Showing posts with label Tony Rauch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tony Rauch. Show all posts
Your Turn
By Tony Rauch
You happen upon a man on the street, a crowd is gathered around him. You stop to check out the action, to see what is going down. The man in the center of attention is all decked out in a coat and tails, complete with top hat and cane. You watch in curiosity as a woman steps from the crowd. She hands the man some money and the well dressed man steps back. She stands there for a silent moment, then begins to bark like a dog. Everyone claps. She smiles and looks over to the man. He nods to her then shrugs and she gets down on all fours and resumes barking. Everyone is clapping hysterically now in complete and total approval. Finally she stands and nods to thank the man, as if he has just relieved her of some tremendous burden. “Whew, boy, do I feel so much better now,” she mutters in relief as she steps to take her place behind you. She is beaming.
“That was beautiful. Just grand,” the well dressed man comments dryly. Then he looks over the crowd, finally stopping his gaze on you and says, “It’s your turn now, my friend.” He nods. “How ’bout we see what you got.”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He is looking for a publisher for additional titles he has finished and are ready to go.
By Tony Rauch
You happen upon a man on the street, a crowd is gathered around him. You stop to check out the action, to see what is going down. The man in the center of attention is all decked out in a coat and tails, complete with top hat and cane. You watch in curiosity as a woman steps from the crowd. She hands the man some money and the well dressed man steps back. She stands there for a silent moment, then begins to bark like a dog. Everyone claps. She smiles and looks over to the man. He nods to her then shrugs and she gets down on all fours and resumes barking. Everyone is clapping hysterically now in complete and total approval. Finally she stands and nods to thank the man, as if he has just relieved her of some tremendous burden. “Whew, boy, do I feel so much better now,” she mutters in relief as she steps to take her place behind you. She is beaming.
“That was beautiful. Just grand,” the well dressed man comments dryly. Then he looks over the crowd, finally stopping his gaze on you and says, “It’s your turn now, my friend.” He nods. “How ’bout we see what you got.”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He is looking for a publisher for additional titles he has finished and are ready to go.
Benny
By Tony Rauch
I got a new job. I really wanted to settle in and apply myself, show them what a good worker I was, so I purposely hung back and didn’t really interact with anyone at first. Also, I wanted to get the vibe of the place, see which way the wind blows, learn what to do and what not, and when. So I pretty much just put my head down, worked and observed, keeping to myself for a while – not hiding myself away or being unfriendly, but not making myself overly obvious either.
So I didn’t really talk to anyone for quite a while. One chap would stop by my desk and hang out every now and then and chat. And that was nice, made me feel welcomed and appreciated. He was always so smiley and carefree, like he didn’t have a concern in the world. I was really impressed with that attitude, and I must admit it did rub off on me a little. But the odd thing about that guy was I never saw him working. Every time I’d see him, he would be standing there, chatting it up with someone. I never once saw him at his desk or carrying any papers. I’d have to get up every now and then to look something up or get something, and sometimes I’d have to go past his desk, but it was always empty. He’d always be way over there, chatting it up with someone else, grinning away as if the rest of us were saddled with invisible heavy weights (which we were unaware of) and he was somehow without such burdens. His name was Benny.
(There were other people at the office of course – some of the standard fare and tropes – the flirt, the ass kisser, the gossip, the lying/scheming weasel, the impressionable one the liar needed to hang out with, the insecure person who had to define and hang a label on everyone, the grump, the complainer, the miserable bastard, the sweaty guy, corporal nervous, the grizzly adams mountain man, the grinner, uncle blinky, the sad-sack, the bragger, the stealer, captain stare, ms. ‘show-you-what’s-wrong-with-your-life’, the blank page, the misplacer, pig-pen, polly paranoia, the hippy, the blamer, the zombie, Mr. Indecisive, the mumbler, disco manquake, fibber magee, garbage dump desk, doctor disorganized, the saboteur, mr. bossy pants, grandpa, king Julius III, the panther, the “I still won” guy, the crier, nosey nate, the repeater, the excuse-maker 3000, the worrier, captain midnight, mr. cheapie, the problem starter, panicy pete, the fog, the hypochondriac, the black hole, and many more that were indefinable in that they were a vast matrix of personality traits.)
But everyone seemed to be a pretty good worker. I mean, why let your talents go to waste? Why not work to build a solid foundation? There’s nothing worse than wasted potential. Most seemed to keep to themselves. I guess they were busy. I was very impressed with the ones who just sat there all day with their heads down, cranking away. I was really inspired by that. That’s who I want to be, I’d say to myself from time to time, to psyche myself up – that’s who I want to be.
The place was pretty corporate and stiff. When I interviewed they even told me as much, not really coming right out and admitting it, but did convey that attribute in so many words. I told them I was pretty enthusiastic and may not fit in. I wouldn’t want to rub people the wrong way, or at least not the decent people. Some people are so insecure they can’t see beyond that and don’t like other people anyway no matter what. There wasn’t anything I could do to win those people over, and I didn’t want to waste my time with them anyway. I just didn’t want to bother the rank and file, didn’t want to upset the apple cart or rock the boat. But the two sad-looking, forlorn, funereal seeming gentlemen in dark, tight, constraining, possibly soul-crushing suits who interviewed me mentioned they could use a little color and enthusiasm in their midst, so I shouldn’t worry about my enthusiasm. But after working there a while, I found their assessment to be inaccurate – the place was not the city of the dead which I had assumed it to be based upon their description. Yeah, it was a little quiet, grey, and cold, but I also found a great deal of treasure there – that of friendship, inspiration, and knowledge. I learned a great deal about my chosen profession from these people, and in just hanging back and observing I was able to absorb a lot and also radiate some form of credibility. Also, in just listening, I heard about all sorts of great treasure – one person needed to get rid of an old dresser, another an old end table and lamp. Why I really made out like a bandit, scoring all manner of treasure over time. And this accumulation of free junk really saved me money and time in not having to waste my life out foraging for that stuff myself.
