I Am Running ( a short science fiction story )

Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures under the auspices of a Creative Commons license.

Introduction to “I Am Running”

In 1969 my parents decided to leave our safely suburban, three-bedroom, two-bath house for a dumpy little place with one bathroom and no air-conditioning that was one block off the water in another part of town.

This was one of those marriage-crisis changes so they were willing to settle for less in order to expedite the move. (As an aside, let me assure you – the approach solved nothing.)

Nobody asked me how I felt about leaving our comfortable home and my tight group of friends for a falling-down dump with a gigantic yard and bazillions of trees. If they had, I would have told them I hated the idea.

When I say the yard was gigantic, I mean it was HUGE, almost the size of a football field. The previous owners must have been raised in a garbage dump because the condition of the house and lot were beyond horrible. The back yard was littered with mounds of leaves so large they could be mistaken for middens, an open cesspool, a junked car, a rusted-out swing set, humps of burned materials, broken glass, bricks and cement blocks galore … and trees. Every make and model of tree imaginable, from water oaks to hickories, magnolias, longleaf pines and white laurels. At one point I counted the trees in the front and back yard – there were over 50.

It took us years to get that place in shape, and it was years of back-breaking work. Dad and I cut down more trees than I can count, and Dad was not a fan of tree stumps, so the tree removal began with us digging around the trunk at the ground level until a large crater had been excavated. Then we would cut the roots, one by one, until the tree threatened to topple. Dad would tie it off to keep it from falling on the house and we’d begin whittling away on the taproot until the tree fell.

We did all this with a bow saw, ax and hatchet. Dad refused to pay good money for a chainsaw.

Even after Dad felt he had removed enough trees, there was the raking. Dad required that the yard be as clean as the floor in the house, which meant days and days of raking and hauling leaves. It was a never-ending chore because we had a mix of tree species in the yard and none were synchronized with the others. The water oaks, for instance, suffered a massive leaf-fall in the spring, though they shed year-round. The hickories dropped their fluffy leaves in December and January. The magnolias shed all year long and their leaves, big as dinner plates, needed to be picked up lest they cover the grass and kill it.

I can’t count the number of times I raked my parents’ and now my yard, but I do know the job, if worked at on an all-day basis, could be finished in three or four days. That’s a LOT of leaves!

And during that mind-numbing drudgery the idea for this story emerged.

I think I might have grown batty after all that raking, hauling and dumping leaves by the side of the road for the city to pick up, followed by more raking and hauling and dumping. The monotony of it, the mind-numbing sameness and exhaustive physical effort, were killing more brain cells than the imported beer I would drink in my early 20s while partying with my friends after work.

So this story emerged. During my youth in the ’60s I had been a UFO enthusiast. I had even tried to replicate some of the UFO photos I saw in magazines by throwing a garbage can lid in the air and snapping photos of it with my little Kodak box camera. So the idea of a UFO landing in the back yard at night to disgorge aliens who looked like, what else?, my nemesis at the moment, the hated leaves, was not a far stretch.

This story is a trifle. It is not meant to change worlds or alter the universe in any way. It is a relic of my youth, when to save my brain from the boredom of performing the dull physical labor of raking and hauling leaves out of the yard, I sought to entertain myself by spinning a ridiculous yarn.

Think about it the next time you are outside, rake in hand, preparing to wage war with those naked trees who left their summer clothes lying about.

I AM RUNNING

Version 1

It is Tuesday night and very cold.

I am watching “Maude.” “Maude” is my favorite program, because I like to see her smite people down with her tongue. “Maude” is a very dominating woman. I like the way she says what she thinks and stands up for what she believes. My former wife was like that; I am like that, and let me tell you, two people like that just cannot live under the same roof. Life is, uh, how do you say, el disgusto?

I am not watching “Maude.” It is not a matter of preference, you see. The TV cable has gone off. I am very angry. I would call the TV cable company and raise hell, but I cannot, because whenever the cable goes off the air, their telephone goes off the hook.

Angry, I am turning off the TV. Augghh! The silence is killing me. I must turn on the radio to preserve my sanity. Ah? What wonderful – noise? The radio is not working. All I am hearing is static, even though I am turning the channel all the way across the receiving band.

The dog is barking. I cannot imagine what he would bark at before running to hide. He must be barking at a leaf. The past few days, he has worked up the courage to bark at leaves. He is a very peculiar dog, very peculiar indeed.

The dog is persisting in his barking. What is causing this outburst? An army of leaves? Perhaps they are trying to kill him. I wish they would hurry. I suppose to better my curiosity, I best go see what he is barking at. I have never seen an army of leaves.

