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 .
Image courtesy of Amazon-MGM.
“Project Hail Mary” Starring Ryan Gosling as an insufficiently curious xenobiologist Ryland Grace; James Oritz as (eventually) the voice of Rocky the alien; Sandra Huller as the stone‑cold yet bewilderingly attractive Project Hail Mary program manager Eva Stratt; and others. Directed by the duo of Phil Lord and Christopher Miller. Runtime a too-long 2 hours, 36 minutes. Rated PG-13. Theatrical release.
Plot summary: The Sun is threatened by a species of microorganism (Grace calls them “astrophages”) that consumes stars, which puts Earth in danger. If the sun dims too much, photosynthesis will decline and everything, including civilization, will go the way of democracy. The planet’s governments come together (yeah, right) to send an expedition to a star light years away that has somehow beaten back the astrophages eating everything else in our neck of the galactic woods using fusion to produce light and heat. Things go wrong. Our hero encounters an alien – his/hers/their planet is in trouble, too, because their sun is on the menu – and the two of them cooperate to find a way to defeat the star eaters.
Spoilers: Not if you read the book.
Mladen’s take
I can think of a couple of very good movies featuring humans and space aliens becoming buddies, “Enemy Mine” (1985) and “Alien Nation” (1988). The Star Treks and Kirk and Spock. More recently, there’s “Predator: Badlands.” Yes, yes, there are technically no humans in Badlands but synthetics Thia and Tessa are close enough.
In that regard, “Project Hail Mary” misses the mark. It isn’t Gosling’s fault as Grace or Oritz’s depiction of Rocky that made their friendship in the movie seem, ah, inert. The trouble is seeing Rocky for what the alien is, rock‑like. I’m used to placing rocks in my aquarium without worrying that I’m drowning a living being. Also, to me, anyway, rocks are repositories of past life – fossils – rather than sentient, self-aware creatures alive today who multiply by what, sexual sedimentation or crack fissuring.
The problem with “Project Hail Mary” is that it came in book form first and I read the book. Though I can’t recall the details in the book, I can recall that my imagination allowed me to interpret Rocky as some sort of fauna rock, an animal that was also vegetable and mineral. No such luck in the film. The Eridian – that’s the name of Rocky’s species – was there for me to “see” with my eyes.
Rocky is constructed of short columns of jointed hard material that made fingers and limbs, which articulated, and a thorax holding it all together. What held him together, allowed him to move? A pliant crystalline matrix like fiber-optic cabling? Ammonia‑soluble tendons that deformed whenever Rocky’s iron ore other‑than‑nervous system rusted on command? How the hell could the Eridian chitter like an insect? Golly, and this is terrible, I had the urge to vivisect Rocky to see what made him tick.
B+ “Project Hail Mary” is worth the time to see in a movie theater. There is enough action, even if that action is, in part, dependent on an implausibly maneuverable space ship, to justify dropping extra change for a Dolby theater seat. The scene where Grace and Rocky trawl the upper atmosphere of a planet to collect astrophages and something else is darned good.
I looked forward to scenes with Huller as Stratt. It was the precision of her diction when speaking English. It was her unapologetic focus on saving humanity, though it required sacrificing individuals who belong to that humanity. It was her humorous severeness and knack for taking a line of reasoning or an excuse to avoid doing this or that to the end of the line. Something like, “Grace, you say you want to stay on Earth to teach children. Well, if you stay, there will be no children to teach.” What a guilt trip. And, I must say, I loved Grace for ignoring it.
Del’s take
Mladen is too generous with his review of “Project Hail Mary.” I didn’t fall asleep once during the movie, but not because it was exciting. The theater was freezing and I’d left my hoodie in the car. I thought “Hail Mary” was boring – B-O-R-I-N-G. And it was stupid – this, from a guy who not only grew up reading science fiction but wrote a few SF stories of his own.