I wondered who many of these people were and what brought them here. I guess they were all just trying to cobble together a life for themselves, or trying to keep the life they built purring along. As I worked I’d listen to their conversations – all the things they did. Why these people were incredible, unbelievable – one person was out flying small airplanes, another jumping out of perfectly good airplanes at high altitudes, another running marathons, another playing in a little jazz combo, another fixing old radios, another raising a family, another cooking and gardening, another competing in ballroom dances, another fixing up old motorbikes, another involved with a church group, another volunteering for charities, another out flying giant kites, another operating model boats, another making up their own words – creating a new vocabulary, another renovating houses. Why they were out doing all manner of things, fixing up everything, getting involved, meeting people, having all manner of adventures. Their actions really inspired me to want to do something too. I haven’t figured out what exactly just yet, but you can be assured I will be out doing something eventually, that I can promise you. And then maybe I’ll too have something interesting to talk about, something worthy to share. Maybe I’ll write a children’s book about a naughty little giraffe named Melanie who likes to start fires, maybe I’ll develop some annoying little mannerisms, maybe I’ll go minimal and not own anything, maybe I’ll create a new religion, maybe I’ll take to wearing a strange wig.
They had a room off to the side called the smashing room. I think it was an old storage or conference room. Anyway, in it were placed some old computers and telephones and such that people could smash with baseball bats and crow bars which the company had provided. There was a clear plastic riot-type face shield which you had to wear if you went in there. But they’d let you smash the crap out of whatever was left in there if you felt the urge. I sat near that room, so it was interesting to see someone stomp in there every few weeks and wreak havoc. Every once in a while someone would really let fly, I mean really let loose. You’d hear muffled crashes and distant, vague swearing and muffled profanity, and carrying on for a few moments. Sometimes, if you were lucky, if it was a really good day, you’d hear a sweet, muffled bellow of rage and frustration, or anguished wailing, raging against the impending night, and sweet sweet release. Then the person would emerge, looking exhausted but free. There seemed to be a burden lifted, a sense of profound relief, as if they had found a new religion or something. Perhaps by smashing things they had released some tension or frustration, perhaps they had excised the demons of the past that had been haunting them, fouling their way, bogging them down.
And old Benny, he was always smiling and chuckling, always glad to see you. What a great attitude. What an inspiration. Everything about him looked inexpensive though – cheap clothes, cheap haircut – like he didn’t want to spend any money, as if he knew his time here was going to be limited and of little consequence, so why even bother. That was always very curious to me – that material possessions didn’t seem to matter to him. And try as I might, I never did see him do any work, never once saw him at a desk, as if he didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk all day long, chained to a desk all life. Where as to me, my desk was a refuge, the work was exciting, I was just glad to have something to do, to contribute, to be out of the house. But maybe that was why Benny was hired – to just hang around and be nice, to spread some joy and sunshine throughout the perceived dreary work-a-day slog. Maybe that was his role – a minister of good cheer. Maybe he was a robot they kept in a closet over night, like you would a vacuum cleaner or something. Maybe they ordered him out of a catalog. I don’t rightly know.
The other thing about Benny was that I would see him around outside of work from time to time, out and about while I was running errands or out riding my bike. I never got to talk to him outside of work as he was always zipping past in a blur or way up ahead and thus out of ear range. One time I saw him riding an old bike. And then a few days later, I saw him riding a totally different bike. Who has two different bikes? And why was he riding them? Where was he going? Then another time I saw him driving an old beat up baby blue pickup truck. And then a few days later I saw him driving a little old car. Then like a week later he was driving an old red station wagon. I mean, what’s up with that? Not that it’s really any of my business or anything, but man, where did he get all those cars? Why the three vehicles? And where was he going? I would see him from time to time, but always in the oddest of places, always caught in the blur of the day or lingering in the vague background – getting his hair cut as I passed by a storefront window, up on a roof helping repair something, on a passing bus grinning and chatting it up with someone, always out and about – as if checking up on me or something. Maybe my parents hired him to just sort of “be around”.
I thought more and more about this – why was I seeing him around like this, as if apparitions of my own aspirations, as if projections of my own best self, my highest being, my idealized goals and visions of myself. I couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps he had always been around and I just hadn’t noticed it yet, I mean, not until I was introduced to him, then he stood out. Perhaps he had a twin brother. Maybe he was part of a set of triplets. I don’t know. The best I could come up with is this – that Benny was a clone, as if some company were manufacturing them for order, or as if someone somewhere was creating these clones, unbeknownst to anyone else, nice clones, polite clones, and sprinkling them about the city in secret, placing them all over to radiate positivity and good vibes, rendering all doubts to the reliquary, invalidating all doubts, rendering all doubts null and void, setting good examples, helping people out, asking about your day, making you feel at home, at ease, . . . wanting to know you.
- - -
Tony Rauch has been interviewed by The Prague Post, Oxford University, and Rain Taxi. His books have been reviewed by MIT, Savanna Collage of Art and Design, and Rain Taxi, among many others. His stories have appeared in numerous literary journals. Rauch has four books of short stories out –
- “I'm right here,” from Spout Press (funky/jazzy/arty experimental short stories)
- “Laredo,” from Eraserhead Press (funky/jazzy/arty fairytale short stories)
- “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (fairy tale surreal fantasy action adventure sci-fi short stories and story starters)
- “As I floated in the jar” from Eraserhead Press (fairy tale surreal fantasy action adventure sci-fi short stories and story starters) [to be published in the next few weeks]
For more info and story samples, refer to his website: http://trauch.wordpress.com/
By Tony Rauch
I got a new job. I really wanted to settle in and apply myself, show them what a good worker I was, so I purposely hung back and didn’t really interact with anyone at first. Also, I wanted to get the vibe of the place, see which way the wind blows, learn what to do and what not, and when. So I pretty much just put my head down, worked and observed, keeping to myself for a while – not hiding myself away or being unfriendly, but not making myself overly obvious either.
So I didn’t really talk to anyone for quite a while. One chap would stop by my desk and hang out every now and then and chat. And that was nice, made me feel welcomed and appreciated. He was always so smiley and carefree, like he didn’t have a concern in the world. I was really impressed with that attitude, and I must admit it did rub off on me a little. But the odd thing about that guy was I never saw him working. Every time I’d see him, he would be standing there, chatting it up with someone. I never once saw him at his desk or carrying any papers. I’d have to get up every now and then to look something up or get something, and sometimes I’d have to go past his desk, but it was always empty. He’d always be way over there, chatting it up with someone else, grinning away as if the rest of us were saddled with invisible heavy weights (which we were unaware of) and he was somehow without such burdens. His name was Benny.
