Showing posts with label Eric Suhem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eric Suhem. Show all posts
Shadow Traffic
By Eric Suhem
“Fran, I need you to go to the gas station and fill up the minivan, can you manage to do that without screwing it up?” her husband asked derisively.
“Yes of course, said Fran, observing the words coming out of her mouth, numbed by now to his constant criticism. As he stalked out the door to work, he just looked like a puppet fading into the fog.
Fran pulled into her favorite nearby service station, and was greeted by the attendant. “Fill it up, please, Dave,” said Fran, staring dreamily as unleaded gas was pumped into the minivan.
Through a cloud, Fran saw the shadow woman pull a car into the service station on a desolate desert highway, noticing the sign, which read ‘All Services Permitted’. The shadow woman pulled up to the first pump, labeled ‘Evil’, proceeded to pump evil into the car’s gas tank, and then gave the cashier her credit card, his eyes gleaming brightly as he ran the credit card through the machine, which emitted strange noises. The shadow woman’s credit card activity statement would just show the word ‘Evil’ in the credit column for that transaction, which would end up requiring a number of phone calls to the credit card institution to get things straightened out. As the shadow woman left the service station, the cashier happily plunked the black key on the cash register with his index finger, the sign ‘Another Sale’ ringing up.
Fran drove to the community center and cheerfully added her input to the town discussion on traffic solutions. “I think there should be a few more ‘Stop’ and ‘Yield’ signs set up to protect our citizens,” she suggested.
Staring into the grey nylon carpeting of the community center, Fran saw the shadow woman think about the city traffic patterns and respond, “Well I think that the legs should be cut off the bodies in the morgue, and that little wheels should be attached to the bottoms of their feet.” The shadow woman continued, “A television set should be attached to the top of the legs in the space previously occupied by the torso. The entire contraption should then be spray painted sky-blue. After that, road maintenance should get involved. Every road should have an electric trolley groove embedded in it. Then we place the wheels of the sky-blue tv-legs into the groove and have them slide up and down the streets day and night. The televisions would provide information and entertainment to traffic and pedestrians, and the legs would provide a humanistic touch. Also, this device could be painted a different color if the sky-blue doesn’t blend in well with the particular locale.”
As Fran saw the dark apparition slowly disappear into the community center carpeting, she received approval for her suggestion of more ‘Stop’ and ‘Yield’ signs. She got back into the minivan and drove home.
“Well, did you accomplish the tasks I assigned to you?” demanded her husband at dinner.
“Yes dear,” said Fran, staring at her husband’s torso while slicing roast beef and imagining new traffic solutions. Tomorrow she would have to clear up some odd entries on her credit card, and figure out why there were blue mannequin legs in the back of the minivan.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
By Eric Suhem
“Fran, I need you to go to the gas station and fill up the minivan, can you manage to do that without screwing it up?” her husband asked derisively.
“Yes of course, said Fran, observing the words coming out of her mouth, numbed by now to his constant criticism. As he stalked out the door to work, he just looked like a puppet fading into the fog.
Fran pulled into her favorite nearby service station, and was greeted by the attendant. “Fill it up, please, Dave,” said Fran, staring dreamily as unleaded gas was pumped into the minivan.
Through a cloud, Fran saw the shadow woman pull a car into the service station on a desolate desert highway, noticing the sign, which read ‘All Services Permitted’. The shadow woman pulled up to the first pump, labeled ‘Evil’, proceeded to pump evil into the car’s gas tank, and then gave the cashier her credit card, his eyes gleaming brightly as he ran the credit card through the machine, which emitted strange noises. The shadow woman’s credit card activity statement would just show the word ‘Evil’ in the credit column for that transaction, which would end up requiring a number of phone calls to the credit card institution to get things straightened out. As the shadow woman left the service station, the cashier happily plunked the black key on the cash register with his index finger, the sign ‘Another Sale’ ringing up.
Fran drove to the community center and cheerfully added her input to the town discussion on traffic solutions. “I think there should be a few more ‘Stop’ and ‘Yield’ signs set up to protect our citizens,” she suggested.
