It’s been a few months since I last posted anything. First, the holidays got in the way, and then my family and I have been sick, and now I’m doggedly spending as much time as I can finishing up the rough draft for one novel and revising another. To make up for this inattention, I thought I’d share something from the rough draft I’m finishing up, “The Greebles.” It’s best described as weird fiction in the vein of Ray Bradbury. I should have the rough draft done in a couple of weeks, and then I can devote myself wholeheartedly to revising the other novel.
Rusty lay on his bed, flipping through a stack of his comic books when he heard it—something wet slap against his window. It sounded like a washrag or those rubbery sticky wall walking octopuses that come in gumball machines and as prizes in breakfast cereals.
It was one of those nights where thoughts careered around his mind like thousands of Tasmanian Devils or a hive of angry hornets, tornadoing riotously around and around until his head spun as fast as they did, and he flipped and flopped until his body ached from the exercise. The past few days still pestered him—staying the night at Katie’s and these feelings that he seemed to feel for her that made no sense, and then Mr. Orrion’s “disappearance,” for he still wasn’t sure if he believed that Mr. Orrion was really gone, but The Joop’s theory—curse that boy, he swore every time he popped up in his thoughts—had wormed its way into Rusty’s thinking so he believe that something dreadful had to have happened, and then the whole act
of sneaking into Mr. Orrion’s house without his permission. It all grew into a Godzilla-sized monster that smashed through and devastated his peace-of-mind. Finally, he gave up, dug out a stack of old Uncanny X-Men comics, and laid on his bed, reading and drinking chocolate milk.
Engrossed in the X-Men otherworldly adventures on the planet of the Brood, Rusty followed Wolverine through an alien jungle, “C’mon, Wolverine,” Rusty muttered, “This ain’t as bad as when you fought Proteus.” Though he had read these comics many times over and knew exactly how the story unfolded, they still captivated him and he found himself enjoying them as if for the first time. He sipped his chocolate milk and studied the illustrations, marveling at the alien landscape and the expression of agony and frustration on Wolverine’s face.
He turned the page, anxious to see if Wolverine would find his teammates and survive the perils of the jungle when he heard the sound. A splat. A wet and rubbery slap that made him jump, tossing his comic off the bed and knocking over his chocolate milk so that it spilled over his bedsheets.
“What the heck is goin’ on,” he grumbled, running his hand over the brown puddle soaking into his sheets. Fuming, he leapt from his bed to go see what was at his window. Not only did he spill his chocolate milk—akin to ambrosia in his house, because his mom only bought a quart of it once per week, and he doled it out like it was rarest commodity—he would have to change his sheets now, a near Herculean undertaking.
He stomped across the room. “Better be a good reason for this. . . Makin’ me spill my chocolate milk. . . If’n it’s some fool prank. . .” He grabbed his curtains, threw them open, and screamed. There, on the other side of the glass he saw, twice the size of his hand, a palpitating tangle of tentacles and fangs sucking at the glass. Petrified, he stood there still clutching the curtains, the fabric balled up in his hands.
The thing on the other side of the glass continued to suck and lick the glass, its tiny fangs rapping the glass and making a sound like fingernails. He let of the curtains and back a few feet away. The tips of the tentacles probed the slick surface of the glass—lookin’ for a way in, I bet.
Rusty had never seen anything like this, had never imagined or dreamt anything like this. His mind raced. I could call mom, he thought. But damn if I want her to get hurt. She’s been through enough in her life, don’t need her goin’ through more. I gotta get that thing outta here—get it before it gets me. He scanned his room for something—anything—to help. Books and comics, his Star Wars toy collection. He noticed the hockey stick passed down to him from his uncle leaning against the wall. It sat there gathering dust, once having been used for countless hours over the summer not as a hockey stick but as his lightsaber.
“That’s perfect.” Without another thought, he lunged for the hockey stick, afraid that the creature might at any moment figure out a way into his room. He sprang back to his original position facing the window. The creature hadn’t moved, still clinging to the glass. He decided to tap the glass, to scare the creature so that it released the window and slid off. He raised the hockey stick, leveling the blade with the creature’s mouth.
Just a soft little tap. . . . He edged the hockey stick closer and closer to the window, waiting to see if the creature moved. It didn’t seem to notice him at all. “Almost there,” he whispered. “Almost there. . . .”
He touched the glass with the tip of the hockey stick’s blade. It rattled against the windowpane, and extension of Rusty’s shaking hands. The creature didn’t stir. Damnit, does the thing even have eyes?
“C’mon now,” he said, politely tapping the glass. “You need to get goin’. Go creep out somebody else—Garrity’s up the hill a bit, and he deserves a good creepin’.”