(There were other people at the office of course – some of the standard fare and tropes – the flirt, the ass kisser, the gossip, the lying/scheming weasel, the impressionable one the liar needed to hang out with, the insecure person who had to define and hang a label on everyone, the grump, the complainer, the miserable bastard, the sweaty guy, corporal nervous, the grizzly adams mountain man, the grinner, uncle blinky, the sad-sack, the bragger, the stealer, captain stare, ms. ‘show-you-what’s-wrong-with-your-life’, the blank page, the misplacer, pig-pen, polly paranoia, the hippy, the blamer, the zombie, Mr. Indecisive, the mumbler, disco manquake, fibber magee, garbage dump desk, doctor disorganized, the saboteur, mr. bossy pants, grandpa, king Julius III, the panther, the “I still won” guy, the crier, nosey nate, the repeater, the excuse-maker 3000, the worrier, captain midnight, mr. cheapie, the problem starter, panicy pete, the fog, the hypochondriac, the black hole, and many more that were indefinable in that they were a vast matrix of personality traits.)
But everyone seemed to be a pretty good worker. I mean, why let your talents go to waste? Why not work to build a solid foundation? There’s nothing worse than wasted potential. Most seemed to keep to themselves. I guess they were busy. I was very impressed with the ones who just sat there all day with their heads down, cranking away. I was really inspired by that. That’s who I want to be, I’d say to myself from time to time, to psyche myself up – that’s who I want to be.
The place was pretty corporate and stiff. When I interviewed they even told me as much, not really coming right out and admitting it, but did convey that attribute in so many words. I told them I was pretty enthusiastic and may not fit in. I wouldn’t want to rub people the wrong way, or at least not the decent people. Some people are so insecure they can’t see beyond that and don’t like other people anyway no matter what. There wasn’t anything I could do to win those people over, and I didn’t want to waste my time with them anyway. I just didn’t want to bother the rank and file, didn’t want to upset the apple cart or rock the boat. But the two sad-looking, forlorn, funereal seeming gentlemen in dark, tight, constraining, possibly soul-crushing suits who interviewed me mentioned they could use a little color and enthusiasm in their midst, so I shouldn’t worry about my enthusiasm. But after working there a while, I found their assessment to be inaccurate – the place was not the city of the dead which I had assumed it to be based upon their description. Yeah, it was a little quiet, grey, and cold, but I also found a great deal of treasure there – that of friendship, inspiration, and knowledge. I learned a great deal about my chosen profession from these people, and in just hanging back and observing I was able to absorb a lot and also radiate some form of credibility. Also, in just listening, I heard about all sorts of great treasure – one person needed to get rid of an old dresser, another an old end table and lamp. Why I really made out like a bandit, scoring all manner of treasure over time. And this accumulation of free junk really saved me money and time in not having to waste my life out foraging for that stuff myself.
I wondered who many of these people were and what brought them here. I guess they were all just trying to cobble together a life for themselves, or trying to keep the life they built purring along. As I worked I’d listen to their conversations – all the things they did. Why these people were incredible, unbelievable – one person was out flying small airplanes, another jumping out of perfectly good airplanes at high altitudes, another running marathons, another playing in a little jazz combo, another fixing old radios, another raising a family, another cooking and gardening, another competing in ballroom dances, another fixing up old motorbikes, another involved with a church group, another volunteering for charities, another out flying giant kites, another operating model boats, another making up their own words – creating a new vocabulary, another renovating houses. Why they were out doing all manner of things, fixing up everything, getting involved, meeting people, having all manner of adventures. Their actions really inspired me to want to do something too. I haven’t figured out what exactly just yet, but you can be assured I will be out doing something eventually, that I can promise you. And then maybe I’ll too have something interesting to talk about, something worthy to share. Maybe I’ll write a children’s book about a naughty little giraffe named Melanie who likes to start fires, maybe I’ll develop some annoying little mannerisms, maybe I’ll go minimal and not own anything, maybe I’ll create a new religion, maybe I’ll take to wearing a strange wig.
They had a room off to the side called the smashing room. I think it was an old storage or conference room. Anyway, in it were placed some old computers and telephones and such that people could smash with baseball bats and crow bars which the company had provided. There was a clear plastic riot-type face shield which you had to wear if you went in there. But they’d let you smash the crap out of whatever was left in there if you felt the urge. I sat near that room, so it was interesting to see someone stomp in there every few weeks and wreak havoc. Every once in a while someone would really let fly, I mean really let loose. You’d hear muffled crashes and distant, vague swearing and muffled profanity, and carrying on for a few moments. Sometimes, if you were lucky, if it was a really good day, you’d hear a sweet, muffled bellow of rage and frustration, or anguished wailing, raging against the impending night, and sweet sweet release. Then the person would emerge, looking exhausted but free. There seemed to be a burden lifted, a sense of profound relief, as if they had found a new religion or something. Perhaps by smashing things they had released some tension or frustration, perhaps they had excised the demons of the past that had been haunting them, fouling their way, bogging them down.
And old Benny, he was always smiling and chuckling, always glad to see you. What a great attitude. What an inspiration. Everything about him looked inexpensive though – cheap clothes, cheap haircut – like he didn’t want to spend any money, as if he knew his time here was going to be limited and of little consequence, so why even bother. That was always very curious to me – that material possessions didn’t seem to matter to him. And try as I might, I never did see him do any work, never once saw him at a desk, as if he didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk all day long, chained to a desk all life. Where as to me, my desk was a refuge, the work was exciting, I was just glad to have something to do, to contribute, to be out of the house. But maybe that was why Benny was hired – to just hang around and be nice, to spread some joy and sunshine throughout the perceived dreary work-a-day slog. Maybe that was his role – a minister of good cheer. Maybe he was a robot they kept in a closet over night, like you would a vacuum cleaner or something. Maybe they ordered him out of a catalog. I don’t rightly know.