I wish Amazon had taken some of the $$$ it spent on “Melania” and used it to make “Hail Mary” better, maybe a little more scientifically plausible, maybe a little less slapsticky. As it stands, the movie is structurally too complicated, is inconsistent in tone, is way too long, and it failed to convince me to suspend my disbelief.
According to Mladen, “Hail Mary” is 2 hours and 36 minutes. It felt like 2 days and 36 hours. It was a two-bathroom-visits movie for me. To paraphrase a British critic who reviewed one of my books, it could have benefitted from a savage pruning of excess beats. As Mladen pointed out, the movie was not about teaching English to an alien; it was about figuring out how to kill the little bastards eating our sun, so the whole teaching-the-alien bit could have been left on the cutting room floor. And other parts should have qualified for a savage pruning. I’ll get to those in a minute.
Is “Hail Mary” a comedy? At times I thought it was. There were moments of physical comedy – actual slapstick – and the script was mostly a series of jokes and verbal pratfalls that at first were cute but soon became irritating and distracting. It was impossible to take anything I was seeing on the screen very seriously because the movie did not take itself very seriously. That may sound like a good thing but trust me, a movie about the end of the world should not be funny. Satirical? Maybe. “Don’t Look Up” and “Doctor Strangelove” come to mind. But comedic? Hardly.
The story is told through a series of flashbacks woven through a current-time narrative, and that proved to be difficult to follow, especially at the beginning when Grace awakens aboard the spacecraft with no memory of how he got there. Again, I would ask: Is that what this movie is about? No? Then why waste the audience’s time telling them things that have no bearing on the outcome of the story?
In films from the Star Trek and Star Wars universes I can accept scientific implausibilities – hyperlight, the Force, teleportation. Those movies are more fantasy than science fiction. But in a movie like “Hail Mary,” which grounds itself in science, the implausibilities become much more glaring and harder to forgive. Gosling’s character awakens after four years of zero-G induced coma. His bones should have looked like a plastic McDonald’s straw. Yet he’s able to bound around and grab hurtling spaceship parts as if he were Thor. No effing way is that gonna happen. And again, as Mladen pointed out, the spaceship maneuvering was just impossible – comedically impossible. And there were others – Rocky’s seemingly endless supply of food and air, and Grace’s endless supply of crap that would never be allowed on a starship having to contend with mass constraints. Deus ex machine was Grace’s co-pilot.
A plus was Gosling’s performance, which I thought was superb. And Mladen was right about Huller. She was spectacular. In fact, of all the characters in “Hail Mary” she was the only one I could relate to in any human sense.
“Hail Mary” is cleaning up at the box office and moviegoers are giving it Rotten Tomato scores in the 90s. Amazon needs the movie to pull in around $400 million to break even, and that will probably happen. All said, that makes me look like a cranky, impossible-to-please old fart. Maybe so. But judging by all the movies I’ve given A scores to over the years, I’d say that’s not true. I just want my movies to be really, really good, and for all the reasons I’ve listed here, I don’t think “Project Hail Mary” meets that description. Feel free to go see it and judge for yourself.
I’m giving it a score of a B-, and I think that’s generous. Maybe a C+.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.
Image by Raw Pixel.
My God, I’ve seen this comment more times than I can count.
People will say, “I’m tired of illegal aliens coming into this country and using my tax dollars to get free food, free welfare and free health care.”
So let’s take a look at the realities of this situation.
Do undocumented immigrants receive food stamps from the federal government?
The answer is no, they do not.
Do undocumented immigrants receive welfare benefits from the federal government?
The answer is no, they do not.
Do undocumented immigrants receive free health care from the federal government?
The answer is no, they do not.
Do undocumented immigrants receive any kind of benefits from the federal government?
The answer is no, they do not. They can’t. They aren’t documented. They don’t have Social Security numbers.
Having said that, I hasten to add individual states do have the option of providing meager benefits to this beleaguered population if they want to. The complainers can’t fuss about that.
