The Next Turtle
by Charles E.J. Moulton
My chair skidded across the linoleum floor. It sounded like a
Ferrari as I ejected from it. The chair tumbled and fell and bounced
four times before stopping, producing echoes inside the walls of the
I listened to the silence, acutely aware of any sounds I could hear,
the dripping faucet providing the one solitary static interruption.
The fear of hearing a strange voice coming from nowhere, somewhere,
anywhere, inside my head, had me freeze into statuesque Rodin-like
immobility. Lot's wife in the Bible's Genesis 19 must've felt exactly
like this when she was turned into a pillar of salt. That's what you
get from looking back at Sodom, I thought to myself. I had done no such
thing. Then again, I had spent the last two morning hours eating and
drinking myself silly. I turned back to the four unwashed pots and pans
of a bachelor's mess. I gazed at the few grains of scrambled eggs I had
not yet devoured for which my stomach made grumbling noises. I knew
what a messy scene this actually was. Me. Here. A half-eaten bowl
filled with wheat flakes and milk on the table. Beercans everywhere.
The bitter scent of ten Marlboro cigarettes flooded my flat with a fog
of sweet and sour nicotine.
Maybe there was divine punishment, after all.
I remembered my seventh grade English Composition teacher and how he
asked us to listen to the silence in order to receive literary
inspiration. This silence was indeed compact and filled to the brim
with intensity. I felt like thanking my teacher for that memory,
although this situation left little to be thankful for.
I swung my head back towards the hallway, backing up against the
sink, fumbling for the handle of the cutlery drawer, feeling for a
knife, any knife.
If an uninvited guest had slipped in, he would certainly come
through the kitchen door and not the window. I listened for steps, the
creaking of the floor in the hallway, voices. Fear made my left eyelid
twitch, as I looked into the emptiness, the Warhol replica of Marilyn
Monroe, hanging next to the door, winking at me with horrific
I growled once at the picture, my angry voice probably sounding like a crazy wail to anyone outside on the stairs.
The voice in my head was a baritone.
Friendly. Honest. Slow.
"Is anyone there?" the voice asked me.
"Who are you?" I bellowed.
"Dhsadaf," the voice answered. "Dhsadaf Tjhrkiht Jherjdfu." At once,
I felt like I was in the hands of a true madman and I got even more
scared, feeling like the words I heard could actually be a spell of
some kind. A magic chant, in order to turn me into a frog. What would a
frog be called in the strange language he spoke? Menhvklbgmjng?
"I have a knife," I shouted, the loudness of my voice making me feel
even worse than I already did. I swung the retrieved breadknife to and
fro around the untidy kitchen, jabbing at nothing, it seemed, making me
feel like some victim in a Tobe Hooper horror movie.
I realized, then and there, that the voice was not inside my flat, but in my head.
"Where are you?" I added.
The voice waited, stalled, contemplated the response to my question for a moment.
"Where are you?" the voice answered back.
If there ever was a golden silence, this silence wasn't it.
This silence was eerie, disturbing, haunting.
The smells of a thousand culinary delights oozed into my nostrils.
The walls of my bachelor's apartment darkened with every cigarette I
had smoked. I realized I had a new guest in my flat, living inside my
I heard, on the other side of whatever place this seemed to be,
clicks and bleeps and the dialling of switches. The creature spoke to
me now. He cleared his throat a couple of times, hummed, stuttered and
waited. This made me nervous and edgy. The sound of the dripping of my
broken faucet had now, in my brain, disintegrated into oblivion. I saw
it drip, of course, but I could hardly hear it. What I in my sound and
sane mind did hear, however, thundered like a hurricane. It all seemed
like a conspiracy. Like the New World Order, like bugged flats and
I tried to hear beyond the dripping faucet, beyond the cars driving
by outside my window, in order to find out who or what spoke to me at
the other end of that bleeping and dialling of switches, but the big
question wasn't actually who this was, but how this was possible? I had
no idea whether this situation came from the crazy mind of an
unemployed actor drinking three beers before ten in the morning, or
from a genius who somehow had attracted the wilfulness of an
God, I was crazy. The fact that I heard a loud, bodiless voice
speaking to me in my head, told me that I was. Feeling panic rising
from my kneecaps to the centre of my chest, I swung that stupid knife
from side to side. I must've looked like a madman. Unshaved and
unshowered, full of beer and all kinds of food at ten in the morning, I
frothed at the mouth, pounding the cupboards with the heels of my feet.