The other thing about Benny was that I would see him around outside of work from time to time, out and about while I was running errands or out riding my bike. I never got to talk to him outside of work as he was always zipping past in a blur or way up ahead and thus out of ear range. One time I saw him riding an old bike. And then a few days later, I saw him riding a totally different bike. Who has two different bikes? And why was he riding them? Where was he going? Then another time I saw him driving an old beat up baby blue pickup truck. And then a few days later I saw him driving a little old car. Then like a week later he was driving an old red station wagon. I mean, what’s up with that? Not that it’s really any of my business or anything, but man, where did he get all those cars? Why the three vehicles? And where was he going? I would see him from time to time, but always in the oddest of places, always caught in the blur of the day or lingering in the vague background – getting his hair cut as I passed by a storefront window, up on a roof helping repair something, on a passing bus grinning and chatting it up with someone, always out and about – as if checking up on me or something. Maybe my parents hired him to just sort of “be around”.
I thought more and more about this – why was I seeing him around like this, as if apparitions of my own aspirations, as if projections of my own best self, my highest being, my idealized goals and visions of myself. I couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps he had always been around and I just hadn’t noticed it yet, I mean, not until I was introduced to him, then he stood out. Perhaps he had a twin brother. Maybe he was part of a set of triplets. I don’t know. The best I could come up with is this – that Benny was a clone, as if some company were manufacturing them for order, or as if someone somewhere was creating these clones, unbeknownst to anyone else, nice clones, polite clones, and sprinkling them about the city in secret, placing them all over to radiate positivity and good vibes, rendering all doubts to the reliquary, invalidating all doubts, rendering all doubts null and void, setting good examples, helping people out, asking about your day, making you feel at home, at ease, . . . wanting to know you.
- - -
Tony Rauch has been interviewed by The Prague Post, Oxford University, and Rain Taxi. His books have been reviewed by MIT, Savanna Collage of Art and Design, and Rain Taxi, among many others. His stories have appeared in numerous literary journals. Rauch has four books of short stories out –
- “I'm right here,” from Spout Press (funky/jazzy/arty experimental short stories)
- “Laredo,” from Eraserhead Press (funky/jazzy/arty fairytale short stories)
- “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (fairy tale surreal fantasy action adventure sci-fi short stories and story starters)
- “As I floated in the jar” from Eraserhead Press (fairy tale surreal fantasy action adventure sci-fi short stories and story starters) [to be published in the next few weeks]
For more info and story samples, refer to his website: http://trauch.wordpress.com/
The Machine
By Tony Rauch
Utley and I are running in the fields in the morning. It is quite early. The sun is just barely peeking through the trees, stretching the shadows out long and dark. The fog twists just above the ground. Dark clouds hang low and percolate.
We’re running and running, trying to get to our fort down by the river before it starts raining. The sky is low, dark, and twisting. We’re going to meet up with Gusov, Anders, and Chase. We’re going to tunnel into the side of the riverbank to add more space to our fort. Our fort is hidden within the steep bank, behind bushes, under tall trees, dug into the ground, covered with wood planks and mud. We have a little stove inside to keep us warm, an old lantern for light, and some other things hidden away there as well.
The sky is rippling in a strange manner I have never seen before. It is low and rolling, so low it feels like I could reach up, grab it, and pull myself up to it. I turn to Utley, to see what he thinks of it, and here he is already staring up in awe as we rush through the tall grass. Suddenly a strange shape descends from the sky. It looks like a radio tower coming down and bending. It hits the ground about twenty feet from us. We both tumble out of the way as another thing appears in the distance, and then another, each about twenty feet from us.
Suddenly another tower swings around, right past me. I slide onto my back. I grip the ground. Thick soil squishes between my fingers. Looking up in fear, I notice the strange shape is long and metallic, narrowing to a point as it pierces the ground. Another swings around, up, then slides to drop down again about fifty feet from us. The other projections look like this first one - like trusses or upside down radio towers. They do the same as the first – bending in the middle like an elbow or knee, then continuing forward.
My head darts around. There are maybe six of them, moving like giant mechanical legs. My eyes follow them - up to the bottom of the clouds, where they seem to attach to the bottom of some great, long wooden ship peeking from the haze. I notice, through the low swirling clouds, the bottom of a long, zeppelin-like shape, with windows and dark figures looking down on me. The thing is right above us, looming as if to drop down on us like a million tons of granite, ready to press us deep into the ground.
Slowly it passes over, the legs swinging in the air, moving up and down, just like a giant mechanical spider, just like you’d think mechanical legs would work on a giant creeping machine-like something. And before we know it, the last leg swings over us, and dropping down from the sky is Gustov.
“Did . . . did they try to kidnap you?” Utley huffs in terror as Gustov lands with a thump and rolls over to us.
The great spider machine, the great legged sailing ship, the great balloon passes over us ominously in a slow, silent crawl. It looks like something from a distant world, maybe from another dimension and just passing through for a quick tour, a momentary visit to our strange land.
Gustov crawls to us on all fours. “Naw. I was just tryin’ ta hitch a ride with ‘em,” he watches as the last leg silently disappears over a hill and line of tall trees, back into the dark fog and swirl of gray clouds. “I was on my way over to the fort, running through the fields when wham-o!” he punches his fist into the ground, “This thing drops out of the sky like a giant spike. And not more than five feet from me. Then another right behind that. Then the first one snaps back up, into the sky, and swings ahead like the legs of a great robot spider. When the next one swung down by me, I figured I could climb aboard. So I ran over and grabbed on and just hung on for dear life. It carried me about a hundred yards until I was shaken off and fell right here by you all. . . . I just wanted to climb up that leg and see who they were. See what they were.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Utley exhales in disbelief.
“Me neither,” I scan the area for more of them, still on my back in fear.
“Yeah, me neither,” Gustov looks around, “Wonder if there are more of ‘em around?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Utley repeats, still staring ahead, watching in the direction the large mechanical thing disappeared in. “Who were they?”
