Illustrated Short Stories
Deep inside, he was, and he knew he was. Milliards of cells communicating with each other, innumerable connections close to infinity, existing beyond what they were capable of understanding themselves.
Contemplating, interacting with the world.
Creating something never seen before.
No one ever went close to the old house on top of the hill. The last family who lived there fled in a couple of weeks. Others before them had not been as lucky.
Now a car was driving up the driveway. Two children came out from the back seat. The driver helped their mother inside with some boxes and suitcases befre he drove off.
A shadow was watching from the window. Once again they would invade his home, once again he would have to defend his property. Just because he was dead, they thought they could come and take what was his.
They would regret this…
Cong stared over Mike’s shoulder. Mike turned slowly around. A tentacle rose up beside the boat, Another took grip on the fence.
Alaaaaaarrrm!!! Cong screamed. Huang, the last of the crew came running up on deck, pulling his pants up. He stopped. Mike was pulled out into the water right in front of him. He disappear in the waves.
Cong grabbed a machete from the table, charged. He cut one of the monstrous arms.
Grab something! He screamed to Huang. Fight!
Huang grabbed an oar, went running towards another arm. Something grabbed the oar, pulled it out of his hand. A huge eye were staring at him…
Tapping his fingers on the table, he looked at the little bottles in front of him. Eeny meeny miny moe… he stopped at the biggest one. He grabbed it, walked over to the window. Watched the blue sky for a moment, took a deep breath of fresh summer air. The little tap was put tight, he had to struggle for a little while to get it off. Dark clouds came flowing out of the bottle, up towards the skies. They grew. The sky darkened…
He punched big spikes into the ground. Big, strong iron spikes, deep into the soil, so the ground would stay put. He knew it would peel off, someday, if he didn’t. It would peel off for good, leaving us all on a hot rock to die.
He knew if he didn’t do it, no one would. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to do it. He had to.
One day two men came by.
-Why do you punch spikes into the ground? they asked.
-To keep the surface from peeling off, he had answered.
They laughed…
He saw something move. A shadow was coming out from one of the backstreets. A man. He came walking towards him. Others appeared from the darkness as well.
Howdy! Clifton said. How come there’s so few people around?
No answer. They walked up the street towards him. They moved in a strange way, slowly, clumsily. One was limping, another seemed to be missing an arm. His horse neighed.
The marshal loosened the cap on his gun holster.
I said howdy!
One of the figures moaned. They were coming uncomfortably close.
Clifton pulled his gun in a fast movement.
Stop! He said. Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot!
He could see their faces now. Their eyes. They looked… dead. Empty.
He fired a shot. In the air, to see if he could scare them off.
They kept walking…