Staring into the grey nylon carpeting of the community center, Fran saw the shadow woman think about the city traffic patterns and respond, “Well I think that the legs should be cut off the bodies in the morgue, and that little wheels should be attached to the bottoms of their feet.” The shadow woman continued, “A television set should be attached to the top of the legs in the space previously occupied by the torso. The entire contraption should then be spray painted sky-blue. After that, road maintenance should get involved. Every road should have an electric trolley groove embedded in it. Then we place the wheels of the sky-blue tv-legs into the groove and have them slide up and down the streets day and night. The televisions would provide information and entertainment to traffic and pedestrians, and the legs would provide a humanistic touch. Also, this device could be painted a different color if the sky-blue doesn’t blend in well with the particular locale.”
As Fran saw the dark apparition slowly disappear into the community center carpeting, she received approval for her suggestion of more ‘Stop’ and ‘Yield’ signs. She got back into the minivan and drove home.
“Well, did you accomplish the tasks I assigned to you?” demanded her husband at dinner.
“Yes dear,” said Fran, staring at her husband’s torso while slicing roast beef and imagining new traffic solutions. Tomorrow she would have to clear up some odd entries on her credit card, and figure out why there were blue mannequin legs in the back of the minivan.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
Detour
By Eric Suhem
I was in my car on the freeway, stuck in traffic. As I stared at the jackhammers, steamrollers, and drying cement of the nearby paving project, I thought about the dreams that had transformed my world into a dark labyrinth from which there was no escape. In every dream, there was Thelma, wearing black, at the wheel of her dark coupe, headlights speeding toward me, the nightmare always ending with the crash of jagged metal.
The scorpions were crawling over the roadmaps in my Toyota Camry when the cell phone rang. It was Thelma, whose voice I hadn’t heard in years, except in my dreams. “It’s my husband…he’s vanished…he fell down a manhole and nobody can find him in the sewers… I didn’t know where else to turn…” I was about to hang up when I realized that dealing with Thelma head-on might be the only way to end the shattering nocturnal visions. “Meet me at the Empty Spoon Cafe in an hour,” I said.
Due to roadwork delays, we met three hours later at the grimy downtown cafe. She still looked the same in her black pantsuit, though with a few more miles on the odometer. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she murmured, referring obliquely to our troubled past as co-workers in the city’s sewer department. As we talked, I stared into her eyes, seeing nothing but black obsidian and traffic hazards. Against my better judgment, I agreed to help her. She gave me the location of the manhole, and then drove off, her black coupe careening down the road and veering toward pedestrians, the street’s seediness igniting a gleam in her eyes.
Thinking about our past in the sewers, I arrived at the manhole in question and found the lid tightly shut. While attempting to pry it open, a street sweeper turned a corner and headed toward me, its headlights shining. I dove onto the sidewalk, evading the sweeper’s brushes by inches. As it started to turn around, I dashed to my car, got in, and sped off.
Following a detour sign down a side street, I noticed a number of orange-vested workers starting to fill the road. Soon they were holding up ‘Stop’ and ‘Go’ signs to each other as they moved around on the pavement, surrounding my car. More of them appeared, quickly covering the entire block, bumping into each other, waving flags, and hitting my car with orange plastic red cones. When they started to attack my car with the ‘Go’ signs, I decided I could wait no longer, and slowly plowed my car through the threatening sea of orange, flipping them onto the hood of my car, their leering grins pressed up against the windshield.
The mysterious street sweeper lurked nearby as I turned a corner at another detour sign and suddenly saw Thelma, standing in the street in her black pantsuit. I stopped the car and got out, walking toward her, then halting when I saw the business end of the .38. “You had to pass me up for that promotion at the sewer department years ago, well you’ve reached a dead end,” she said brusquely, pointing the gun.
“Now I know why you always wear black, because the colors tremble and fall off of you,” I said in a measured tone, eyeing the oncoming street sweeper over Thelma’s shoulder. As she cocked the trigger, the omnipresent cleaning vehicle was suddenly upon her, pulling her into its efficient maw and brushes as it moved quickly along the dark pavement, before disappearing around the corner.
I got back into my Toyota Camry and took a deep breath. It had been a day of desolation, doom, hazards, and orange vests. Thelma was gone, but she would be back in my dreams that night, and the next….