Remember when the Supreme Court overturned Roe vs. Wade? The complainers were quick – and vocal – to support the notion of states rights. They boarded the ship of states rights, and now that ship has sailed. If they live in a state that provides meager benefits to this beleaguered population, they can’t complain because they support states rights.
How many states provide benefits to undocumented immigrants?
Fourteen. Out of 50.
Many of the undocumented immigrants come into this country illegally, I’ll concede that. They do need to go through the process. But they come here and do the jobs Americans refuse to do, pay taxes but don’t get the benefits, and the complainers have a problem with that?
Could it be they don’t like undocumented immigrants because their skin is a different color and they speak a different language?
Is it time for some self-examination?
I think so.
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 .
Image courtesy of 20th Century Studios.
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“Prometheus” Starring Noomi Rapace, Michael Fassbender, Logan Marshall-Green, Charlize Theron. Directed by Ridley Scott. 124 minutes. Rated R.
Del’s take
Going into “Prometheus” I warned myself against indulging expectations; I had, after all, been savoring this moment since learning “Alien” director Ridley Scott was returning to the creepy, Gigeresque universe he so famously created in 1979.
Coming out of “Prometheus” I again warned myself against expectations: The movie was probably not as disappointing as my gut reaction would have me believe.
After much reflection, I can’t help but feel “Prometheus” is so much less than it could have been. Visually, the film is gorgeous. But the script is a muddle, the score incompatible with the movie’s tone, and some of the casting decisions simply don’t work.
The plot is straightforward. A pair of archeologists (Noomi Rapace as Elizabeth Shaw and Logan Marshall-Green as Charlie Holloway) discover a kind of star map in the glyphs of ancient terrestrial civilizations separated by time and distance. A corporation builds a starship, the Prometheus, to visit the location denoted by the map, so that the company’s founder can discover the secret to life … and perhaps extend his own. Once there they find mankind’s progenitors were not as paternalistic as they expected. All manner of wriggling, predatory horrors put human beings at the bottom of the food chain as they plan a planet-wide buffet.
The film’s exteriors are lush, sweeping and grandiose, but the interiors convey nothing of the shuddery claustrophobia evoked by “Alien.” The technology seems far advanced from “Alien,” which takes place after “Prometheus.” I don’t have a problem with that: The Nostromo was a tired old factory ship with outdated technology; “Prometheus” is a brand-new ship of exploration, likely equipped with the latest gadgets and gewgaws, despite its 30-year handicap.
Michael Fassbender delivers an Oscar-worthy performance as the amoral android David, and Charlize Theron is icily cool as the daughter of the Weyland Corporation’s founder. Less impressive are Sean Harris as the expedition’s geologist, and Rafe Spall as the team’s biologist. Neither display the kind of intellectual curiosity peculiar to scientists. Worse are Noomi Rapace and Logan Marshall-Green, who are completely unconvincing in their roles as the expedition’s ostensible scientific leadership. Ridley Scott has a love of strong female characters, but in “Prometheus” Rapace seems lost and dependent, besotted with a perpetual starry-eyed, doll-baby affect that seems incongruent with that of a true Scott survivor type. And let’s not talk about the film’s science, or the scientific method. “Prometheus” abandons even the most cursory protocols any scientist worth his salt would follow.
But that’s partially the fault of the script, which at times tries to take “Prometheus” into the realm of “2001,” while mostly devolving to “Starship Troopers” or even “Lost.” Blame that on co-writer Damon Lindelof, an alum of “Lost,” who seems stricken by the idea coy logic flaws represent depth. A true brain tease provokes curiosity, not irritation. Gone is the stark, narrowly focused conflicts of “Alien,” “Blade Runner” or “Thelma and Louise.” In its place is a taco-pizza-cheeseburger of a story that satisfies nobody.
“Prometheus” may have strands of “Alien” in its DNA, as Scott hinted during the movie’s production, but it’s a recessive gene. You see little of the “Alien” genius and lots of what I would call “current” storytelling, which seems less satisfied with delivering a credible tale than setting up a sequel.
