I heard my
daughter say she was going to put me away. So if I was going to stand up,
to
act, it would have to be now. I got my 10 gage from the basement and my
Soviet monocular--I was trained in the old country--ducked behind the
hedge and waited...

I could
hear them before I saw them: rolling, advancing, clanging, the mechanical
claws
grasping, raising--the boy feeding it barrels. I rose up: “Those are my
chicken
bones!” I shouted. “Those are my grapefruit
peels. --You take! You don’t ever leave a note.”

Rolling waves broke upon the shore, as Andrea walked towards the beach. I walked behind her. Why are we here at dawn?
Andrea walked in zombie fashion. I called out to her but she did not respond.
Steadily, she moved; I followed, my heart in my mouth.

"Andrea," I called again. She stopped. She turned towards me.
Happily, I ran towards her. Greenish blue water lapped at Andrea's feet. She smiled,and waved at me.

Andrea moved deeper into the water. I reached out to pull her back. She turned again and smiled, arms stretched towards mine. I clutched at her. She pushed back. The surf pounded down around us.
Suddnely, I was in the churning water...

The last disciple left the hut and the Prophet sighed. He pondered the needs of his community. ''The spirit is alive, but rent is dear,'' he intoned to his soul. ''There will be a way.''

The days, questions and complaints were the same. Voices buzzed of dirty robes, truck repair and mounting bills with scant donations. The Prophet's usual expression of fatherly wisdom was more pensive.

A stranger came from a far city seeking the Prophet. He entered the hut and put his hands together in praise.

''We want to make a film,'' he said in a loud, Texas accent.

A bit foggy for a ride down the mountain, but if Shirl could do it, so could Sam. Switchbacks made the adventure a challenge, sending shivers down his spine. Pebbles, no, rocks, tumbled from beneath the tires squirting over the edge and falling wthout a sound.

"Shirley?" Sam bellowed from the crest halfway down the mountain. No answer. Must have already reached bottom. Spilltown looked more awake then usual as he peered over his right shoulder and restarted his trip. Lights appeared to be flashing through the mist. She was more than just a competitor, but his soul mate. He was sure. Last night was proof of that.

Someone I love is hurting.
I cannot rub it, or kiss it and make it better.
I go to the sea and watch a fisherman cast his line into the water, while I cast questions.
We both reel in frustration.
She's lost her faith, it seems.
We talked about what faith is – love and trust, rather than buildings or rituals.
I hope her faith comes back again, like the tide that washes over the jetty.
As the sun rises behind a collar of clouds, I cannot see it, but I feel its warmth.
God is like that, I tell her.

The college students were up to no good. Their professor had told them to research water pollution. However, at the campus river, the students ended up hooting, hollering, and raising Cain, until --

“Joe--watch out!”

But Maria’s warning was too late. Joe’s feet slipped, and he started to careen, out of control, towards the water.

Through an inhuman flailing of limbs, Joe somehow managed to right himself and avoid falling face-first into the stream.

“Remind me to never take dance lessons from you,” Sue quipped, and everyone guffawed. Advice to live by.

I recently found myself on a return train from Ravenna to Bologna in northern Italy. Confused, I’d messed up validating the ticket on the outward journey, but the friendly train conductor scrawled a note on the ticket for the conductor on the journey home. That way I wouldn’t incur a huge fine.

But coming back, the train conductor didn’t speak any English, and my Italian wasn’t good enough either. Exasperated, I kept saying “Non copisco”. Exasperated, he kept shouting louder and louder.

So I did the only thing possible. I took a gun from my jacket and shot him dead.