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
By Eric Suhem
I was in my car on the freeway, stuck in traffic. As I stared at the jackhammers, steamrollers, and drying cement of the nearby paving project, I thought about the dreams that had transformed my world into a dark labyrinth from which there was no escape. In every dream, there was Thelma, wearing black, at the wheel of her dark coupe, headlights speeding toward me, the nightmare always ending with the crash of jagged metal.
The scorpions were crawling over the roadmaps in my Toyota Camry when the cell phone rang. It was Thelma, whose voice I hadn’t heard in years, except in my dreams. “It’s my husband…he’s vanished…he fell down a manhole and nobody can find him in the sewers… I didn’t know where else to turn…” I was about to hang up when I realized that dealing with Thelma head-on might be the only way to end the shattering nocturnal visions. “Meet me at the Empty Spoon Cafe in an hour,” I said.
Due to roadwork delays, we met three hours later at the grimy downtown cafe. She still looked the same in her black pantsuit, though with a few more miles on the odometer. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she murmured, referring obliquely to our troubled past as co-workers in the city’s sewer department. As we talked, I stared into her eyes, seeing nothing but black obsidian and traffic hazards. Against my better judgment, I agreed to help her. She gave me the location of the manhole, and then drove off, her black coupe careening down the road and veering toward pedestrians, the street’s seediness igniting a gleam in her eyes.
Thinking about our past in the sewers, I arrived at the manhole in question and found the lid tightly shut. While attempting to pry it open, a street sweeper turned a corner and headed toward me, its headlights shining. I dove onto the sidewalk, evading the sweeper’s brushes by inches. As it started to turn around, I dashed to my car, got in, and sped off.
Following a detour sign down a side street, I noticed a number of orange-vested workers starting to fill the road. Soon they were holding up ‘Stop’ and ‘Go’ signs to each other as they moved around on the pavement, surrounding my car. More of them appeared, quickly covering the entire block, bumping into each other, waving flags, and hitting my car with orange plastic red cones. When they started to attack my car with the ‘Go’ signs, I decided I could wait no longer, and slowly plowed my car through the threatening sea of orange, flipping them onto the hood of my car, their leering grins pressed up against the windshield.
The mysterious street sweeper lurked nearby as I turned a corner at another detour sign and suddenly saw Thelma, standing in the street in her black pantsuit. I stopped the car and got out, walking toward her, then halting when I saw the business end of the .38. “You had to pass me up for that promotion at the sewer department years ago, well you’ve reached a dead end,” she said brusquely, pointing the gun.
“Now I know why you always wear black, because the colors tremble and fall off of you,” I said in a measured tone, eyeing the oncoming street sweeper over Thelma’s shoulder. As she cocked the trigger, the omnipresent cleaning vehicle was suddenly upon her, pulling her into its efficient maw and brushes as it moved quickly along the dark pavement, before disappearing around the corner.
I got back into my Toyota Camry and took a deep breath. It had been a day of desolation, doom, hazards, and orange vests. Thelma was gone, but she would be back in my dreams that night, and the next….
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
A Late Dinner
By Eric Suhem
An industrious whirr was heard from the kitchen crew as they busily prepared the meal’s next course. Everybody had enjoyed the stuffed pheasant, feathers drifting out of our mouths as we ordered dessert, an orange marmalade tart. We all ordered the standard coffee, except for Ted, who demanded an espresso in a yellow plastic mug reminiscent of his childhood. He then decided that he no longer wanted coffee in the yellow plastic mug, but instead would prefer a berry-flavored Hi-C fruit drink. “Yes sir!” said the waiter.
We were at an economic policy conference, and a number of informative presentations had been made throughout the day. My colleague on the economic panel, Ted, gave a particularly impressive speech on the implications of tax policy on global financial trade. But now the presentations were over, and we were well into dinner, later in the evening.
Ted voiced his discomfort with his chair, it was too low. He wanted something higher, much higher. The waiters looked around in back, and returned with a baby’s high chair. Ted eyed the chair favorably as the waiters lifted him up onto the seat, his black wingtips gouging one of them in the neck. As Ted was settled into the chair, a little security strap was fastened across his chest, overlapping his suit, shirt, vest and tie. He sat in the baby’s high chair, black shoes and socks dangling above the floor. Dessert was served. Ted stuffed some of the orange marmalade tart into his mouth, and the waiter quickly wiped the pastry goo from his face with a napkin.