The electricity is going – it is gone. Perhaps the wind blew down a line. It is certainly blowing enough leaves down. An army of them. It must be terrifically cold outside, with the wind blowing so ferociously. Perhaps it is not the wind’s fault for the lack of electricity here. Perhaps it is the army of leaves, trying to cut me off from the rest of the world. First, they will kill my dog, then come for me. I suppose I better check on the situation.

This is very peculiar. It is night, and the electricity is off, yet there is a glow coming through the window. I am astonished! What could the source of the glow be?

I am amazed! A strange, saucer-shaped vehicle is landing in my back yard. It is large, approximately 30 feet in diameter, with a ring encircling its girth. It glows yellow then a shade of white washes over it. It is coming down through my personal forest of trees, to land in a clear area. It makes not a sound. It is very peculiar. I wonder what manner of creature is piloting the vessel? Perhaps it is a secret government project. I would not put such an unscrupulous deed past the scoundrels in Washington. Maybe it is a Soviet spacecraft, or Chinese, or French, or Japanese, or Icelandic!

I have stepped into the bitter cold of the outdoors. I am sick of peering at this object from the kitchen window. Foolishly, I am standing here without my camera. I will be labeled a crackpot. I have gone out the back door, threaded my way into the unraked leaves of my back yard. The wind is gusting, yet I do not feel the cold. This object is extremely interesting. I must get closer for a better look.

Yes, I believe this vessel to definitely be of extraterrestrial origin.

It is landing – has landed, on four stilt-like legs. It continues to be silent, and the pulsing color has also ceased. It certainly is a unique craft. There are absolutely no seams on its exterior, anywhere. Very peculiar indeed.

This must be the culprit, the agent responsible for the TV cable blackout, the radio static, and the electrical failure. I am ashamed of myself, thinking of a leaf army. Very ashamed, indeed! ’Twas such an absurd notion, only a product of my imagination. I cannot recall seriously considering the hypothesis! But even suspecting such a notion! Preposterous. I have a much more rational explanation! A flying saucer is the cause of these domestic idiosyncrasies.

Oh dear! I am terribly excited. A hatch is opening. To think, I will be the first human ever to communicate with a being from outer space, unless of course, it is a government project. It is more than I can fathom.

A creature is emerging. It is certainly far from being human. It is a thin looking organism, flat with veins like a – like a leaf! Astounding! That is a perfect analogy! This being resembles a leaf! A leaf with legs!

He is approaching me. Should I run or stand my ground. My heart is beating at an excessive rate, I might add. I am staying here.

“Earthman, I am a representative of the Leaf Army. We have come for your dog.”

My dog? What could they possibly want with my dog. The leaf man is snatching up my dog – he is now leveling some sort of instrument at my dog. He is killing my dog.

Oh God! The Leaf Army! My dog, then me.

The leaf man is looking at me strangely.

I am considering the notion of running.

I am running.

I AM RUNNING

Version 2

It is a Tuesday evening. The wind is gusting vehemently from the north, and I fear for my comfort tonight because of a chill that is accompanying the gale.

I am watching the “Naomi Winters Show” on television. It is a disgusting form of entertainment, but unfortunately, due to the lack of any competition worth my while, I find myself staring at it every Tuesday night. I suppose I could listen to the radio, but the notion of having my sensibilities assaulted by what the radio media call music does not appear to me. Books are vapid beyond description. I have found it not within my capacity to successfully read a book through its entirety. In fact, now that I think about it, there is hardly anything that appeals to me. It is a wonder I have not gone completely insane (if I am not already).

Naomi Winters is an interesting character, despite the medium by which she is presented. You see, she has such forceful character. I once enjoyed watching her smite down people with her tongue. My wife also found great delight in this. In fact, my wife admired Ms. Winters to the extent of assuming the star’s personal habits and characteristics. Soon, she became unbearable. For example, on one occasion I distinctly remember asking her the common, everyday question, “What’s for dinner?” She quickly replied, “Food.” Of course, it is with my capabilities to bear out these occasional idiosyncrasies, but when she began to abuse them, I settled for a divorce. You may think me to be a bit drastic, but, naturally, you did not have to live with the poor, deranged woman.

However, in getting back to the present, I am not watching the “Naomi Winters Show.” It is not a matter of preferences. You see, the television cable has gone off the air. This does not surprise me. On every occasion available, the cable goes off. When the wind blows, it goes off. When a drop of rain touches any component of its system, it goes off. If, by some method beyond the scope of man’s comprehension, it detects a cloud in the sky, the cable goes off. I could even go so far as to say it goes off when a storm that is part of a television program flashes upon the screen.

Nevertheless, it is off, and there is nothing I can do. I would phone the cable company, but every time the system is disabled, as if by magic, their telephone is likewise disabled. I suppose from now on I will be forced to tally up the number of hours I go without television (due to their inferior equipment), and deduct an appropriate amount from their bill. That would certainly inspire them to strive for better service to their customers, if not better excuses.