In space, nobody can hear you scream. But in movie theaters they can hear you crying foul, and that’s what I heard.
Mladen’s take
When I need Del to be merciless, he delivers a review that searched for a bright side to a dim movie. Del, can you hear me screaming in Fort Walton Beach, though we’re a couple of miles apart?
It was good “Prometheus” didn’t come with a money-back guarantee for the audience because the production companies that financed this unfathomable film would go broke. My review is short because I stopped paying attention to the movie about halfway through it’s all too long runtime.
“Prometheus” was billed as the prequel to “Alien,” one of the finest movies of all time, and that was a severe error. Though directed by the same man, Ridley Scott, “Prometheus” and “Alien” are worlds apart.
“Alien” is a sci-fi horror movie, pure and simple and completely engrossing. “Prometheus” is just gross, while suffering from an identity crisis. Is it sci-fi horror like “Alien” or sci-fi action like “Aliens”? In fact, it’s more like “Hostel” meets “Event Horizon” meets “The Human Centipede.”
Almost from the beginning, the movie starts to meander toward the unexplained.
There are 17 people aboard spaceship Prometheus, which is about 10 too many. Only a handful of the 17 characters are developed and all of them are, at best, mildly interesting or, at worst, unlikable.
There are metallic vases oozing black liquid, an aggressive slug breaking an arm and then swimming down the victim’s throat, and an absolutely foul scene were one of the protagonists endures a vividly portrayed Cesarean section inside a healing chamber and then fights the creature just pulled from her abdomen.
None of the scientists behaved like scientists, including the decision to reanimate in the open the head of a hominid-like being because it looked like something abnormal was growing from it when its owner died.
In “Prometheus,” events just happened that seemed unconnected or arbitrary. The story lacked cohesion. It failed to explain the reason our creators were so unflinchingly hostile to us, their children, so to speak.
“Prometheus” could have explored the questions it awkwardly raised. Is there God? Can science and religion co-exist? Is mankind a controlled experiment with Earth the incubator? Instead, we get a mish-mash of themes and banal dialogue.
There are no Oscar contenders in this movie. Not for script. Not for acting. Not for score. Hell, not even for visual effects. The movie was disappointing.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of Credo Entertainment Group and USA Pictures.
“Trucks” stars Timothy Busfield as Ray, Brenda Blake as Hope, Brendan Fletcher as Logan, Amy Stewart as Abby, and others. Directed by Chris Thomson. Rated PG-13 with a 95-minute run time. See it on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Apple TV and Vudu.
Mladen’s take
To recuperate my manliness after Del forced me to watch and review “Barbie” and “Wham!,” I made him watch 1997’s “Trucks.” And, what a film it is. From its big rig practical effects to the bonkers scene involving a Tonka-looking radio-controlled toy truck, the movie plows through your disbelief and eye rolling like a convoy of rabid Teamsters through a school zone.
Here, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Del wants a movie summary in each review, so I’m giving you one, like it or not. “Trucks” is based on a Stephen King short story. In “Trucks,” trucks come alive, herding people into crappy buildings in a dusty town not far from Area 51. The trucks terrorize the huddled humans and, when needed, run over or otherwise murder a few. The self-driving, bloodthirsty machines, who talk to each other by flashing their headlights and switching windshield wipers on and off, are animated by … I’m not sure. The victims talk about mysterious satellite dishes erected at the nearby Air Force base, aliens attracted to Earth by SETI, a stolen election for president, the contents of Hunter Biden’s laptop, and, wait, I think I’m confusing one government conspiracy with another.
“Trucks” has flaws that go unremedied. There’s no nudity. The swearing is mild. The violence is not as graphic as it could’ve been, though the fire axe-wielding hazmat suit scene in a disaster response van is pretty damn terrific. And, let’s not forget the toy truck and mailman incident that unfolds about half-way through the film. It’s imaginative. It’s ridiculous. It’s carnage laced. In short, it’s perfect.
