Page 19 - Extraterrestrials, Foreign and Domestic
P. 19

The Hermits
                             (Fantastic Transactions 1, 1990)

           It  was  an  old  man’s  garden.  Broken  bricks  barely  bordered
        uneven  rows  of  carrots,  beets,  and  zucchini.  Weeds  competed
        successfully with vegetables for sun and soil, both scarce resources
        along the side of a ramshackle garage. Neighborhood dogs, gaining
        access  through  gaping  holes  in  the  backyard  fence,  often
        conducted business in the precincts of the compost heap.
          The  garden’s  sole  proprietor  and  beneficiary,  Al  Osmoser,
        could be stirred from somnolence when his failing ears detected
        movement behind the house. Then he would stagger to his feet,
        roll  the  old  newspaper  he  might  have  been  reading  into  a  tight
        cylinder,  and  go  crashing  out  the  kitchen  screen  door  into  the
        yard. A few whacks of his newsprint cudgel against his free hand
        usually  sufficed  to  send  the  interlopers  scampering  off  to  their
        next port of call.
          On one such occasion, late in autumn, a series of scrabbling and
        scraping sounds elicited the predictable response. Upon reaching
        the top of the rickety back porch steps, Al pounded the paper and
        croaked, “Godamn dogs! Get the hell out of here!”
          Nothing stirred. Al waited, squinting into the darkness. It was a
        warm  evening;  a  gentle  breeze  wafted  scents  of  rotting  garbage
        from the poorly-managed compost. Al descended cautiously into
        his backyard, relying too heavily neither upon the creaking stairs
        nor the swaying bannister.
          “Godamn  sneaky  bastard.  You  can’t  hide  from  me,”  he
        muttered,  advancing slowly over the gravel and dirt clods in  his
        scruffy  bedroom  slippers.  His  eyes,  aided  by  spectacles  whose
        scratchy lenses refracted glittering penumbras around every source
        of light before them, rested upon a large object partially concealed
        behind the compost heap.
          “All  right, I can see you now, you  mangy  mutt. Now,  go  on!
        Beat it!”
          Al slapped the newspaper. Still no movement. He moved a step
        closer, trying to remember if dogs always growled before biting.
        But  it  wasn’t  a  dog:  the  thing  crouching  before  him  had  not  a

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