I am disgusted with the television. I would turn it off, but the ensuing silence would prove to be a cure worse than the disease. Of course, I could always listen to the radio. It would certainly prove to be more entertaining than watching a thousand bumblebees a’crossing the old cathode. Yes, yes. I have succumbed to that decision.

I am turning off the TV, and am turning on the radio. What? What is this? The blasting of guitars and ear drum-pounding percussions are not issuing forth from the speaker as I previously anticipated. I am listening to nothing but static, even though I try every conceivable station in reach. Static! Nothing but static! This is indeed peculiar.

I am now turning off the radio and – wait! Yes! I don’t believe it! My dog is barking! Yes, I do believe my dog is barking! This is a noteworthy fact because, you see, my dog is the epitome of cowardice. He mortally fears all manner of living creature, and holds a regard for me slightly tainted by respect and blended with pure, unadulterated terror. He has never been one to bark, but just recently, he has mustered the courage to bark at leaves. Leaves of all things! When this trait first became apparent, I used to enjoy hid daily concerts. Obviously sensing my pleasure over his new found ability, he pursued it to the extreme, and his hourly assaults upon my sanity and the sanity of my neighbors forced me to invoke stern countermeasures. He then became very well behaved with regard to his barking. Only when an array of leaves would find it within their pleasure to overwhelm my lawn would he bark. I cannot really blame him for despising leaves. He is using a logic he wouldn’t understand, but one that I comprehend only too fully. I cannot tolerate a messy lawn. Each fall, when the annual leaf-raking endurance test comes about, I arm myself with a mighty rake and a voracious garbage can that cannot wait to wolf down the loathsome corpses. But do you think for one moment this deters the little bastards? Of course not. They come sweeping in with the vengeance of a kamikaze, and as dreadful as I appear, it does nothing to alter their course. I retaliate with quick, hard strokes of the rake as the wind, their instrument of reinforcement, plays havoc with my orderly assault. I have begun to believe that the domestic leaf possesses intelligence undetectable by men. Leaves are, of course, masters of the subtle tortures, and each autumn when their supply of nutrients is cut off, they choose their victims and attack. We have nothing to fear from the Chinese or the Russians. The war to be fought is from within, and it will not be a war of men against men. It will be a war of men against the leaf, and I know who will emerge victorious.

My dog continues to bark. I would investigate, but who wants to see more leaves falling? Especially since I just finished raking the back yard yesterday (my blisters will attest to that). An army of leaves must be falling, or my dog would not find it worthwhile to risk barking for such an extended interval. Perhaps they have worked out a new battle plan against me. Attrition. Or maybe they have decided it best to harass me by denying me my television viewing or radio listening. I can see how they could conceivably interfere with the TV cable, but I cannot account for the radio. The little demons might go so far as to kill my dog (probably frighten him to death), then come for me. That would certainly be hilarious. I can envision them now, marching to the front door, demanding entrance. Then I attack with my rake and they scatter … and cut me off from the safety of my house … and begin to overwhelm me … what nonsense!

The electricity is going … it is gone. This has really gotten out of hand. First, my television is interrupted. Then the radio is blacked out, and now the electricity has gone. And besides all of this, that damn dog is still barking. I believe I will brave the cold long enough to discipline him, then I will investigate the possibility of a blown fuse, and then see if I can raise some hell on the telephone for awhile.

This is very strange. I have walked into the back room where the door is, and even though my house is without electricity, there is a glowing emanating from outside. There are no streetlights in the vicinity, or houses or any other source of light (I live in a secluded area). And besides, this is a pale blue radiance, the likes of which I have never seen.

The dog is still barking. Perhaps the source of this light is also the cause of his agitation. I must investigate, for the sake of my curiosity. I must investigate.

This is incredible! This is absolutely fantastic! I do not believe my eyes! After peering through the window, I am witnessing the most mind-bending spectacle imaginable! There is some sort of aircraft landing in the back yard. At least I think it is an aircraft. For all I know it might be a spacecraft. It certain is on unconventional construction. It glows with a light shade of blue and violet, and is roughly spherical with a ring around its girth. Its appearance is comparable to that of the planet Saturn. It is descending very slowly, and is silent. Verry silent. I can hear the wind gusting, yet not a sound escapes this craft.

The dog has now retreated to the back step and his voice is gone. I believe he is paralyzed with fear.

Horrors upon horrors! Something terrible has occurred! It is so horrid that I can scarcely find the words to describe it! This alleged denizen of the interstellar deep has landed his spacecraft on my prime chinaberry tree. The poor thing was only two years old, and was a gift from my dear departed mother. I had nursed it from the time it was a seedling, and was hoping it might bear fruit next year. I shall certainly demand reimbursement from the occupants of this vehicle, along with an explanation accounting for their actions. Most certainly I shall!