Slowly we pull ourselves off the ground, scanning all around and listening in the wind and smoky fog. But we don’t see any more of the mechanical contraptions. In fact we never see any ever again. Just that once. Just that one time in the fog in the morning in the field.
Later, we sit at the table in our secret fort and tell Anders and Chase all about it. But neither of them believes us. We even draw pictures of what we saw, the lantern flickering a warm yellow glow. But they just shake their heads, as if they don’t believe us at all. And so we go about digging into the earth, carving out an even larger space for ourselves, creating more and more room for ourselves where there previously was none, as rain pours down on our hidden world from above.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
By Tony Rauch
Utley and I are running in the fields in the morning. It is quite early. The sun is just barely peeking through the trees, stretching the shadows out long and dark. The fog twists just above the ground. Dark clouds hang low and percolate.
We’re running and running, trying to get to our fort down by the river before it starts raining. The sky is low, dark, and twisting. We’re going to meet up with Gusov, Anders, and Chase. We’re going to tunnel into the side of the riverbank to add more space to our fort. Our fort is hidden within the steep bank, behind bushes, under tall trees, dug into the ground, covered with wood planks and mud. We have a little stove inside to keep us warm, an old lantern for light, and some other things hidden away there as well.
The sky is rippling in a strange manner I have never seen before. It is low and rolling, so low it feels like I could reach up, grab it, and pull myself up to it. I turn to Utley, to see what he thinks of it, and here he is already staring up in awe as we rush through the tall grass. Suddenly a strange shape descends from the sky. It looks like a radio tower coming down and bending. It hits the ground about twenty feet from us. We both tumble out of the way as another thing appears in the distance, and then another, each about twenty feet from us.
Suddenly another tower swings around, right past me. I slide onto my back. I grip the ground. Thick soil squishes between my fingers. Looking up in fear, I notice the strange shape is long and metallic, narrowing to a point as it pierces the ground. Another swings around, up, then slides to drop down again about fifty feet from us. The other projections look like this first one - like trusses or upside down radio towers. They do the same as the first – bending in the middle like an elbow or knee, then continuing forward.
My head darts around. There are maybe six of them, moving like giant mechanical legs. My eyes follow them - up to the bottom of the clouds, where they seem to attach to the bottom of some great, long wooden ship peeking from the haze. I notice, through the low swirling clouds, the bottom of a long, zeppelin-like shape, with windows and dark figures looking down on me. The thing is right above us, looming as if to drop down on us like a million tons of granite, ready to press us deep into the ground.
Slowly it passes over, the legs swinging in the air, moving up and down, just like a giant mechanical spider, just like you’d think mechanical legs would work on a giant creeping machine-like something. And before we know it, the last leg swings over us, and dropping down from the sky is Gustov.
“Did . . . did they try to kidnap you?” Utley huffs in terror as Gustov lands with a thump and rolls over to us.
The great spider machine, the great legged sailing ship, the great balloon passes over us ominously in a slow, silent crawl. It looks like something from a distant world, maybe from another dimension and just passing through for a quick tour, a momentary visit to our strange land.
Gustov crawls to us on all fours. “Naw. I was just tryin’ ta hitch a ride with ‘em,” he watches as the last leg silently disappears over a hill and line of tall trees, back into the dark fog and swirl of gray clouds. “I was on my way over to the fort, running through the fields when wham-o!” he punches his fist into the ground, “This thing drops out of the sky like a giant spike. And not more than five feet from me. Then another right behind that. Then the first one snaps back up, into the sky, and swings ahead like the legs of a great robot spider. When the next one swung down by me, I figured I could climb aboard. So I ran over and grabbed on and just hung on for dear life. It carried me about a hundred yards until I was shaken off and fell right here by you all. . . . I just wanted to climb up that leg and see who they were. See what they were.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Utley exhales in disbelief.
“Me neither,” I scan the area for more of them, still on my back in fear.
“Yeah, me neither,” Gustov looks around, “Wonder if there are more of ‘em around?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Utley repeats, still staring ahead, watching in the direction the large mechanical thing disappeared in. “Who were they?”
Slowly we pull ourselves off the ground, scanning all around and listening in the wind and smoky fog. But we don’t see any more of the mechanical contraptions. In fact we never see any ever again. Just that once. Just that one time in the fog in the morning in the field.
Later, we sit at the table in our secret fort and tell Anders and Chase all about it. But neither of them believes us. We even draw pictures of what we saw, the lantern flickering a warm yellow glow. But they just shake their heads, as if they don’t believe us at all. And so we go about digging into the earth, carving out an even larger space for ourselves, creating more and more room for ourselves where there previously was none, as rain pours down on our hidden world from above.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
Grandpa’s Musty Basement
By Tony Rauch
“It’s quite easy, you see,” he said, unscrewing the lid. The jar was a slippery clean - from off the shelf that had many other jars - all lined up in rows - with other colorful, exotic critters in them, some of which I did not recognize whatsoever.
The large, bright green frog was just sitting at the bottom of the jar as patient and calm as can be, just sitting there blinking up at us. Grandpa reached in and, cupping it softly, raised it out into the misty light that trickled in from the flood lamp up on the barn outside. Flies swirled around the lamp in the unfathomably deep darkness.
Grandpa reached over to another jar and removed an eyedropper. Then he dropped a few drops of golden liquid on the frog’s head, then returned the eyedropper back to the jar on the workbench.
The frog blinked slowly in the light, sitting in the middle of Grandpa’s outstretched palm, then carefully opened its mouth. Its long, thin slit of a mouth slowly grew back, back around its eyes, further and further in a straight, skinny line, suddenly curling up at the ends. It opened its mouth, looked up to me and blinked, and said in a deep, gravelly, guttural growl, “Well hello there, Billy. . .”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
By Tony Rauch
“It’s quite easy, you see,” he said, unscrewing the lid. The jar was a slippery clean - from off the shelf that had many other jars - all lined up in rows - with other colorful, exotic critters in them, some of which I did not recognize whatsoever.
The large, bright green frog was just sitting at the bottom of the jar as patient and calm as can be, just sitting there blinking up at us. Grandpa reached in and, cupping it softly, raised it out into the misty light that trickled in from the flood lamp up on the barn outside. Flies swirled around the lamp in the unfathomably deep darkness.