Manu the drill monkey clung to the low tree branch, his eyes huge with pain. He knew he had crossed the line. All around him, the other monkeys screeched, their calls echoing through the dense foilage. They moved around, pulling at leaves, scurrying under hedges. Manu stared at them longing to move among them as he once did - as leader of the pack. But he could not.
The drills had unwritten code: a leader who messed up would never lead again. "If only I had not killed RedCrown..." Manu mused.
"But he provoked me," Manu argued within himself. RedCrown, a younger male had entered Manu's territory last mating season. Manu killed him in a battle for supremacy.
A sudden rustling sound broke Manu's thoughts. A stunning blow sent him sprawling. Manu rose slowly. The screeching had ceased. The silence was defeaning. The tired old drill Manu tried to gain his footing. He knew even before he looked up into the fierce, dark eyes, starring at him that life would never be the same..

Alan spat his drink out in disgust.
“Whaddayou call that?” he demanded, flinging the tankard at the barmaid. He missed. Irritated, he staggered to his feet, glared furiously at the barmaid, then reeled his drunken way towards the door.
The barmaid nodded surreptitiously at the tall man lounging against the wall. He smirked knowingly and slouched casually after Alan.
“Come,” he said. “I know a better place.”
“Anyfinksh berreren that catshpisssh,” Alan growled as he lurched outside.
The man barely caught him before the poison took full effect. “He’s a big ‘un,” he observed. “Them bodysnatchers’ll pay well for ‘im.”

“Mercy me!” cried the old lady, “please don't take my bag. It's got all my belongings and savings in it.”

The thief paused. Conscience wasn't usually a consideration, but today his own granny had gone into a home and he was feeling more merciful than usual. On the other hand, that care was going to be expensive. He pulled out a handful of notes, thrust them at the old lady and ran off with the bag.

Sadly for him, he'd just had his first (and last) encounter with a witch. The bag twitched ominously. An enchantment had been triggered...

Three guys walked toward me under the lights—they carried billy clubs in their right hands—no lefties in the bunch. They all wore jeans, work boots, and cutoff sweatshirts with long thermal underwear sleeves sticking out over their forearms. One guy, who had longer hair than the others, walked in the middle and slightly in front of the other two. He was taller and appeared to have more muscle tone than the others. He also seemed to have that “I got nothin’ to lose” look–but from the looks of his nose, I figured he’d lost his share.

Thirty seconds left. Which wire do I cut? It's easy in the movies: cut the red wire or cut the blue. The hero is a lucky guy, instinct will steer him right. In the movies.

Twenty seconds left. I can't answer the red-blue question. I have seven wires; all black. Nothing conventional here; no clues to the bomber's style, his thinking. Even the explosive bundle is black.

Ah. He didn't plan to kill just students and teachers - he wants me too. I can hear my heart pounding, demanding action. Got to choose. Five seconds. Choose now! Snip. Oh shit.

The alien attack came swiftly on the unsuspecting college campus. The aliens were human-like in appearance, but their extra eyes and bizarre colors made them other-worldly.

Mark, Tom, Allison, and Linda, four college employees, were determined to defeat the aliens. Doing so, however, required traveling through time--into the past to learn about the origins of the extraterrestrials and how to conquer them, and into the future to see what effects the aliens have had on society.

Scares occurred, and several nearly died, but order was restored and life at college returned to normal. For now, at least.

White streaks broke the moody look of the heavens. Dawn was breaking, bringing the promise of a new day.

Nedum stirred and sat up. He looked out of the window at the clouds. Another day had begun and Nedum would have to work on his farm, weeding vegetable beds all day.

He groaned and stretched as he climbed out of bed, taking care not to step on his 3 young children asleep on the floor.

Gingerly, he picked his way out of the room and walked to the outhouse in the greyish dawn.
At the door he curled his fingers around the post, and looked in. Something moved. He looked closer. Then he saw it; a six foot long python nestled on the chamber pot!

Alice loved her cat. He was everything to her – friend, companion, substitute child and hot water bottle, so when he went missing she howled.

She paced the streets seeking him out and sticking posters on lamp-posts, but it was no good. He had disappeared.

She was, however, approached by a private detective agency. They had noted her patience, tracking skills and determination to leave no stone unturned. Would she like a job with them?

Would she ever! Alice signed up with joy. A day later, her cat returned. The agency were glad to see the back of him.