfectly clean sidewalk in front of her house. She stood about four and a half feet tall, but her cast was no warmer for her diminutive stature. In fact it seemed the diametric opposite—if stoicism knows degrees. Craig waved, and she nodded in reply. The lines of her face never changed.
While Craig washed his mug and the coffee pot, Herr Friderich appeared, walking over from his house next door to visit with Frau Schneider. They spoke a few words, then in unison turned to look at Craig in his kitchen window. The stares cooled him more than they used to, even the dishwater losing heat around his hands. Someone went by on a scooter, older gentleman quintessential in his cap and patterned knee-high socks, looking for nowhere.
Props. Reminders.
Craig took his morning valium and put on his sweats and jacket and sunglasses. He stuffed two beers in a backpack otherwise empty, fetched his bike from the garage. The landlord and lady met him on the drive, their own aspects red with the exertion of being aspects. Their eyes and mouths
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