Grandpa reached over to another jar and removed an eyedropper. Then he dropped a few drops of golden liquid on the frog’s head, then returned the eyedropper back to the jar on the workbench.
The frog blinked slowly in the light, sitting in the middle of Grandpa’s outstretched palm, then carefully opened its mouth. Its long, thin slit of a mouth slowly grew back, back around its eyes, further and further in a straight, skinny line, suddenly curling up at the ends. It opened its mouth, looked up to me and blinked, and said in a deep, gravelly, guttural growl, “Well hello there, Billy. . .”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
The Rust Maker (The Iron Balloon II)
By Tony Rauch
I’m on my way to the park, playing with my metal hoop and stick, making the hoop jump and wobble down the sandy road. I pass an old tilting barn and notice the owner, an older man, inside. He’s working on some strange metal ball. He has it up on saw horses and is filling this round metal cage with something from a mysterious gas can. I stop and watch. He waves at me from inside the dark shadow, then continues filling a container within the round metal cage. I wave back and keep walking, for he always seems to be in there fiddling with something, welding things, testing things, cooking up smelly liquids in a large metal pot over a fire and stinking up this area from time to time.
I’m in the park for a while, rolling my metal hoop down the grassy slopes when a strange shape appears in the distance. It is a round, smoky something hanging in the gray sky. It bobs in the wind, sort of floating along. It billows a dingy cloud of soot behind, like a dark banner fluttering in the wind.
The smoky shape slowly makes its way over to me. Smoke is emanating from the center of it as if from an internal engine, and causes quite a stink. The smoky floating balloon bobs in the breeze, drifting lower and lower. As it gets to about twenty feet from me, I run over to it. As I near I see a string dangling from the bottom of it. But as I run closer, I find the string is actually a metal chain, and that the balloon is an iron balloon - a pretty big one, about the size of a chair, chugging along and lumbering through the air like you’d think a metal balloon would. And then it strikes me, this looks like the metal ball that the old man was working on in his barn. Maybe he was filling it with fuel and then it got away from him.
The metal ball thing is puffing and coughing a thick, churning black exhaust. The trail of smoke swirls and curls in the breeze, fluttering like a long tail and wafting a strange stink, like pungent chemicals.
I reach and jump to try and grab the chain and pull it too me. Maybe I can keep it. I think my friends would be impressed. Maybe I can bring it to school. Maybe it runs on oil or something we have at home. Or maybe it’s lost and there’s a reward for finding and returning it to the older man in the barn. Maybe I can make some money off it. Maybe it’s broken, and that’s what’s causing the bad smoking stink.
I jump and leap and strive and finally grip the chain and try to tug it down out of the breeze. But it is heavier than it looks, and feels like it’s connected to a cable, even through there is no cable in the sky. I get a closer look at it - the balloon is just a metal frame with wire mesh over it and emanating a thick cloud of chugging exhaust. It is heavy. It pulls me off the ground as it rises and lowers and bobs in the wind. I let go and drop to the ground. The thing lumbers through the air, whipping its long tail of thick black smoke about. And then I feel myself slow down. I was going to try to jump and grab the chain, try to give it another good tug or thrash about to bring it down. Or maybe I could ride along with it for awhile to see where it would take me. But as I try to run I only get slower and slower. I feel myself stiffening. The balloon drops lower, lingering about five feet off the grass. A shadow appears on the ground under it. But it is overcast out, a cloudy gray fall haze in the sky, so there is no sun to cast a shadow. Then I slow to the point where I can barely move. My joints go stiff. The grass under the balloon is turning to rust - at first a dingy black of soot, and then an orange-ish tinge. I look myself over and watch as I turn a dark brown. I stiffen. I can’t move. I’m rusting in place. I blink my eyes, and move them around and around to try to keep them active and functioning. I look around and see a trail of filth on the ground. The tree next to me is rusting in place as well, and so is some on the horizon. The small iron balloon slowly dances and spews its toxic filth. The grass below is changing from green to yellow to brown. And then I see another dot on the horizon. It looks to be another iron balloon, bobbing along and spewing a smoky discharge. And then another appears, but this one is even further away. And then I spot another in the hazy distance, just a smudge of a fuzzy black dot in the sky, with a line of black trailing behind. And then yet another.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
By Tony Rauch
I’m on my way to the park, playing with my metal hoop and stick, making the hoop jump and wobble down the sandy road. I pass an old tilting barn and notice the owner, an older man, inside. He’s working on some strange metal ball. He has it up on saw horses and is filling this round metal cage with something from a mysterious gas can. I stop and watch. He waves at me from inside the dark shadow, then continues filling a container within the round metal cage. I wave back and keep walking, for he always seems to be in there fiddling with something, welding things, testing things, cooking up smelly liquids in a large metal pot over a fire and stinking up this area from time to time.
I’m in the park for a while, rolling my metal hoop down the grassy slopes when a strange shape appears in the distance. It is a round, smoky something hanging in the gray sky. It bobs in the wind, sort of floating along. It billows a dingy cloud of soot behind, like a dark banner fluttering in the wind.
The smoky shape slowly makes its way over to me. Smoke is emanating from the center of it as if from an internal engine, and causes quite a stink. The smoky floating balloon bobs in the breeze, drifting lower and lower. As it gets to about twenty feet from me, I run over to it. As I near I see a string dangling from the bottom of it. But as I run closer, I find the string is actually a metal chain, and that the balloon is an iron balloon - a pretty big one, about the size of a chair, chugging along and lumbering through the air like you’d think a metal balloon would. And then it strikes me, this looks like the metal ball that the old man was working on in his barn. Maybe he was filling it with fuel and then it got away from him.
The metal ball thing is puffing and coughing a thick, churning black exhaust. The trail of smoke swirls and curls in the breeze, fluttering like a long tail and wafting a strange stink, like pungent chemicals.
I reach and jump to try and grab the chain and pull it too me. Maybe I can keep it. I think my friends would be impressed. Maybe I can bring it to school. Maybe it runs on oil or something we have at home. Or maybe it’s lost and there’s a reward for finding and returning it to the older man in the barn. Maybe I can make some money off it. Maybe it’s broken, and that’s what’s causing the bad smoking stink.