I screamed, running into the hallway, lifting my fist and slamming
it against Marilyn's nose and giving the picture a dent. It made her
look like Mr. Magoo.
"Leave me alone!" I shouted. "For the love of God, let me be!"
"Hey," the voice screamed back. "I need your help."
"Tell me what you want," I said quietly. "I have to get on with my life."
What a joke. Who was I kidding? Get on with what? Dawling over my wheat flakes? Waiting to get snubbed by another agent?
"I mean you no harm. I'll just tell you what my problem is. If you
can help me, I'll be happy. If you cannot, I will go away. Is that a
"I don't know," I mumbled. "I have a bad feeling about this."
"I am not here to hurt you or to take anything away from you," the
voice answered. "My world is just in trouble and I think you are the
only one that can help me."
"I can help you?"
I felt as if I was going to calm down, at least a little bit. My
heartbeat slowed down and my knife lowered itself almost involuntarily.
I figured that if this man, whoever he was, really meant harm – well,
then he would've appeared already and killed me. Instead, he spoke to
me in a calm fashion and I chose to believe him.
"Yes," he said, sympathetically. I almost heard him smile, if such a thing were possible. "You can. I think you can, anyway."
My hand twitched involuntarily. In one of these fits, the knife
fell. It made a very odd clanging sound, but I ignored it and left it
laying there on the kitchen floor. As I slumped down in my chair, I was
sweating cold bullets.
"All right," I answered back.
I took a long look at the three empty cans of beer I had gushed down
for breakfast and all the other stuff that lay about. It was a wonder I
remained so thin. Angus Davenport, the actor, spent all his
unemployment money and social welfare on food completely devoid of
nourishment. Okay, that seemed clear to me, but was this turning me
into a nutcase?
"What kind of help can I offer you?" I insisted, walking up to the
sink and leaning against it. I felt like I was talking on the phone to
someone, maybe because this voice reverberated in my head quite
prominently. I involuntarily held up my hand to my ear. I laughed at
this ludicrous silliness, closing my eyes, doing my best now to remain
"Ishbspaya," the creature said, sort of in a daze, clicking on whatever machine he managed at the moment. "Ishbspaya."
"Is that your name?"
"No," the voice said. "It's the name of my world. My name is Dhsadaf."
"There is no place in this world called Ishbspaya."
"There is," the voice said, calmly. "It is a beautiful place with
luscious brown fields, high mountains, deep canyons, beautiful cities
with exquisite architecture."
"What can I do to help you? You're still not telling me."
"Our world is disintegrating and I am calling to you for help.
Mother Nature's attacks upon our world are increasing in number. If we
don't do something about this soon, there won't be much of our world
left to enjoy. You see, our world has never been fully explored. The
people are afraid of what they will find when they look beyond the deep
rim," the voice insisted, completely oblivious to the fact that the
world beyond the deep rim of my existence started tumbling into the
deepest ravine I had ever seen. "My countrymen are perfectly happy with
the land they have. I can't blame them for it, really. It is truly a
beautiful place. I have to repeat this. Deep brown canyons, high brown
mountains, vast brown fields, sunsets of the most amazing intensity. It
is a place where all people are free to go where they want, choose
which occupation they desire. As long as they keep away from beyond the
I wandered out of the kitchen into the hallway again, now without
punching Marilyn's Magoo-like nose. Now, her seductive smile looked
sad. "Let me guess," I continued, wandering down my hallway into the
living room, "you went to the deep rim."
"Yes," he said.
"I discovered amazing things there," the voice said, now sounding a
bit like Howard Carter when he discovered Tutankhamun. "Skies full of
weird faces, moving objects, floating debris in that white sea and
beyond it strange objects. Higher up, even, a large hanging object with
a very, very strange luminous ball in the middle."
"Okay," I said, setting myself down on my brown livingroom couch.
"All of that is cool to start with, but this has got to be leading
somewhere. I feel like I am in a Franz Kafka-novel. This is beginning
to sound like the adventures of Josef K."
"Who is Josef K.?"
"Oh, yeah," I said, tiredly. "I forgot. You're not from around here."
The momentary silence gave my guest the urge to introduce himself.
"I am head of the scientific division of the university here. I
don't know for how long. People are losing faith in me since I told
them about you."
"Am I dangerous?"
"You are a legend, uhm ... well, I would say that you are a cult phenomenon. What is your name again?"
