>>> Item number 39761 from WRITERS LOG9410E --- (97 records) ----- <<< Date: Mon, 31 Oct 1994 16:30:02 EST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: pitiless fingernails Subject: SUB: Burying the Beast sort of maybe a hooloweenie tale... with a tsitw! no time, no time... tink -=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+ Burying the Beast Copyright 1994 Mike Barker She was so tired of running. (Although no clinical evidence for sexual identity can be presented and it is questionable whether adequate proof of such leanings by the beast can be presented in any court, for our purposes today, let us use the feminine tense. Do not be fooled by this expedient labelling. The beast is quite dangerous.) She thought about it. Halloween. Perhaps, if she did it just right, maybe this once... So she stopped. And they gathered. Suits from Fifth Avenue, hair styled by the leading salons, they surrounded her. "How dare you?" they asked. "You...you cost me money!" they screamed. They grabbed her. She lay limp, unresisting, and they were gentle enough in their own brutish ways. But they were going to be sure that she didn't escape again. So they chained her. They wrapped her in gauze, soaked her in spirits, and set chains on her. Heavy, cast-iron chains. "Statistics prove..." they recited, waving sources over her in weighty incantations. Locks weren't good enough. They welded the chains in place. They danced a little jig as the links cooled. "We've stopped her. No more will she wander around, interfering with our business, poking her nose in where we don't want her!" Then they set her in a coffin. It was a nice coffin, middle of the line, not the best, but not the cheapest, safely middle class in design and burial options... They strapped the top on. It cost a bit more, but they wanted to be sure. And they giggled as they hefted it on their shoulders. "Not going anywhere now, are you?" Then they dashed off to the hole. The gaping pit, with red dirt smearing underfoot. The green grass crushed by their Gucci leather soles smelled faintly, but they ignored it, dousing a bit of CK-1 here and there. Two ropes were attached, and they lowered her in the coffin into the pit. No one could see her tears. No one could hear her sigh. They danced as they filled the hole. And straggled off to psychologists' sessions, talk shows, and other fine displays of their underrated ability to cast despair. In the hole, she rested. She relaxed and let herself giggle. Then she twisted. She stretched. She bounced and wiggled. Tiny tendrils extended and flexed. Strange nodes of noise bobbled off the coffin walls and into the dirt, sonic echoes wandering out into the world. Odd sparkles flew from the chains against the sides, creeping out into the mud. The tendrils poked around the sides of the coffin, and shot out into the world. She shrank as bits and pieces fell away, turned into mist and light and energy, and spread everywhere. A police officer felt an itch well up from the floor. He and his partner didn't see the tendril snap as he stood up. "Hey, Joe. Let's drop the paperwork and get going." His partner looked up groggily from the stack of missing person reports he was trying to match with a glimpse of a young girl in a speeding car that afternoon. "Huh?" "Rub your eyes and come on. It's Halloween, and you and I just volunteered for crossing duty. Remember?" They went and spent the evening directing a stream of sneaker-footed ghosts, Darths, and other little figures. The adult ghouls and bloodsuckers tried their best, but this Halloween she was everywhere! When they rushed to where they had buried her, dug up the coffin, and opened it, there was nothing left. The beast was loose again! The last, least phantasm from Pandora's box isn't easy to stop. Watch out for her. -=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+