Ted was embroiled in a serious discussion about world trade with a Minister of Finance from the Far East, Ted's pant legs swinging wildly in the high chair while he emphasized his conversational arguments regarding the economical merits of free trade. Ted pulled the little yellow plastic mug of Hi-C to his lips for another delicious sip. “Ted, are you attempting to channel your inner child? Perhaps you're participating in a session of hypnotic regression to childhood," said one of his dinner companions, a weathered dowager in a blue dress. Ted promptly bopped her on the head with a purple rattle that was set on the plastic tray of the high chair by one of the waiters.
After finishing his orange marmalade tart, and throwing pieces of it at the other guests, Ted noticed the black ‘X’ imprinted on his cup saucer. “What does this ‘X’ mean, Ted?” asked the weathered dowager, holding the cup saucer in front of his eyeballs, assaulting his pupils. Ted had been seeing the black ‘X’ for the last few weeks, on billboards, on his economic reports, and up in the sky. He climbed down from the high chair, and looked out the window. There was a beautiful beach outside. Ted excused himself discreetly and walked outside, down to the beach. Nearby was an old amusement park, where Ted had played when he was a child. He set his feet on the sand and walked along the waves the rest of the night.
The next day, Ted sat in a little 6.5 foot plastic pool in his front yard, playing with his boats and inflatable animals, belying his 20-year reputation as a stable, reasonable voice in the world economic discussion. The Minister of Finance from the Far West was at the side of the inflatable pool, holding important documents for Ted to sign. As Ted moved toward the contracts, he saw the little plastic duck with the black 'X' on its side bobbing along the cheery plastic water, approaching purposefully.
Ted knew the black ‘X’ was the cancer that had been moving quickly through his body. When he had learned of it weeks ago, he started reviewing his life, trying to relive early joys, as his time ran down. When the plastic duck reached him, Ted knew his life was at an end, and he succumbed, sinking to the bottom of the plastic inflatable pool, but it was nice to be back in his childhood one more time.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
By Eric Suhem
An industrious whirr was heard from the kitchen crew as they busily prepared the meal’s next course. Everybody had enjoyed the stuffed pheasant, feathers drifting out of our mouths as we ordered dessert, an orange marmalade tart. We all ordered the standard coffee, except for Ted, who demanded an espresso in a yellow plastic mug reminiscent of his childhood. He then decided that he no longer wanted coffee in the yellow plastic mug, but instead would prefer a berry-flavored Hi-C fruit drink. “Yes sir!” said the waiter.
We were at an economic policy conference, and a number of informative presentations had been made throughout the day. My colleague on the economic panel, Ted, gave a particularly impressive speech on the implications of tax policy on global financial trade. But now the presentations were over, and we were well into dinner, later in the evening.
Ted voiced his discomfort with his chair, it was too low. He wanted something higher, much higher. The waiters looked around in back, and returned with a baby’s high chair. Ted eyed the chair favorably as the waiters lifted him up onto the seat, his black wingtips gouging one of them in the neck. As Ted was settled into the chair, a little security strap was fastened across his chest, overlapping his suit, shirt, vest and tie. He sat in the baby’s high chair, black shoes and socks dangling above the floor. Dessert was served. Ted stuffed some of the orange marmalade tart into his mouth, and the waiter quickly wiped the pastry goo from his face with a napkin.
Ted was embroiled in a serious discussion about world trade with a Minister of Finance from the Far East, Ted's pant legs swinging wildly in the high chair while he emphasized his conversational arguments regarding the economical merits of free trade. Ted pulled the little yellow plastic mug of Hi-C to his lips for another delicious sip. “Ted, are you attempting to channel your inner child? Perhaps you're participating in a session of hypnotic regression to childhood," said one of his dinner companions, a weathered dowager in a blue dress. Ted promptly bopped her on the head with a purple rattle that was set on the plastic tray of the high chair by one of the waiters.
After finishing his orange marmalade tart, and throwing pieces of it at the other guests, Ted noticed the black ‘X’ imprinted on his cup saucer. “What does this ‘X’ mean, Ted?” asked the weathered dowager, holding the cup saucer in front of his eyeballs, assaulting his pupils. Ted had been seeing the black ‘X’ for the last few weeks, on billboards, on his economic reports, and up in the sky. He climbed down from the high chair, and looked out the window. There was a beautiful beach outside. Ted excused himself discreetly and walked outside, down to the beach. Nearby was an old amusement park, where Ted had played when he was a child. He set his feet on the sand and walked along the waves the rest of the night.