He rapped the glass harder this time, his fear morphing into anger. “C’mon, get goin’. I need to get some sleep.” It seemed to notice the rapping this time, and withdrew its mouth into a thin-lipped muzzle, wrapping a few of its thinner tentacles around the extended muzzle. Rusty smiled. “I see I gotcha to understand finally. This ain’t no perch for the weird and nasty, it’s my window, and I want you to go.” He rapped harder and harder as he saw more and more of the tentacles withdraw and entwine themselves about the muzzle, until he rapped to hard.
The window shattered, but few shards fell to the ground. Most of them remained stuck to—or now in—the tentacled creature. Rusty shrieked as he watched the glass crack and then splinter, cracking apart like the crust of a pie poked too hard with a dull knife. Instead of apples or blueberries bubbling out of the crack, he had an undulating mass of mottled flesh. It writhed and burbled wet squawks. Worst of all, it had wrapped its tentacles around the blade of the hockey stick, and clung to it, twitching and oozing a bilious yellow substance. Rusty could see the whole thing now, and recoiled in disgust and horror—it did have eyes, too many, and wings. Wings that spread above it like his Gramma’s arthritic fingers—gnarled and bent and knobby that beat the air.
Seeing the creature on the end of the hockey stick gazing blankly at him and beating the air with its wings, he let go of the hockey stick and stumbled back. The creature flapped in the air, and then flew out the broken window carrying the hockey stick, its trophy.
He watched it rise into the night sky, a pale pink balloon against the stars. He took a deep breath, and then slumped to the floor. Terrified, relieved, shivering from fright and the cool breeze blowing in through the broken window, he tried but couldn’t pry his eyes from the broken shards of glass framing crisp night sky. What the hell was that? I’ve never read about or seen anything like that at the zoo. Some kind of mutant or alien? Sure weren’t no bad dream—no nightmares wish they could be that scary. God. What am I gonna tell my mom about the broken window, she sure ain’t gonna believe some octobat weasel creature broke it.
It struck him, during the whole battle, with the window breaking and his war cries his mom never came in to check on him. Mom. What if something happened to her? What if that weren’t the only one? He bolted from his room to check on her.
Their house was a single-floor, two-bedroom bungalow with a short hallway linking Rusty’s room and the bathroom with the living room and his mom’s bedroom. As soon as he came out into the hallway, he could hear the television—muffled voices over which played a laugh track. He flew the length of the hallway and into the living room. There, he saw a wine glass half-filled with red wine, and a bottle beside it. Beside it he saw an empty bowl glazed by the melted dregs of chocolate ice cream and on the floor a bowl of popcorn kernels. Over the arm of the couch, atop a corduroy throw pillow he saw the crown of her head and her hair spilling over the pillow and down the arm of the couch.
Why, she’s been loungin’ her like the Queen of Sheba this whole time while my life’s been in danger. If she’d been asleep this whole time in bed, I could excuse her, but spongin’ up booze and ice cream and tv, that’s inexcusable. A volcanic fury burst from him and he stomped across the room.
“Damn woman, I was done near killed in there and—”he barked, and then stopped. She didn’t flinch.
He drew closer. “Mom?”
Not a sound, not a flicker of life. The laugh track on the television cackled.
He edged around the coffee table to get a better look at her, afraid of what he might find—afraid that her face might be eaten off, or her chest burst open, or puncture wounds in her neck and a pale pallor—but with a need to know.
She lay there, still. Her face fine, her neck untarnished, only a few traces of chocolate ice cream spotting the corner of her mouth and chin.
“Mom?” He whispered. Still afraid that she died some other way, he gingerly reached out and prodded her shoulder.
She snorted with life. Rusty, jolted by the electricity of her life, jerked back. “Did you get the paint?” she asked. Her eyes closed, her lips barely moving, the words sluggish and dreamy.
“Paint? What are you talkin’ about?”
“To paint the house,” she sighed. He realized now that she was dreaming. She did this from time to time—she often fell asleep on the couch after dinner, and he walking past to get something from the kitchen or retrieving a book or toy he left in the living room would suddenly be accosted by her dream-life.
He sighed like a leaky balloon. She ain’t dead, she’s just dead drunk. “Paint? Why, I ain’t gonna paint the house now. It’s the dead of night.”
“Oh,” she said. With that, she was back to sleep. Rusty decided to join her. He yanked the afghan off the back of the couch, draped half of it over his mom, and then with the other half curled up on the other end of the couch. He covered his head with pillows—just in case—and fell asleep nestled into his makeshift nest, the laugh track from the television the last thing he heard.