cathedral for a while

The family that lived on Brucksbin Avenue sought out very original ways of staying within themselves. First there was Betty Bubbles, who loved nothing in the world better than surrounding herself with her soft, furry, warm and fuzzy stuffed animals. She had 92 in all, and they covered nearly every square inch of the floor and bed. She loved to immerse herself in them so she could not be seen by anybody in the outside world. She had a name for this place that she called Bettlonia. In here, she felt safe and warm, and quite comfortable and quite content in her cushy invisibility. Betty Bubbles is only six years old, and has an older brother named Lucas.

Lucas Bubbles’ favorite place in the entire world is inside the chimney. Lucas loves to get dirty, so dirty in fact that it is almost impossible to tell who he is with all that ash and soot covering his face. Since Lucas is always inside it, the Bubbles never use the fireplace, and have placed a plank of wood on top of the chimney in order to keep bugs and birds and other things outside from getting in their house. His favorite place is right in the middle of the chimney: not too close to the bottom so he can’t be seen, and not too close to the top in case he might accidentally knock the wood plank out of place. He likes the middle best because when his mother calls for him, he can stay silent as an oak tree, and still as a rock, and pretend he is just one of the bricks, part of the chimney. Lucas Bubbles is nine years old. Neither Lucas nor Betty have ever been outside of their house. (Read on …)

I entered the sun room where he sat on the white sofa, hands politely folded, his black marble eyes fixed on me. I moved to the leather armchair across the table and sat. He ogled me. It was uncomfortable.

“Donny,” I said – that’s what he called himself, Donny – “Let me start off by saying that you are an exceptional, and I don’t use that word lightly, you are an exceptional actor.”

I paused for effect then I forced a smile and nodded appreciatively. Donny’s eyes did not change. They registered no inflection. I wondered if there were any gears of any kind ticking behind his avalanched brow.

“Our agency has reviewed your portfolio. Your experience is…” My eyes drifted to the manila file folder in my hands; it was worn and felt like flannel, and it looked like it had been chewed on. The pages were torn and the ink smudged. Whoever took his head shot made no attempt to mask the tenuous, dough-like flesh of Donny’s face.

“Your experience is…” I wanted to be polite. “What we’re looking for is an actor with a comprehensive portfolio.”

The bulk of Donny’s career consisted of theatrical renditions of “Frankenstein,” which required neither speaking lines nor sudden movement. Recently he had been reduced to Geico commercials. Outside of that he’d done a few bit TV parts, and ballet.

That last bit conjured disturbing imagery. Ballet? God, an eight and a half foot green man, flesh barely clinging to his bones, body frame like a chimney, undulating to the music of Stravinsky and wearing a tutu? Children would have nightmares for the rest of their lives. (Read on …)

Davis woke suddenly from a very deep sleep. This was less than comfortable. His eyes would not, did not focus, and his thoughts were still dozing, lethargic and lost in the jumble. What had awakened him? Something sharp and metallic. Jabbed right into the soft part of his left foot. There was no sign of it now.

He rose from bed, walked unsteadily across the room to his miniature bathroom. “Walked” was perhaps giving him too much credit – he stumbled, cursed, stumbled again, and stepped on something that irreparably broke.

He splashed water on his face, cold water. As cold as his faucets would allow, which meant somewhere just below lukewarm. It seemed to help, at least a little bit. He could focus his eyes now. He no longer saw his apartment as a colorful field of fuzzy jumbles. The jumbles rearranged themselves into his fairly depressing collection of earthly possessions.

He toweled himself off and heard, faintly, the sound of clinking glass in the kitchen. A voice called out: “Coffee’s ready.”

Davis stepped into the hallway and walked towards his undersized kitchen. A full pot of coffee steamed on the burbling automatic coffeemaker. Just to the right of that on the counter, at about chest level, was a man’s face.

Or, to be more specific, a man’s head.

Where the man’s neck logically should have continued down into his body, there was a small metal platform that sprouted spider-like metallic legs. They clicked softly on the kitchen counter as the head skittered from side to side.

This was Gantry. He said: “I would have poured you a cup, but these things’re worthless for gripping,” and gestured meaningfully with two spider-legs. (Read on …)