Science Fiction, Horror, Night Land, Close Encounters, On The Lighter Side

I awoke in a darkened room. The walls glowed faintly so it's not like it was pitch black, but my mind was too groggy to readily reject the fact that normal walls don't glow. I simply accepted it. I had more pressing matters that concerned me anyway. Like how I went from a sleeping bag in a tent in the woods to a room with glowing walls...

Sam couldn't believe it fit. He had measured the opening and knew what size he needed, and then found one at Finder's Keeper salvage yard that was close enough that he could work with it. A quarter inch off the bottom and a little planing along the hinge side would have done the trick, and it was even mahogany, the same species of wood that the rest of the trim in the bedroom was. He figured he would have to chisel the hinges a little deeper after planing it for width. Except when he got it home, he didn't have to do a thing. The door fit perfectly.***

Mrs. Bell was at it again, sitting on the back porch with her rifle in her lap. She was wiping it down with an oily rag taken from her apron pocket. She seemed to handle it with the loving care normally reserved for delicate things of beauty such as fine china, or even an infant child. How quickly that illusion was shattered when she spotted a rabbit at the edge of the woods and blew its head off.***

I was minding my own business, sipping a Gin and Tonic. I don't go to bars for company. I go there to get drunk. And if I did want company, I certainly wouldn't go looking for it in a place that was anything like this shit hole. That's why I picked it. Figured the only reason anyone would come here is to get drunk. But I was wrong. I knew it the minute she walked in and sat down next to me...
She looked me over real good. I looked her over real good. She ordered a drink and asked, "Looking for some company?"

"No," I answered.

"Are you gay?"

Curiosity, the curse of mankind. It's not always that way obviously, and when left undisturbed, curiosity can do little to harm you. It's when your lack of understanding becomes an object of obsession, or creates an overwhelming desire to investigate the unknown that problems arise. I rarely find myself so captivated by a partial piece of knowledge that I am compelled to learn more, particularly when I feel there is little to be gained that would benefit me. Sounds boring, I know. Suits me just fine. Boring is safe.

"So I guess that's it?"

"Yes."

"I'll be going then."

Jensen got to his feet and opened the office door but hesitated before leaving. He turned and faced the woman.

"You are a vicious bloodsucking bitch."

"I know," she said. "Lock the door and close it behind you."
She had to give him a little credit. Most of the men she trampled over would have slammed the door. Jensen was made of better stuff. She almost regretted getting rid of him. Almost.

A fine sheen of sweat broke out on David's forehead as he guided his ship into the service bay for up grading. He had quickly mastered the finicky controls of the newly designed fighter and collected the twenty-five kills needed for an extra layer of perma-armor and super long-range weapons.

The General leaned over the shoulder of one of the technicians and asked, "How's the new recruit doing?"

Frank hopped into the den barely able to stand on his remaining foot. Safe at home at last, he collapsed in a heap as his mate hovered over him.

"Oh my, Honey! What happened to you?"

"I swear, pumpkin, it's getting harder and harder to make an honest living now days..."
A puddle of greenish, brown liquid was pooling around Frank as he propped himself up on his elbow.

"Where's dinner? You were supposed to bring home dinner tonight, Frank!"

"Are you blind woman! Can't you see I ran into a little trouble on the way home?"

The bots chattered amiably. Jack sipped his coffee and watched the news crawl. 18 dead in Iraq, 23 in Israel and 14 in Saudi Arabia in what appeared to be coordinated attacks. The Vatican bestows sainthood on filmmaker Mel Gibson… Saint Martin Riggs, Jack mused. The locale for the 25th season of "Survivor" was still a closely guarded secret… Jack knew all about that. The rumor on the Internet that it was going to be on Manhattan had of course been a hoax. Manhattan was still uninhabitable and would be for years to come…

This is part 2 of Shortcut To Farside: Revisited. Click here to read part one!

A sinking feeling came over me as I sat in the oppressive silence of The Flighty One's pilot's seat. I had changed my mind. I was allowed to do that, wasn't I? My hand knew that I had changed my mind before my mind did. That's why it had tested the abort switch. The same stupid hand that had engaged the destination navigator in the first place had tested the abort switch and it had failed.

I wanted to see what it felt like for myself. The icy cold finger of death pressed against my own forehead, steady and with just enough pressure to assure the one on the receiving end that I was in complete control. Just like I always do it. They're not people; they're just... jobs. It's what I do.

Once again I stared out into the darkness through the partially open window. A humid intermittent breeze pushed its way inside and coaxed the curtains into a reluctant lazy dance, then left them limp and lifeless like the moisture laden leaves beneath the bare trees outside. I could actually smell the leaves decay as the worms infesting the fertile ground beneath the colorful carpet of former greenery consumed natures discards and replenished the soil with their excreted leavings.

      In what may or may not become a tradition, here is this year's Christmas story, brought to you in our warped, Waving Alien style sense of humor. In case you missed last years story, do a search for "The Good, The Bad, The Santa." Merry Christmas!
***

     People said I looked like Old St. Nick Himself. It's not like I could deny it or anything. I was fat and had a long white beard and mustache. All I needed was a red suit trimmed in white fluff and a big wide size fifty-two black belt with a huge silver buckle on it. And a goofy hat of course...

     I wrote part one for this quite sometime ago. You really should read it first if you haven't already. Do a search!

     There were only two survivors. As far as shipwrecks go, that was probably twice as many as there usually were. You would think the chances would be pretty slim that the only two survivors from the cargo ship would have problems getting along, but that's exactly what was happening. There was little doubt that if things continued on as they were, there would only end up being one survivor soon enough... In Nightland.

     "As long as you stay the hell away from me we'll be fine. This is a big island, find your own patch of sandy beach to live on, this piece is mine!"