"Angus," I filled in. "Angus Davenport. You are full of shit,
Dhsadaf. First you tell me that I am legend and then you don't know my
"For years, some of us here have been suspecting that the tidal
waves and the raining of red-brown sand on our country have other
reasons that just simple straightforward global warming."
"You have global warming, too?"
"It seems we have a lot in common," Dhsadaf mused. "The fact remains that some of us are suspecting foul play."
"In what way?"
"Many years ago our world was suddenly blinded by a very bright
light. Nobody knew from whence this light came. Regardless, the fact
that our people had only lived in darkness for so many years made
science and technology blossom in a way you can't imagine. People
started building houses, communicating. Our society progressed to the
point where people had to decide if they wanted to close themselves in
"Don't beat about the bush, Dhsadaf," I said, quietly, my impatience
bubbling like a sleeping volcano under a mudpit. "I want facts, not an
analysis. You owe my that much after scaring the bejeezes outta me."
The cars outside my house now seemed louder than they had a minute
ago. I inspected how the cars drove by my apartment, the drivers inside
them living their lives, oblivious to the ongoing dilemma of a young
"Where do I come in, Dhsadaf? What do I have to do with all this?
After all, you could be only, as an author of ours named Charles
Dickens once said, a bit of undigested beef or an underdone potato."
"I told you about the red-brown sand, didn't I?"
"Well, it rained for three consecutive years. Schools closed down,
cities were destroyed and people died by the millions. Ishbspaya was
flooded, over five years ago. When tsunamis threatened to destroy our
entire civilization, I started building this machine."
"The machine you were fiddling with just now?" I inquired.
"Yes, Angus," he answered, truthfully. "It is a Supra-Reality-Detecting-Sensorium."
"A machine that detects parallel realities."
"How did you manage to build something like that?" I asked, closing the balcony door and walking back to the couch.
"That's unimportant, Angus," Dhsadaf said. "I drove out to the rim,
to the white sea. Looking up, I thought I saw a face. It was a huge
face, gigantic, leaning over me like a humongous demon. I was so
startled that I drove back to my house rightaway and swore to destroy
my machine and forget the whole damn thing."
"What made you change your mind?"
"I had a dream," he said, now getting really excited.
"What was it about?"
Dhsadaf waited, laughed cynically and stuttered for a moment before
speaking. All the while, I felt ready to go back out and jump off the
balcony. Half-drunk, smoked out, unshaved and useless, my brain
retaliated against itself. I had no choice, however, but to listen.
This voice would not go away.
"My world sank into a hole of fire and everybody died. That is when I realized who you are."
Uh-oh. Now, this was it. My heart jumped a notch up my throat.
"What do you mean 'who I am'?"
In a second I would be close to falling down on my couch, unconscious, blubbering, tongue sticking out, spitting froth.
"Talk to me, Dhsadaf," I cried. "I am going crazy."
I felt cold sweat running down my back, actually feeling quite jittery.
"My suspicion is that our world exists as a microscopic speck of
dust on some artefact in your world, probably in your living quarters.
We might be a microbe on your food. In which case, one second in your
time might be a year in ours, but my machine is building a bridge
between that time gap."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I assume you are in your living quarters."
"Yes, Dhsadaf, I am," I filled in.
"Where were you when I contacted you?" Dhsadaf asked.
"In my kitchen," I said. "I spent the last hour eating everything left over in my house."
"Go back there now," Dhsadaf said, ignoring the fact that I had been
eating for the past hour. Perhaps that was normal in his world. Or
maybe more was at stake here.
"Go back there now," he repeated. "I believe we are a particle on
one of your food leftovers. If we can find that leftover, you have to
seal that thing and build us a new home."
My senses now seemed heightened in some way. Every smell was more
intense, even my sweat, the smell of my unshowered body, or the pepper
I had put in my scrambled eggs. It wasn't that these smells bothered
me. I had just heard that somewhere in the source of these smells lay
the origin of another world. A hard thing to swallow, pardon the pun,
even if it was fascinating. My own apartment now no longer had the
flair of a loser's in patientia autem tantibus. Now, it was the
place where a possible world resided. I don't know if it was the beer
or the food or the fact that I hadn't had a job for months, but I had a
mission. Not only getting a role or landing a commercial, impressing an
agent or sucking up to some damn executive producer. I was about to
save a world.
