There Goes The Neighborhood
By James Hannon
Somewhere below what we know and dare to dream, beneath the nineteen twenties and inside the mouth of Antarctica, two fine gentlemen were rudely interrupted. Out in the ice, primal creatures crept onto their streets, crushing the invisible phone lines and lighting torches against all decency. Rather than confront such intruders, the two gentlemen stayed quiet and afraid. No encounter could be worth the time and effort.
“You see that one over in the light?” Cthardek whispered in a language outside our continuum, “He thinks we’re from another planet. Honestly, he’s been putting it in print. And that other single-nosed dullard believes we eat their brainwaves. I mean who comes up with this stuff? Eat brainwaves? Not their rotted pap.”
The gentlemen peered out their front door, hiding behind air atoms and trying not to interrupt the wild beasts. Obviously out of their element, the things crawled confused and skittish over their doorsteps, in their garden, over fine art and lawn gnomes.
Pleastone nodded, spraying the dank cave walls with slime. “Last century in the states I met a man horribly afraid of being put in small places. When his spectral image poured into our plane after filling his liver with ethanol, he tried to convince me to unearth his bloated corpse so the maggots couldn’t digest it. I asked him what he had against maggots and he just screamed.”
“They always scream. Gives me headaches. They must think we speak in screams. Not that I have anything against the creatures. They’re awfully cute.”
Cthardek stared. “Cute? Ugh. Little pests, just wish they’d leave well enough alone.”
“You know they can’t do that. So curious. Look at them, trying to figure out our position with a magnetic strip. Adorable. Oh, here they come.”
Pleastone and Cthardek pushed their wings into the rock wall as the scientists climbed into their abyss.
“How did they even get all the way down here?” Cthardek whispered, “Don’t they know yet their blood cells don’t do well in the cold?”
Pleastone scratched a tentacle. “Maybe they’re lost.”
A scientist tripped over one of Cthardek’s chairs and broke it. Cthardek growled. “That was non-Euclidean! You know how long it took me to carve those angles?”
“Maybe they just need some directions.” Pleastone started to unearth his maddening form from the shadows.
“Don’t do it.” Cthardek whispered. “They’ll start squeaking and sputtering all over the carpet and I just had it washed.”
Before Pleastone eve had time to say excuse me, a scientist lit another torch. Smoke always upset Pleastone’s sensitive noses and this time was no different. He sneezed, the cave thundering with sounds shattering the last walls of sanity in the tiny scientists. They scrambled back to their boats and escaped.
“Oh, my head!” Cthardek cooed. “Thanks for getting them to leave I suppose. Wish those things would just invent the Carbon Bomb and wipe themselves out already.”
“They’ll be back. Penguin fellow one iceberg over said they’ve started research into their population on the southern continent. And Dracknol told me they’re trying to melt the ice caps.”
“Ugh.” There goes the neighborhood.”
- - -
James Scott Hannon is a recent graduate from The Evergreen State College in Washington with a focus in writing. He grew up in Albany, California and currently lives in Portland, Oregon.
By James Hannon
Somewhere below what we know and dare to dream, beneath the nineteen twenties and inside the mouth of Antarctica, two fine gentlemen were rudely interrupted. Out in the ice, primal creatures crept onto their streets, crushing the invisible phone lines and lighting torches against all decency. Rather than confront such intruders, the two gentlemen stayed quiet and afraid. No encounter could be worth the time and effort.
“You see that one over in the light?” Cthardek whispered in a language outside our continuum, “He thinks we’re from another planet. Honestly, he’s been putting it in print. And that other single-nosed dullard believes we eat their brainwaves. I mean who comes up with this stuff? Eat brainwaves? Not their rotted pap.”
The gentlemen peered out their front door, hiding behind air atoms and trying not to interrupt the wild beasts. Obviously out of their element, the things crawled confused and skittish over their doorsteps, in their garden, over fine art and lawn gnomes.
Pleastone nodded, spraying the dank cave walls with slime. “Last century in the states I met a man horribly afraid of being put in small places. When his spectral image poured into our plane after filling his liver with ethanol, he tried to convince me to unearth his bloated corpse so the maggots couldn’t digest it. I asked him what he had against maggots and he just screamed.”
“They always scream. Gives me headaches. They must think we speak in screams. Not that I have anything against the creatures. They’re awfully cute.”
Cthardek stared. “Cute? Ugh. Little pests, just wish they’d leave well enough alone.”
“You know they can’t do that. So curious. Look at them, trying to figure out our position with a magnetic strip. Adorable. Oh, here they come.”
Pleastone and Cthardek pushed their wings into the rock wall as the scientists climbed into their abyss.
“How did they even get all the way down here?” Cthardek whispered, “Don’t they know yet their blood cells don’t do well in the cold?”
Pleastone scratched a tentacle. “Maybe they’re lost.”
A scientist tripped over one of Cthardek’s chairs and broke it. Cthardek growled. “That was non-Euclidean! You know how long it took me to carve those angles?”
“Maybe they just need some directions.” Pleastone started to unearth his maddening form from the shadows.
“Don’t do it.” Cthardek whispered. “They’ll start squeaking and sputtering all over the carpet and I just had it washed.”
Before Pleastone eve had time to say excuse me, a scientist lit another torch. Smoke always upset Pleastone’s sensitive noses and this time was no different. He sneezed, the cave thundering with sounds shattering the last walls of sanity in the tiny scientists. They scrambled back to their boats and escaped.
“Oh, my head!” Cthardek cooed. “Thanks for getting them to leave I suppose. Wish those things would just invent the Carbon Bomb and wipe themselves out already.”
“They’ll be back. Penguin fellow one iceberg over said they’ve started research into their population on the southern continent. And Dracknol told me they’re trying to melt the ice caps.”
“Ugh.” There goes the neighborhood.”
- - -
James Scott Hannon is a recent graduate from The Evergreen State College in Washington with a focus in writing. He grew up in Albany, California and currently lives in Portland, Oregon.
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