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Monster Media 1994 #1
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1994-02-03
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3KB
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71 lines
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░NARRATIVE OF A DREAM░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Kurt Becker
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"What the hell are you doing, Dave?"
Ignoring me, was what "the hell" he was doing. I answered
the question for myself simply by watching. The field was
illumined silver under the night sky, and the lights of the town
behind me hazed the stars into obscurity. Dave was further out
in the field, looking upwards; I followed his gaze towards the
moon. The moon was bleeding.
A wash of red filled the moon like tears welling-up an eye,
and a stream of blood dribbled from its underside.
I saw Dave reach out his hand, heard the drops splatter on
his palm.
"Muahahaha!" he bellowed, turned to me. "Quick, go tell
Heather!" He cupped his hands beneath the trickle, watched them
fill with blood.
I turned back to the town, started walking. "His cup runneth
over," I muttered.
I walked into town, and headed for the market square. I
followed cobblestoned streets like narrow corridors of rough-cut
stone under a canopy of wooden signs dangling from iron frames.
(A stone jutting from a poorly masoned inn scraped into my
shoulder; I rubbed the abrasion, continued onward, noticed the
jacket sleave of the guy in front of me -- he had walked into the
stone, too.) I passed pubs and taverns, tripped on a cobblestone,
turned a corner and emerged upon the center of town. A cathedral
hulked massively in the town square, with gargoyles at every
cornice scowling down at passers-by. Heather's booth was tiny at
the cathedral's base.
I started across the square, and the cathedral loomed overhead
like a monolithic bulldog on its haunches; while I approached,
the booth didn't seem to grow any.
Heather was sitting in a chair, smoking, leaning against the
booth. "The moon's bleeding," she said.
"Yeah", I said. "Dave's playing under it. He probably
doesn't realze it's blood. He probably thinks he's 'enhanced.'"
She giggled. Her "cigarette" looked somewhat suspicious.
The booth was lamplit yellow inside, and smelled stuffy with
girl-breath. Finely calligraphed plaques covered the walls in a
collage of engraved stainless steel and burnt wood. The
workbench was cluttered with chisels, and displayed an unfinished
plaque of marble. I remembered that marble plaque bolted to a
wall in Arlington National Cemetary: my father's name engraved
upon it, my father's urn hidden behind it.
Outside, Heather was gone; the chair was empty but still
propped against the wall.
I stared at the chair.
It slipped and fell; the booth collapsed; the cathedral
growled and leapt, gargoyles flapping like bats about its
shoulders; the old, grey bulldog swallowed the bloody moon.
-end-
Copyright (c)1994 Kurt Becker