I ran into the kitchen, inspected pots and pans, lifting plates and
throwing the damn washrag from the sink onto the floor. I even took the
raisin bran and slammed it against the wall. The package with a funny
lion on it smashed against the wall. Raisins and wheat flakes went
flying across the kitchen. I sensed Dhsadaf actually wondering what I
was doing on the other end of that dimensional wormhole.
The bran, however, gave me the necessary hint.
I stood there, dumbfounded, realizing what the hell I had been
missing althrough this conversation. A white sea. He had said that his
land was surrounded by a white sea, had he not? His land. He had
described it as brown, right?
"Dhsadaf?" I whispered, my voice tainted with a pinch of sweet-sour wit.
Dhsadaf's suspicious voice had lost its inspired quality. His entire
persona projected apprehension. No matter. I had the answer. He would
Slowly, but surely, I walked up to my bowl of milk and raisin bran.
I sat down, looking at the one lonely flake that swam in the middle
of the bowl, far away from the other flakes. Larger and more well
designed, somehow, I could well imagine a world imbedded in that speck
"You're not gonna believe this, but I found your world," I chuckled.
"Really," Dhsadaf laughed, proving me right. "Where is it?"
"On a big flake in the middle of my breakfast food," I giggled, not
quite believing what I was saying. This unreal situation had the
atmosphere of an odd episode of The Twilight Zone. And yet, I trusted it. Crazy shit, I told myself, but I trusted it.
On the other hand, I thought, actors are nuts.
"So, what do we do now?" Dhsadaf asked.
"I fear that if I lift you out of the bowl like this ... well, your
world will be far worse off than before," I mumbled. "I mean, when I
sprayed cinnamon on my bran ..."
I looked at the sprinkles on the raisins.
"Well, you yourself said that thousands died when ..."
"We seem to have a different time perception than you," Dhsadaf
said, again pushing buttons and bleeping on his machine. "As I pointed
I bent over now, really urging him to stop the bleeping, as if my
movement could be sensed by him. "Will that actually make a difference?"
"Well," he said. "I think our communication can actually heal the gap between us. Somehow, I think, we will never notice it."
"How can you say that?"
I looked over at the flake, now just an inch away from my nose.
"Can you see me?"
"What?" Dhsadaf responded, suspiciously. "Are you looking at the bowl now?"
"Yes," I said. "Well, can you?"
I heard Dhsadaf walking around, obviously leaving his machine to
look out the window. The floor, by the sound of his footsteps, had a
strange soft quality. His voice mumbled something in the distance and I
gathered that his machine was hooked to some microphone. Quick steps
scurried toward the machine again and Dhsadaf sat down, by the sound of
"The sky is dark, it is night. I have no idea. I can't see any face
up there. In fact, nobody ever has, unless he goes to the deep rim over
by the white sea ... uuh ... your milk," he blubbered. "But I think, we
should go ahead with this. If our world really rests on your ...
breakfast thing ... flake ... or whatever you call it ... then we
really have to remove it or it will ... will ... will ..."
"What?" I spat, growing impatient.
"Well, it will grow soft and our world will sink."
"That's probably true. You know," I added, feeling really brilliant
about getting such fantastic ideas, "I could find a little box and put
some leaves and flowers and other things ... just to expand your
civilization a tad."
Dhsadaf started crying. Actually, I wasn't sure if he cried or laughed. "That would be absolutely fantastic, but ... Angus?"
I stood up, out of my chair, getting ready to prepare for my
operation. I felt like a surgeon. A brain surgeon. Now, I heard the
fear in his voice. I, too, feared for Dhsadaf's life. What if I failed?
What if I just simply destroyed their civilization? Maybe, I sucked as
a brain surgeon. Maybe I would be the cause of an apocalypse and not a
For the first time in my life, or at least in a long time, I felt
like I had a real mission. I had the chance to save a whole world. If
one second of my time equalled a year in their time, that still left me
with the incredible mystery of how we actually could be talking to each
other. Be that as it may, I guessed that our communication sort of
repaired that. Maybe, it could even stabilize the tumbling of the world
as I carried it to another place.
In complete silence, I searched my cupboards and closets for a
fitting Tupperware box with a see-through lid. I found huge ones with
red lids, blue ones with no lids and midsize ones with pointy lids. The
smallest one I could find really had the perfect size. I smiled. Oh,
man, how I smiled. I looked like a cartoon character. Not too big and
not to small.