The next day, Ted sat in a little 6.5 foot plastic pool in his front yard, playing with his boats and inflatable animals, belying his 20-year reputation as a stable, reasonable voice in the world economic discussion. The Minister of Finance from the Far West was at the side of the inflatable pool, holding important documents for Ted to sign. As Ted moved toward the contracts, he saw the little plastic duck with the black 'X' on its side bobbing along the cheery plastic water, approaching purposefully.
Ted knew the black ‘X’ was the cancer that had been moving quickly through his body. When he had learned of it weeks ago, he started reviewing his life, trying to relive early joys, as his time ran down. When the plastic duck reached him, Ted knew his life was at an end, and he succumbed, sinking to the bottom of the plastic inflatable pool, but it was nice to be back in his childhood one more time.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
Subway
By Eric Suhem
“Orange, red, green, blue, black, white, yellow, turquoise, magenta, brown, peach…” Ben was examining his array of crayons. “Hmm…yes this will be quite nice for my purposes,” he thought to himself with a twisted grin. “Quite nice indeed.” He got on the subway and went in to work.
Ben was an insurance adjuster. He was at work, and the silk tarantulas crawled across his brain as he toiled away for the strange, faceless energy waves. Occasionally, the energy waves would attach themselves to a management skull, and then move on, upon departure leaving nothing but a pile of task-oriented ashes, enshrouded by a sensible suit, dressed for success, or a Hawaiian shirt if it was Casual Friday. The tarantulas eased along, massaging their 8 little claws into his cortex as he tapped each computer key, or scrawled a line on the papyrus. With every keystroke, a portion of his life force vacuumed from his soul, sucked up by the strange, faceless energy waves, which promised to redistribute his electrons for the common good. Ben opened one of his ledgers and a swarm of black butterflies flew out. ““Yes, yes my pretties! Pay a little visit to Don in Accounting,” said Ben.
It was at this point that the Venus Flytraps slowly approached, having been shipped across the ocean on the anonymous freighter, and now carted into the bright white office by the nameless technician, ready to do battle with the silk tarantulas. The spiders were quickly consumed by the plants. On Tuesday it was scorpions, today it was spiders, tomorrow it would be Gila monsters. These were the things that filled Ben’s mind as he stared at the actuarial tables. At 5:00 p.m., Ben left the office and walked to the subway station.
At the entrance, he looked down upon a dark cavernous area in which small unisex figures were scuttling about. They wore dark coats and little hats, milling about endlessly in circles, veering lines, various patterns, constantly moving, but eventually ending up back where they had started from. The air was clammy, and the walls of the station were dark moss-covered rocks. There was a bank of eight pay phones located on one of the walls of the station, and once in a while, one of the phones would ring. Whoever reached the phone first would pick up the receiver and listen to the voice on the other end, which would usually say something like, “You have just won $1 million! Board the train to collect your prize!” Immediately, an empty train would enter the station, with the yellow destination sign above flashing the word “RICHES”. The one who had answered the phone would scramble to the train and board it. Ben watched as the others would try to board the train also, but there seemed to be some sort of invisible force that pushed them away from the subway car. The doors would slam shut and the train then sped into the dark tunnel.
Ben saw more tarantulas on the floor as another phone would ring, and a voice on the line would say, “You have just won a dishwasher and 500 acres of prime real estate!” or “You have just won dictatorship of a small yet strategically significant foreign country,” and the person who had reached the phone would dash onto the train, while the destination sign blinked “WEALTH” or “POWER”, and the train then sped into the tunnel.
Then the phones didn’t ring for a few minutes, and people became more agitated, waiting for the jangling bell. Finally, a phone rang, and an aggressive businessman, who Ben recognized as Don from Accounting, snatched it quickly. Ben could see the spiders crawling on the phone, as the voice on the line said, “You have just won your death! Board the train to collect your prize!” And the train barreled into the station, with the yellow sign flashing “DEATH”. The doors opened and Don tried to get away, but he was pulled forward by the invisible force into the empty car. The doors slammed shut and the train sped into the dark tunnel. The phones started ringing again.