I jump and leap and strive and finally grip the chain and try to tug it down out of the breeze. But it is heavier than it looks, and feels like it’s connected to a cable, even through there is no cable in the sky. I get a closer look at it - the balloon is just a metal frame with wire mesh over it and emanating a thick cloud of chugging exhaust. It is heavy. It pulls me off the ground as it rises and lowers and bobs in the wind. I let go and drop to the ground. The thing lumbers through the air, whipping its long tail of thick black smoke about. And then I feel myself slow down. I was going to try to jump and grab the chain, try to give it another good tug or thrash about to bring it down. Or maybe I could ride along with it for awhile to see where it would take me. But as I try to run I only get slower and slower. I feel myself stiffening. The balloon drops lower, lingering about five feet off the grass. A shadow appears on the ground under it. But it is overcast out, a cloudy gray fall haze in the sky, so there is no sun to cast a shadow. Then I slow to the point where I can barely move. My joints go stiff. The grass under the balloon is turning to rust - at first a dingy black of soot, and then an orange-ish tinge. I look myself over and watch as I turn a dark brown. I stiffen. I can’t move. I’m rusting in place. I blink my eyes, and move them around and around to try to keep them active and functioning. I look around and see a trail of filth on the ground. The tree next to me is rusting in place as well, and so is some on the horizon. The small iron balloon slowly dances and spews its toxic filth. The grass below is changing from green to yellow to brown. And then I see another dot on the horizon. It looks to be another iron balloon, bobbing along and spewing a smoky discharge. And then another appears, but this one is even further away. And then I spot another in the hazy distance, just a smudge of a fuzzy black dot in the sky, with a line of black trailing behind. And then yet another.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.
Captain Kirk And Spock Meet Elvis
(Spock Goes Disco)
By Tony Rauch
“I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed your rock and roll music . . . to its fullest capacity . . . Mr. . . . Mr. Elvis.”
“I also have listened to your comforting words many many times, . . . Mr. Elvis.”
(Ray beams shine out of Elvis’s eyes and vaporize the both of them. Spock melts immediately while Kirk just stays in place, shaking and incapacitated. Spock was wearing a silky flower-patterned shirt with super large disco lapels. This seemed to upset Elvis for some reason (It’s either the lapels or Spock’s face-meltingly bad Valcan breath). Then some people show up with some beers and a cake. A party breaks out for some reason. Apparently some other stuff happens. A lot of people are showing up, so it’s hard to tell what’s going on exactly. Someone turns a knob and that activates some type of thing that makes everyone’s hair grow longer and curl at the ends. Hairs continue to curl and curl until everyone within a two block radius is wearing a giant tight perm, a la the last season of the Brady Bunch or the musical group Grand Funk Railroad circa 1973. Then some aliens arrive. No one is certain what to think of them, so the party lags a little there for a while, but then they seem alright, so things pick up a little. The aliens are four feet tall, light blue, stocky, with big muscular shoulders, long beefy arms, compact legs, and no heads. Their heads are in their chests in the sense that their eyes and mouths are in the center of their chests. Oh, and they have hunched backs, so their posture is sort of stooped over.
Some angry neighbor shows up. Seems someone swiped his morning newspaper off his step the other day, so Elvis opens up on him with the ol’ eye laser thing and splits the guy right in half. One of the halves stays standing there in place on the sidewalk out front, while the other half just sort of flops down like a pealed banana. One of the aliens, a light blue mother, sends out a ray from his wrist thingie and freezes the angry neighbor guy. Some of his alien buddies pick up the side that flopped down like a wet noodle and flash some light thing around the guy and the cells somehow reattached themselves and the neighbor guy snaps out of it. So that is pretty cool of the aliens to fix that guy like that, even though he crashed the party like a big shot when he could’ve just waited for a better time to ask about the missing paper. By this time most of the people are dancing, but well behaved – just kind of shuffling in place and shimmying about – so not a lot of people notice the vivisection. Then it’s late and so people leave. They beam Spock and Kirk back up. By this time Spock is just a puddle of solidified plastic, where Kirk is still catatonic and shaking. The aliens don’t attempt to fix them for some reason. By this time everyone has left and we go back to sleep, figuring we’ll clean up in the morning. When morning comes we wake to find the place spotless. We talk it over and figure those light blue aliens cleaned the place up, which was really cool of them, but we’re not real positive on all that. But we hope they show up again in the future sometime as they proved to be helpful. We look around and the place looks great. We had planned to clean, so now have some time on our hands, so we go out for breakfast – hot dogs and cake. Then in driving back home, someone sees a neat painting in someone’s window. So we sneak into a back window and tiptoe out with the painting. She’s a beaut’ – an old one of a bunch of cows. Coy likes cows, so we figure we’ll put it up in his room while he’s away at work, then he’ll come home and be surprised (feels good to do things for others, to drop down an act of virtue, even if it does involve breaking and entering and theft). On the way back home there is an accident. A car has spun out and is in the way. “Hey, check this out,” Jasper smiles at us, then hops out of the jeep. “Elvis bestowed upon me super strength last night,” he shrugs, then walks over and lifts up the car and tosses it into the air. The car tumbles end over end, arcing down into the top of a gas station. The driver just stands on the median, his mouth open in awe. The obstruction clear, we move ahead. “Wow, super strength, huh,” I nod. “Yeah,” Jasper sighs, “Now that I think about it, I wish I’da asked for something different though.” “Yeah, why’s that?” Pierre asks. “I don’t know. I mean, how often would I use super strength. . . . Shoulda asked for something else.” “Still. Pretty cool Elvis granted your request.” “Yeah, I guess. But that’s just the type of guy Elvis is. So it’s not really all that surprising.” “Yeah. I hope he comes back again.”)
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
(Spock Goes Disco)
By Tony Rauch
“I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed your rock and roll music . . . to its fullest capacity . . . Mr. . . . Mr. Elvis.”
“I also have listened to your comforting words many many times, . . . Mr. Elvis.”