Before actually filling the tiny box, I rummaged through my cutlery
drawer for a piece of green birthday wrapper I had put under the holder
just to brighten the dreary thing up. It was not paper, but a sort of
saran wrap or similar to aluminium foil. That made it really fitting.
After all, filling the thing up with flora and fauna would have to be
accompanied with some green colour. I scurried through the flat,
collecting bits of flowers and working to get the whole thing look
fantastic. The flake would eventually rest on a creation of my own,
made of small green ribbons, scotch tape and some other stuff. The
flake would rest perfectly on this, while simultaneously being able to
rest half on the water. I got so caught up in the whole thing that I
forgot about Dhsadaf.
Nothing but a terrible silence answered my uttered inquiry.
Had I actually destroyed his world just by running around?
But I had not even touched the flake, needless to say the bowl itself.
I had found a friend. Now, I had lost a friend. My only friend.
Nausea bubbled up from my belly and hit my head. I felt my heart
beating faster then ever. I couldn't control my breathing anymore, I
couldn't control the nervous twitch of my left eyelid. Maybe I felt so
bad because I now had overcome my fears of the unknown, not even
knowing who my strange friend was or even where he really came from.
I must've sat there in the kitchen for over an hour, just listening
to the silence, hoping to hear a sound from my old friend Dhsadaf. I
have no idea what triggered me to go ahead with the whole thing. I
think I did it, well, because Dhsadaf had been a friend in need. Had
his world been suddenly destroyed? Had I accidentally bumped the table
and killed him by bumping a raisin into the milk? Whatever the reason
was, soon the wheat flake rested in a Tupperware box that even I would
have loved to live in.
I could not say a word for the remainder of the day.
I couldn't even yawn.
Strange thing, though. I showered, I shaved, I cleaned up the flat.
The kitchen had never ever looked so spick and span. I didn't need
music or other means of muzak to do it. In fact, it was evening before
I sat in my perfect kitchen. Silent and depressed, music from The
Planets by Gustav Holst spinning on the stereo, I nibbled on some
chips, drinking Bordeaux, unable to do anything real. Eventually, I
left the kitchen and fell asleep in front of the television. I'm not
sure, but I think that there was a rerun of Moonbase Alpha with Martin Landau when I fell asleep.
I dreamt of aliens dancing on wheat flakes.
When I woke up the next morning, my head had a hundred little trolls
drilling holes into my skull. Some people would call that a hangover.
I stood up, still in the clothes I put on yesterday afternoon, and
was just about to enter the kitchen. That was when heard a bleeping
noise, a click and somebody clearing a throat.
I stopped right by the Marilyn Monroe painting, turned around and
looked at the dent that now crowned her pretty, plastic framed and
plastic covered nose. The one hole that had destroyed the plastic now
gave the whole picture a beat-up, raped quality.
It took a while for me to realize, or think I realized, that I really had gone crazy.
I went back to the kitchen, getting ready to toss the damn contents
of the Tupperware landscape into the wastebasket, but then I heard a
A woman blew twice into a microphone of some sort, sounding like a
radio announcer in some cheap second rate late night show. Her
insecurity had its own tenderness to it and I replied with an equally
warm tenderness. I didn't feel crazy anymore.
"Oh, thank God I found you," she spoke. "You are the one that created our world for us? You are the creator of our paradise?"
I stuttered, waiting for a second, not really knowing what to say to this woman.
"Has this anything to do with ... my friend Dhsadaf?"
The woman chuckled once or twice. It was a sad laugh.
"Dhsadaf was my grandfather," she said. "He lost contact with you
back when he was young. We had all heard the stories about that
conversation, of course."
"What stories?" I asked, walking over to the little box and looking down at it, resting by the kitchen window.
I tried to imagine that box being the home of a little world.
I couldn't, even if it probably was true.
"Well, the stories of how our world became so wonderful," the girl
said. "We heard about how many problems we had over here before you
added so much vegetation and so much colour. We never knew that there
were so many colours in the world before you created this."
Now, I leaned over even closer to look at the box. Actually, my
faith began to grow. I believed to see an entire world having evolved
in there. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I was almost sure I saw
people waving at me, dancing.
"Anyway," the girl said. "My grandfather was always sad that his machine broke down right before you put the flake in the box."
"You mean, he told you about that?"
"Yes, Angus," the girl said. "After that happened, everyone started
believing in you. You became a God. There are temples built in your
name now, and now ..."
The girl cried.
I couldn't believe it.
Temples? For me? The unemployed actor that couldn't get a gig to save his ass?