Enough of this. I do not intend to dwell on the loss of a tree. I must obtain a closer look at this vehicle which now rests on my property. I am at the door but it refuses to open. Something has jammed it. Upon investigating I discover the agent responsible. It is my dog, who is now in a state comparable to that of rigor mortis. He has frozen rigidly against the frame and refuses to budge. I am kicking the door and he gives way, screaming in terror has he scrambled for his house. Now that he has been re-animated and driven from the door, I am allowed free access to the outside.

It is very cold and I am without a coat, but this face does not press against my mind. Even though Jack Frost is molesting me, I am totally absorbed by this curious vehicle who, by chance, has selected my yard for an appropriate landing area.

This is all very peculiar indeed. The craft is completely seamless, and resembling nothing ever conceived on this planet. Of course, it might prove to be a government secret project. I would not put such a devious plot past those scoundrels in Washington. It might perhaps be an aircraft of Soviet origin. That would certainly be a fine prize. I can see the government now, sending hundreds of men … with tanks … and machine guns … and all of them tearing up my precious flower beds and grass! They wouldn’t dare!

Great God almighty! A portal is opening! A door is opening! They are going to come out! Good heavens! Will they be human, or something else? I am wondering if I ought to stay – I am staying! This is an opportunity too fabulous to pass by. Imagine me, the first human being to communicate with an alien intelligence (if that is what they are).

Good lord! One of them has come out! Not one but two! Merciful heaven, they are aliens! They do not in the slightest way resemble humans! They are wide but thin, like sheets of paper, and veritably transparent, to the point of allowing me to see their inner system of veins and organs. I cannot really describe these creatures. If only there was something I could compare them – why, could they? Yes! That is it! A leaf! They resemble leaves! A simple, common, ordinary leaf! This is amazing (and notoriously ironic). Who would think that an alien species, the first of which I have had the opportunity to meet, would have the same phenotype as my age-old nemeses?

The alien is walking toward me. He steps lightly through the leaves scattered about the yard, as if not wanting to disturb those who rest in peace. It is very strange that I should think of it that way. His companion awaits him back at the spacecraft.

“Hello, Earth vermin,” he is saying with a sweet, trilling voice. “I hope it is not beyond the scope of your reasoning capabilities to deduce why we have come.”

For one so frail and ridiculous looking, her certainly sports a conduct unbecoming his appearance. I have decided that it is within my best interests to attempt a parley with this pre-compost ingredient.

“Let me see … I suppose you have arrived on this planet to enlighten we lowly Earth vermin to your way of life. I also assume you will extend to us an invitation to join your probable interstellar empire, once we have mastered your scientific techniques.” A rather stereotyped, baseless assumption, but somehow appropriate.

“How incredibly stupid of you, Earth vermin. Naturally, we have come for your dog. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Your dog, idiot!”

My dog? What on earth could he possibly want with my dog?

“For no reason on Earth, I can assure you.”

I am stunned. These creatures are capable of reading one’s thoughts.

“I was wondering when your low level intelligence would detect our talent.”

This is very confusing. I do not know which way to turn. First he wants my dog and now he is performing telepathic magic tricks. This entire meeting has ominous overtones to it.

“Telepathy is not magic, and I resent being called ‘pre-compost material’ by you a few moments earlier. That is no way to speak of the dead.”

“I apologize for the affront, but why have you come here?”

“Stupid Earth vermin! We have come to invade your planet, and exterminate your race. It is as simple as that. We had been searching for an area to base our operation, when one of our people overheard your mention of a leaf army. Naturally, this attracted us, because by coincidence, we are called the Army of Lief. After listening to your thoughts for a short time, we realized that you were not thinking of us but of some fear-inspired fantasy, brought about by the strange effects our ship’s engine was having on certain devices in your home. However, we thought it would be rather amusing to introduce ourselves in this manner. Don’t you think it is amusing?”

“Not particularly. Besides, it is still unclear to me what dealings you have with my dog.”

The alien is looking at me like the scum he thinks I am. “The key to that is in something you were thinking only minutes ago, before we arrived.”

I am scanning my memory, but I don’t – just one moment! I now remember what I said before. Could this be the key? The little demons might go so far as to kill my dog and come for me. Good God, I believe it is!

“You are correct, Earth vermin. And now, shall I fulfill that prophecy?”

The creature has turned and is now retrieving the dog from his place of concealment. The dog is, of course, howling in terror, and for good reason too for the alien has leveled some sort of weapon at him. The dog’s pitiful canine shrieks had suddenly increased until I – they have stopped. He is dead. The dog is dead. They have killed him.

The alien is now staring at me strangely. I believe I see anticipation in his eyes. He is raising his weapon.

I am considering the notion of running.

I am running.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .