Thursday, June 19, 2008


Robbie's heart began to race. It was becoming increasingly more obvious that the long stretch of US 2 was going to get a lot darker before it got any lighter. Lamps provided a modicum of relief about every twenty yards, but they certainly weren't enough to brighten Robbie's disposition. Driving alone along this stretch of freeway was pretty damn frightening, and doing so only raised long buried fears and concerns that otherwise wouldn't have even surfaced. The head lamps gave rise to only the immediate crescents directly ahead and served to create more apprehension than comfort.The radio only picked up crackles and the occasional voice buried beneath layers of white noise; even the stack of discs in the visor sleeve had already been cycled through enough times to become annoying. No, Robbie was all alone and well into creating an aura of displeasure around himself.

There was nothing to see. On either side of the little car flew past copse after copse of trees and dense woods. Had it been daylight, it'd have been just a dull and repetitive. Robbie began juggling thoughts and ideas over and over in his mind, none coherent and each one jarringly segueing into the other like car wrecks. Had he packed enough socks for the weekend? Would he be able to by some or, conversely, pick up some lunch meat? Were the Denver Broncos going to go all the way this year? Why would semi's need eighteen wheels anyway? Just that suddenly, while Robbie was uncomfortably miles away in his own head, an arc of blue light appeared in a flash just above the horizon.

His cascading miasma of thoughts abruptly fell apart like a fragile ice sculpture. Robbie inhaled quickly enough to bring on hiccups, and, without thinking, slowly depressed the break pedal. He automatically assumed that what he guessed he'd seen was nothing more than his weary eyes playing tricks on him, yet he shuddered with an eerie disconnection just the same. He just as slowly returned his speedometer back to seventy and let out a cautious breath. Robbie jumped a little in the bucket seat as the blue point of light, almost a halo in it's formation, returned over a distant line of trees that lie in his direction of travel. Robbie whispered a curse, and, at the same time, a prayer, to himself.

The little Nissan cruised down the desolate freeway at about sixty. The speed was far from constant and the driver, Robbie Andrews, was paying little attention to his detached feet as he stared, firmly mesmerized, at the pulsating blue glow that was growing ever larger ahead of him. At one point in appeared to bounce from left to right in an almost rainbow arc. Robbie watched in fascination and, at the same time, a cold fear he'd never known. Now Robbie knew, and firmly believed, that UFO's didn't exist. He'd never seen one, never read one piece of evidence that he'd instantly believed, and had always maintained skepticism. However, at that same moment as those very thoughts poured through his at once flabbergasted mind, the orb, now more of a cone shape, burst overhead, and Robbie's Nissan was instantly empty.

The End

Sunday, June 15, 2008


The evening was awash with crashes of thunder and bright bolts of lightning. The man, nervous and disjointed, sat behind his typewriter staring into the blankness as candles flickered in the little breeze that wisped through the corridor into the writing room. The man felt empty; he was lost, vast, and displaced with nothing to fill the void. He had to write, he had to put words on paper, and he had to do it now: he had a deadline. But, no matter how hard he thought, how hard he fought, how hard he tried to gather his ideas... nothing worked. He sat poised, his fingers hovering in anticipation over the keys, but there they hung; as though lifeless worms drying slowly in the August sun after a rain storm forced them to the sidewalks. He breathed, shallowly and monotonously, never flinching, never moving, except the rapid darting of his eyes ever searching in vain for something, anything to assist him in his task.

More rumbles from the wicked sky tore across the living heavens and sent pulsing spots of yellow and red arcing to the earth. The man turned his head so quickly he caught his breath in his throat. Something was behind him in the complete emptiness; something let a footfall tramp the dusty stone floor hard enough for the man to notice. Something was here in the room with him and that something had a heavy, gurgling breath. The man shuddered and coyly spat a stuttered greeting into the cavernous space beyond the reach of the faltering candle light. The response was a low, guttural thrum that vaguely, yet convincingly, reminded the man of hunger pains.

Quickly, and without a thought to betray him, the man began pounding the typewriter keys with a ferocity unbound. He rapped out line after line, sentence after sentence, and systematically shoved the carriage back to true each time the chime rung. Page after filled page flew from the roller, perspiration beaded and ran from the man's furrowed brow. And slowly, as the approaching thing released another beastly gurgle, the man could feel its impending approach inch away back into the inky nothingness. The man continued unabated with his rap-tapping of the letters, the ting and return of the roller carriage, and the stack of completed story grew ever taller.

Finally, as the cramps lanced jolts of pain through the mans aching fingers, he removed the final piece of the puzzle from the typewriter's top. He was done. The sounds no longer hunted him from the shadows. And now, as a six-inch high pile of pages stood triumphantly before him, the man sighed in relief. But, no matter how close he felt, he watched, just as always, as page after paged vanished into the ether. The low feeling of impossibility and worthlessness grew in his gut like nausea. And soon, the ordeal would begin anew.

The End