"How did you manage to fix the machine?"
"My brother managed to get it going," she said. "Unfortunately,
grandpa never got to experience it. He died before Iuduz fixed this
"And you are?"
"Gjufa," she said, slowly, a sweetness to her voice.
"Hello, Gjufa," I answered. "Nice to talk to you."
"Hi," she responded, softly.
Something amazing happened to me at that moment.
I looked into the box, imagined seeing all these creatures waving,
heard this girl speaking to me of religious ceremonies performed in my
name. Then, I looked up at the skies and saw how black clouds began
forming in the skies.
"Can we contact you if we need you?" the girl asked, carefully. "I
mean, we might need yo, even though there is a time difference between
"Sure," I said, actually falling in a bit in love with Gjufa.
It was then that I realized I hadn't really listened to what she had said. At least not for the last two sentences.
"Help," I responded, retrieving the subconscious memory. "I would be happy to. What's your last name?"
My voice drifted off into a dreamy void. I spoke, but I didn't
listen to what I was saying. I looked up at the sky, remembered the
many tsunamis, hurricanes, volcanoes and floods. A terrifying thought
My God, I thought to myself, my sweat-drops feeling like bullets of
cold air kicking my groin, we might be a speck of dust on the wheat
flake in another world.
"My full name is Gjufa Iwafewuza," the girl said. "It means Pretty One. This machine translates badly into your language I'm afraid. We are still working on that."
As I walked out upon my balcony, watching the storm forming the black clouds of oblivion into a dark mess, I made a decision.
That January, I gave up acting.
After not getting an audition for six months, it got tedious.
I still remember Gjufa Iwafewuza. She is long gone by now, but her
grandchildren and great-children often contact me. As I sit and listen
to the lectures at the university, I work on my diagrams. You see, I
want to collect cash to build a Supra-Reality-Detecting-Sensorium.
That's why I am working to complete my Master of Science degree.
There are more storms out there in our own world now and the first
segment of my machine is already completed, standing in the attic of my
I believe that I can change our reality with the help of whoever is
up there, turning this world into the kind of paradise I created for
Gjufa Iwafewuza. So, accordingly, I often look up at the skies, trying
to see that distant face in a cloud.
I know there is a very real and very spiritual God, inside us,
outside of us. He binds us together, speaks to us through our emotions.
I also know that our energy is eternal and that we come here again and
again, reincarnating into new bodies in that endless cycle of endless
But I also know that, while Dhsadaf's world rests on the wheat flake
of my world, our world might be resting on a flower on a field in
It sort of reminds me of the ancient legend of the spiritual advisor
who came to calm down the existential mind of a great and very worried
"What does the world rest on, o wise old man? Tell me," cried the king. "I have to know this."
"The world rests on the back of a turtle," said the wise old man, smiling.
"But what does that turtle rest on?" said the king.
"Don't worry, your majesty," said the wise old man. "It's turtles all the way down."
I am hoping to find the next turtle. Or, at least, the next average
Joe sitting by his kitchen table staring into his breakfast bowl.
"It's a sad thing, really," Dr. Armstrong said, as he watched Angus
in his corner of the day room. "He's one of our most exemplary
patients, but every time we take that Tupperware box of his away to be
cleaned, he raises hell."
"Can't you just leave his box alone?", the writer asked. "After all,
a wheat flake with some Scotch tape and a wilted flower or two aren't
exactly a menace to public health."
"That's the strange thing," Armstrong mused. "We have tried
everything we can think of, but there's some kind of growth on every
wheat flake he puts in there. The bigger it grows, the calmer he gets,
but the more upset he is when we take it away."
As the writer took his leave, and rode home from the asylum, Angus' story kept running through his mind. "It would be quite something," he thought, "if that 'growth' happened to be entire cities of Dhsadaf's progeny..."
His eyes were on the road, so he couldn't see the vague contours of the smiling face in the clouds behind him.
© 2014 Charles E.J. Moulton
Bio: Mr. Moulton grew up in a trilingual and artistic family and
spent his childhood on stage. He played his first role at age 11 and
has since then acted and sung in over 100 stage productions. His
publication credits include horror stories for SNM Magazine and
Aphelion, historical articles for Socrates and Skirmish and literary
fiction for Idea Gems and Pill Hill Press. Mr. Moulton enjoys versatile
creativity, is married and has a daughter.
E-mail: Charles E.J. Moulton
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