Ben wandered out of the subway station, and walked down the littered streets. He moved through the urban sprawl towards the beach. When he arrived at the beach, it was twilight, and the smell of sea spray was strong. He found the long-forgotten box of crayons in his pocket. Ben looked at his array of crayons with a slow grin. “I’ve waited for this moment, when the crayons can be used to fulfill their purpose.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and began coloring as he sat on the windy beach with the seagulls flying above, the tarantulas disappearing.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
By Eric Suhem
“Orange, red, green, blue, black, white, yellow, turquoise, magenta, brown, peach…” Ben was examining his array of crayons. “Hmm…yes this will be quite nice for my purposes,” he thought to himself with a twisted grin. “Quite nice indeed.” He got on the subway and went in to work.
Ben was an insurance adjuster. He was at work, and the silk tarantulas crawled across his brain as he toiled away for the strange, faceless energy waves. Occasionally, the energy waves would attach themselves to a management skull, and then move on, upon departure leaving nothing but a pile of task-oriented ashes, enshrouded by a sensible suit, dressed for success, or a Hawaiian shirt if it was Casual Friday. The tarantulas eased along, massaging their 8 little claws into his cortex as he tapped each computer key, or scrawled a line on the papyrus. With every keystroke, a portion of his life force vacuumed from his soul, sucked up by the strange, faceless energy waves, which promised to redistribute his electrons for the common good. Ben opened one of his ledgers and a swarm of black butterflies flew out. ““Yes, yes my pretties! Pay a little visit to Don in Accounting,” said Ben.
It was at this point that the Venus Flytraps slowly approached, having been shipped across the ocean on the anonymous freighter, and now carted into the bright white office by the nameless technician, ready to do battle with the silk tarantulas. The spiders were quickly consumed by the plants. On Tuesday it was scorpions, today it was spiders, tomorrow it would be Gila monsters. These were the things that filled Ben’s mind as he stared at the actuarial tables. At 5:00 p.m., Ben left the office and walked to the subway station.
At the entrance, he looked down upon a dark cavernous area in which small unisex figures were scuttling about. They wore dark coats and little hats, milling about endlessly in circles, veering lines, various patterns, constantly moving, but eventually ending up back where they had started from. The air was clammy, and the walls of the station were dark moss-covered rocks. There was a bank of eight pay phones located on one of the walls of the station, and once in a while, one of the phones would ring. Whoever reached the phone first would pick up the receiver and listen to the voice on the other end, which would usually say something like, “You have just won $1 million! Board the train to collect your prize!” Immediately, an empty train would enter the station, with the yellow destination sign above flashing the word “RICHES”. The one who had answered the phone would scramble to the train and board it. Ben watched as the others would try to board the train also, but there seemed to be some sort of invisible force that pushed them away from the subway car. The doors would slam shut and the train then sped into the dark tunnel.
Ben saw more tarantulas on the floor as another phone would ring, and a voice on the line would say, “You have just won a dishwasher and 500 acres of prime real estate!” or “You have just won dictatorship of a small yet strategically significant foreign country,” and the person who had reached the phone would dash onto the train, while the destination sign blinked “WEALTH” or “POWER”, and the train then sped into the tunnel.
Then the phones didn’t ring for a few minutes, and people became more agitated, waiting for the jangling bell. Finally, a phone rang, and an aggressive businessman, who Ben recognized as Don from Accounting, snatched it quickly. Ben could see the spiders crawling on the phone, as the voice on the line said, “You have just won your death! Board the train to collect your prize!” And the train barreled into the station, with the yellow sign flashing “DEATH”. The doors opened and Don tried to get away, but he was pulled forward by the invisible force into the empty car. The doors slammed shut and the train sped into the dark tunnel. The phones started ringing again.
Ben wandered out of the subway station, and walked down the littered streets. He moved through the urban sprawl towards the beach. When he arrived at the beach, it was twilight, and the smell of sea spray was strong. He found the long-forgotten box of crayons in his pocket. Ben looked at his array of crayons with a slow grin. “I’ve waited for this moment, when the crayons can be used to fulfill their purpose.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and began coloring as he sat on the windy beach with the seagulls flying above, the tarantulas disappearing.
- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.
