Charlotte's Terror_The Cockroach and the Chicken._Shooting for the Moon_An Isolated Tribe of the
Catalog Guide:
Charlotte's Terror
As I once knew it, the town of Charlotte was an afterthought. It harnessed a particular silence — entering felt like I was disturbing a perpetual motion machine. And yet my family barged in every year, widening the eyes of meek grocers who had not seen a new face in months. My mother had a neurological specialist there — she visited him for the latter half of August while my father watched motel TV and I wandered the streets. The town was empty, and those weeks were lonely, as I remember them. Everybody there seemed to mind their own business to a radical extent.I would spend my days wandering...
The Cockroach and the Chicken.
He curled himself into a ball under the table where he hid, wishing that he could curl even tighter, become smaller and disappear. Despite the urge to scream, come out of his hiding place and dash as fast as he could, he remained silent and stationary, like a resting cockroach. He breathed once every minute and kept his mouth slightly open to prevent the imagined clatter of his teeth from making any sound. His efforts were quite unnecessary; the part of his brain responsible for unconscious processes had taken over and rendered all movements, twitches and sounds mute, with the exception of his...
Shooting for the Moon
“Frank,” Arn shouted into the phone, “come on, God dammit, I’ve left you six messages, stop avoiding me.”Gone were the days when he could slam down the receiver, how he missed the satisfying smash and the sound of it pounding onto the receiver. Arn would have to settle for pressing the end button really vigorously and then putting his phone back down on his desk, gently. His fists were clenched and he was shaking with rage.“Renowned Astrophysicist, Frank Berner has proven, for the first time, that extraterrestrial life does exist,” the newscaster repeated for the fourth time, “tune in at nine ...
An Isolated Tribe of the Upper Peninsula
Welcome to swww.onedoor.ccpringfield. The sign's white letters reflected the moonlight off of them and into a gleam of white light hitting my eyes as I passed. The top left corner had lost the green coating that covered the rest of the sign, instead sporting a rusted brown. Unincorporated. As if trying to hide the insignificance of the town, the word hung below the initial greeting with parts hidden behind brush. To the other side of the road, corn grew taller than a person. In the distance a swelling of light escaped the crops’ cover.“Continue on North Main for the next five miles,” A robotic voice remind...