Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
Please Present Your Octopus
Friday, November 14th, 2008
“Excuse me?” Tara said to the man at the door. The scholarship recipients’ dinner was a much more high-toned affair than she was used to, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t so working class that she wouldn’t know about something like an octopus requirement.
“Please present your octopus,” the man repeated, smiling. “Beige snowballs, transit applicants to the steaming room.” He looked at Tara. She looked back, giving him the same look she had given her boyfriend Chad when she’d found out all of her underwear was missing (which was another story–it turned out to be an innocent misunderstanding).
The man at the door glanced behind him at the laughing philanthropists, the small crowd circling the bickering poli sci professors, the grad students hunched over the buffet, cramming fingerfoods into napkins to tuck away in pocket or purse. His smile faltered.
“Olives center my modesty,” he said dismissively, waving her into the room. Tara didn’t budge. She noticed the man’s eyebrows were beginning to smoke, very faintly. His face took on a hugely pained, desperate look, and he turned to walk away, but Tara grabbed him by the arm.
“What are you in there?” she said. “You’re a leftover, aren’t you?”
“Pungently,” he pleaded, pulling away from her. She gripped his arm with both hands, certain now that some of the aliens had stayed behind in some kind of disguise. They couldn’t have simply come to earth, broadcast their messages, and left forever–especially when no one had even been able to figure out what their messages had said.
Inside the building a tray of dishes crashed, and she turned her head for a split second, distracted by the accident. Her quarry took that moment to jerk away from her with all his strength, though Tara held onto the arm with a death grip. There was a snapping sound as the arm broke loose. By the time she looked back, the “man” had sprinted away at unbelievable speed across the lawn of Founders Hall. The armhole of his “human” torso where the arm had torn away revealed just a glimpse of a much smaller, green arm inside. He vaulted a hedge and was gone.
“Tara Gonyea?” someone called from inside. It was growing dark, she realized, and she wasn’t visible to anyone in the warmly-lit hall. She hesitated, then tucked the arm out of sight behind a row of rosebushes. That night, she would hide somewhere nearby and see if the man came back to look.
Worse Than Riders
Wednesday, October 29th, 2008
Nobody expected Lonny Orris to show up at the 20th high school reunion, because we all knew about his time travelling.
Conversations collided and crumbled into murmurs all around him as he walked into the restaurant, his robotic arm waving hello while his human one remained jammed into his pocket. Rick Tate, former president of the drama club and evidently the only one of us with any balls, stepped out and offered his hand.
“Rick?” Lonny said uncertainly. Rick looked different–we all did. There was the extra forty pounds around Rick’s belly, the gray hair at his temples, the glasses. And of course there was the Rider astride his neck, asleep for the moment. Lonny was the only one in the room without one.
“Hey Lonny,” Rick said, grabbing the robotic hand firmly and shaking it.
A Rider across the room kicked its knobby purple heels on its human’s shoulders, it’s flat head turning to one side to glance at Lonny. “Prepare food!” it demanded. Its human–Nadine Turanski, of whom I knew nothing except that she had allegedly once eaten a live cricket at lunch–hesitated, her eyes still fixed on Lonny. The Rider, impatient, jabbed her with its control glove, sending electricity arcing through and around her. She screeched; we looked away; she stumbled toward the Rider food facilities.
Rick hadn’t let go of Lonny’s hand. “You don’t have a Rider.”
Lonny dipped his head, flushing. “It happened when I was traveling back in time. It’s a long story.” He tried to pull his hand out of Rick’s. Rick held on tight.
“So it’s not just a rumor–you really did bring these goddamned Riders down on us!” Rick said.
“Human! Disrespect!” Rick’s Rider said, and jabbed him briefly, sending the shock through both him and Lonny. Rick bore the shock, then abruptly jerked Lonny to the ground and began to kick him. There was a roar, and some people shrieked, and at least a dozen guys and a few women ran up to help kick the crap out of Lonny Orris. Their Riders shocked them, but through screeches of pain most of them kept kicking.
They couldn’t kick long with the shocks, though, and Lonny was still conscious when they had to fall back, exhausted and smelling faintly burned, their Riders scolding them like snippy schoolmarms.
“You sons of bitches,” he said. “Why do you think I did it in the first place? You think you’re so smart. This time it’ll be even worse!” Then he vanished.
“It was worth it. Goddamn Riders,” Rick said. He braced for the shock, but none came: the Riders were gone.
The sky suddenly seemed to darken, and there was a disturbing buzzing noise that grew from one moment to the next. Swarms of insects began to descend from the sky like little tornadoes.
We scattered, leaving the restaurant. The next day, on the Internet, people were planning dark things for Lonny Orris for the 25th.