(Ray beams shine out of Elvis’s eyes and vaporize the both of them. Spock melts immediately while Kirk just stays in place, shaking and incapacitated. Spock was wearing a silky flower-patterned shirt with super large disco lapels. This seemed to upset Elvis for some reason (It’s either the lapels or Spock’s face-meltingly bad Valcan breath). Then some people show up with some beers and a cake. A party breaks out for some reason. Apparently some other stuff happens. A lot of people are showing up, so it’s hard to tell what’s going on exactly. Someone turns a knob and that activates some type of thing that makes everyone’s hair grow longer and curl at the ends. Hairs continue to curl and curl until everyone within a two block radius is wearing a giant tight perm, a la the last season of the Brady Bunch or the musical group Grand Funk Railroad circa 1973. Then some aliens arrive. No one is certain what to think of them, so the party lags a little there for a while, but then they seem alright, so things pick up a little. The aliens are four feet tall, light blue, stocky, with big muscular shoulders, long beefy arms, compact legs, and no heads. Their heads are in their chests in the sense that their eyes and mouths are in the center of their chests. Oh, and they have hunched backs, so their posture is sort of stooped over.
Some angry neighbor shows up. Seems someone swiped his morning newspaper off his step the other day, so Elvis opens up on him with the ol’ eye laser thing and splits the guy right in half. One of the halves stays standing there in place on the sidewalk out front, while the other half just sort of flops down like a pealed banana. One of the aliens, a light blue mother, sends out a ray from his wrist thingie and freezes the angry neighbor guy. Some of his alien buddies pick up the side that flopped down like a wet noodle and flash some light thing around the guy and the cells somehow reattached themselves and the neighbor guy snaps out of it. So that is pretty cool of the aliens to fix that guy like that, even though he crashed the party like a big shot when he could’ve just waited for a better time to ask about the missing paper. By this time most of the people are dancing, but well behaved – just kind of shuffling in place and shimmying about – so not a lot of people notice the vivisection. Then it’s late and so people leave. They beam Spock and Kirk back up. By this time Spock is just a puddle of solidified plastic, where Kirk is still catatonic and shaking. The aliens don’t attempt to fix them for some reason. By this time everyone has left and we go back to sleep, figuring we’ll clean up in the morning. When morning comes we wake to find the place spotless. We talk it over and figure those light blue aliens cleaned the place up, which was really cool of them, but we’re not real positive on all that. But we hope they show up again in the future sometime as they proved to be helpful. We look around and the place looks great. We had planned to clean, so now have some time on our hands, so we go out for breakfast – hot dogs and cake. Then in driving back home, someone sees a neat painting in someone’s window. So we sneak into a back window and tiptoe out with the painting. She’s a beaut’ – an old one of a bunch of cows. Coy likes cows, so we figure we’ll put it up in his room while he’s away at work, then he’ll come home and be surprised (feels good to do things for others, to drop down an act of virtue, even if it does involve breaking and entering and theft). On the way back home there is an accident. A car has spun out and is in the way. “Hey, check this out,” Jasper smiles at us, then hops out of the jeep. “Elvis bestowed upon me super strength last night,” he shrugs, then walks over and lifts up the car and tosses it into the air. The car tumbles end over end, arcing down into the top of a gas station. The driver just stands on the median, his mouth open in awe. The obstruction clear, we move ahead. “Wow, super strength, huh,” I nod. “Yeah,” Jasper sighs, “Now that I think about it, I wish I’da asked for something different though.” “Yeah, why’s that?” Pierre asks. “I don’t know. I mean, how often would I use super strength. . . . Shoulda asked for something else.” “Still. Pretty cool Elvis granted your request.” “Yeah, I guess. But that’s just the type of guy Elvis is. So it’s not really all that surprising.” “Yeah. I hope he comes back again.”)
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
Chirp Chirp
By Tony Rauch
There is a scratching at the window, a gnawing that wakes me. I lie in bed and listen. It is a kind of sawing sound. I jump out of bed, stumble, and press myself against the window. A gray morning fog covers all. A branch-like thing sweeps past, swinging down to swipe past my view. Then another flashes by in the silvery mist. I struggle, looking around, but can’t see what it is. A grisly “chirp - chirp” sound scratches from the distance. Through the gray cloudy morning I make out grotesque skeletal shadows across the street. It could be a tree falling over, maybe a branch blew over and hit our house. Maybe it’s an uprooted tree rolling down the block. But as I study it, shadows waving from behind the house across the street, clouds of fog rolling and twisting by, I think, it could be, . . . Holy cow, it is . . . a giant ant appears! A giant ant scratching and gnawing on the corner of the house across the street. The ant is gigantic - the size of a large horse! It is ripping away at the siding, trying to break through. “Stop! Stop!” I pound on the window with both fists. And just then the giant, hairy arm of another flashes by my window, sweeping low through the fog as the stomach-turning “chirp - chirp” thunders louder, splitting the calm, morning mist.
I turn to the hall and shout, “Ma, looks like we got ourselves an ant problem!”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
By Tony Rauch
There is a scratching at the window, a gnawing that wakes me. I lie in bed and listen. It is a kind of sawing sound. I jump out of bed, stumble, and press myself against the window. A gray morning fog covers all. A branch-like thing sweeps past, swinging down to swipe past my view. Then another flashes by in the silvery mist. I struggle, looking around, but can’t see what it is. A grisly “chirp - chirp” sound scratches from the distance. Through the gray cloudy morning I make out grotesque skeletal shadows across the street. It could be a tree falling over, maybe a branch blew over and hit our house. Maybe it’s an uprooted tree rolling down the block. But as I study it, shadows waving from behind the house across the street, clouds of fog rolling and twisting by, I think, it could be, . . . Holy cow, it is . . . a giant ant appears! A giant ant scratching and gnawing on the corner of the house across the street. The ant is gigantic - the size of a large horse! It is ripping away at the siding, trying to break through. “Stop! Stop!” I pound on the window with both fists. And just then the giant, hairy arm of another flashes by my window, sweeping low through the fog as the stomach-turning “chirp - chirp” thunders louder, splitting the calm, morning mist.
I turn to the hall and shout, “Ma, looks like we got ourselves an ant problem!”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
