The Day of the MilkmanMy younger brother was in London when I was alone. Few stopped by London, scared and broken, with black lips and bloody skin. Then, a bare little girl of eight or nine limped out of the stream, weeping.
"Nightmares! Nightmares of Armageddon!" The girl was shrieking.
"I dare not leave her," said my brother, "she was blinded, scalded, in no hurry."
I was in no hurry. The earthquake that had destroyed Lisbon, Kingston and Richmond meant that I could have a row of suburban villas, but the Martians had flooded the Thames, spit on my grave and smashed my companion. My comrade was their victim at eleven. A few seconds after midnight saw the Milkman fall from Heaven into Woking. He gripped the Lord's arm, but Heaven was locked up for the night and so he would fall to the gravel road, blood-red lips.
Huge waves of foam and black smoke were sucked out of the strange girl with a violent hissing (less gas would mean less bulk). She was still alive as a haze of thick black shadows, cheering on the
The Odd Couple'She seems quite ill.' I thought to myself as I once again caught the two of them together, as they always seemed to be. It couldn't have been the flu that had been going around for if it were, she would be coughing and spluttering constantly. Truth be told, she did not make a sound, not even the sound of breathing to show that she was alive. As quiet as a mouse and possibly about the same height as one, she did not speak. Yet he, her faithful partner, told me that she did not need to speak, for they shared the same thoughts and that everything he knew, she knew. 'Preposterous!' I thought to myself as I watched the two of them.
'Preposterous' was an appropriate term to describe his taste in a partner. What on earth did he see in her? She was awfully thin and slender and clad in a skin-tight yellow dress with black shoes. At times, I wondered if I should recommend that she go to a Hospital. Being that thin could not be doing her health any good. He told me that he did not feed her and w
LifestylesXaxxon scoffed. This was Earth? He'd have taken his home planet over such a basic environment any day of the week. Scratching his sloped, grey forehead with both hands, it was decided by count of ninety-nine brain cells to one that it was bad luck that caused him to be sent here as part of his research group's expedition through this galaxy. His friends got all the luck, getting to see Saturn's rings, the Sea of Tranquillity, whatever and wherever that was. Heck, he had even heard that some were braving the journey to Pluto and, in a futile effort to impress the girls, going from there in search of 'Planet X'. It was all very exciting, but not so much for Xaxxon. He'd drawn the short wire and got sent to Earth.
But in all truth, whilst Earth paled in comparison to other planets when it came to the prospect of adventure, it was a cut above the rest in terms of gathering research. For starters, there was life on Earth. Of course, there was also life on Xaxxon's planet too, but this was a
What's the Meaning of Life?Three hours.
It was a long and depressing time for the writer as he stared at the blank pages, which glared up at him as if to say, "Shouldn't you have written something by now?" There was no doubt about it: the writer was troubled. Oh, it had been far worse before. In his earlier years when the mind was as youthful and as inexperienced as his body, he could sit at his desk all day with an empty notebook. Twenty-four unbearable hours during which, for some obscure reason, he could not weave the right words or sew together the right sentences. Depressing times indeed. But it had been many years since his teething problems as a young writer and yet, here he was. The same situation as before as if he was rehearsing a scene that he had perfected already. Like the actor who can no longer tolerate the tedious revision of his lines in the script, the writer felt like screaming, "Please, give me something different to do!"
Three hours and one minute.
The writer took a swig from his bottle of b
The Last HourHe poured himself another drink and went to bed. He listened to their stories in Japanese about a schoolmaster, cucumbers, even Yakuts! Yes, Yakuts too. They kissed his feet as he now lay in his final resting place.
"Tell Viktoria we'll need woollen flowers of leather. We'll have them when we return. I won't be long."
Tomorrow he would go to church, Sunday, to the graveyard for an endless meal of beautiful, holy history and burning eyeballs from the good soil as they camped out under its wooden steeple. Tomorrow he'd work the whole day. He took a rest and had some coffee, while figuring out the childish feelings that they respected. More laughter.
"Aren't there any other women there?"
In the Government City, his grandmother had an opera house! His grandmother in an opera house! An opera house in his grandmother! Oh, unhappy memories! More drinks, everyone rolling on the carpet! Grandmother had a big plane now and three opera houses in her, but she was still a burden, a tragic case and
HopscotchYulia knocked three times on the pinewood door. Her tapping was dainty, yet determined, growing in volume with each time that her clenched hand hit the door. She waited for a few moments, forcing her neck as far back as it would go, trying to look through the window above the enormous entrance to her teacher's office. Blue eyes glistening in stark contrast to her straight-faced expression, she raised her right arm to reach the window, watching over her from above. Yulia continued to keep her arm held high for a few more seconds until she could hear her teacher call her in and she allowed her arm to gracefully take its place at her side once more. She continued to look up at the omnipotent window though, as she grasped the door handle.
Esther watched Yulia timidly enter the honeysuckle-scented room. For some reason, Esther had always felt like she had to be surrounded by a nostalgic, summer atmosphere. Not only did it make her feel more at