“Trucks” also has flaws that get remedied. For example, the killer trucks are autonomous but have no way of refueling themselves. So, through much of the film, I’m like, “Stupid rednecks, sit tight until the monstrous machines run out of gas.” Then comes along our principal scared, bewildered, and desperate protagonist (“Ray” portrayed by Timothy Busfield) who notices that the trucks had chances to kill him but didn’t. Why? Why did he live while some of his fellow captives died? Well, the trucks signal the answer to him. You see, Ray is the town’s gas station owner. The machines spared Ray because they needed him to refuel them. If he didn’t, they’d splatter his son and nascent girlfriend all over the desert sand. Come on, concede that’s a clever way for the trucks (and the movie’s plot) to overcome their lack of hands with opposable thumbs to pump diesel.
Because “Trucks” is based on a King short story and King often sways toward the bleak, the film’s ending is somewhat discombobulating. But, don’t worry, the ending is nothing like the heavily traumatizing conclusion of another movie based on King’s writing, “The Mist.”
Del’s take
I was confused.
Fifteen minutes into “Trucks” and still no Emilio Estevez. What the hell was going on?
A quick dive into the Internet Movie Database disabused me of my mental fog. “Trucks” is not “Maximum Overdrive,” the cheesy ’80s-vintage scifi-horror movie directed by none other than horror author Stephen King. Instead, “Trucks” is a cheesy ’90s-vintage scifi-horror movie based on the same short story, “Trucks,” that inspired “Maximum Overdrive.” And that story was written by none other than horror author Stephen King.
That’s about as clear as my soap-scum infused glass shower doors.
I’d describe “Trucks” as a genre hybrid, falling somewhere between a classic ’50s big bug movie and a Robert Rodriguez grindhouse gorefest, Why anybody thought “Trucks” was worthy of a remake escapes me, especially when King wrote many other memorable stories – the one about the guy who drinks bad beer and turns into a giant escargot comes to mind every time I pop the tab on a can of Natty Light. But then, why are there 27 “Children of the Corn”s or 91 “Lawnmower Man”s? The answer, of course, is that Americans have no bottom when it comes to schlock.
And that’s what “Trucks” is – schlock. It’s one of those movies that’s so bad, it’s good – except “Trucks” isn’t good. It’s terrible, and Mladen owes me big time. At least when I make him watch something out of his comfort zone it’s something decent, and good. “Trucks” is a Baby Ruth bar floating in the swimming pool of moviedom. The acting is awful. The script is laughably inept. No cliché is left behind. And there are plot holes big enough to … ahem … drive a truck through. It’s like watching political aides trying to teach Ron DeSantis how to eat pudding with chopsticks. In other words, it’s a mess.
Here’s an example of the breathtaking dialogue:
Teenage girl: “Why does everybody keep dying?” (Hmmm? Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that they’re being RUN OVER BY TRUCKS?)
Old man: “I don’t know. I’m just an old hippie.”
??????????????????????
The trucks, we are told, have been brought to life by either Area 51, a toxic gas cloud, the Earth sailing through a comet’s tail, aliens … or maybe “Trucks” is a cautionary tale, warning against the unintended consequences of electing a fascist as president of the United States and then letting him skate when his crimes become public knowledge. Either way, I think everyone involved in the movie sailed through a comet’s tail because if “Maximum Overdrive” proves that horror authors should stick to writing horror stories and not directing horror movies, “Trucks” proves that even dedicated filmmakers can sometimes screw up, and “Trucks” is a Godzilla-sized Phillips-head of a screw(up).
Mladen didn’t assign a letter grade to “Trucks” so I’ll assume he’s giving it an F. I’ll be generous and award a D- seeing as how it’s truer to the short story than “Maximum Overdrive.”
When they come out with a scifi-horror movie titled “Night of the Killer Prius,” I’m there. But “Maximum Overdrive” and “Trucks” is a two-movie convoy of 18-wheeled schlock. For a vastly superior killer truck movie, check out “Duel.” Meantime, I’ll stick to the passing lane.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.