Read Online The Bleeding Man by Craig Strete - Free Book Online

wrong. That curse always
worked on chickens," said great-grandfather.
    "It could have
been worse," said the first alien. "We could have landed in Cleveland."
    "Or met the Lone
Ranger," added the other alien, a look of pure horror on his face.
    The aliens turned
in full flight and ran to their vehicle. They jumped in, dropping weapons carelessly in their
haste to get away.
    "Take a good
look," said the first alien as he slammed the power bar into gear. "Sure doesn't look like a
super-technology, does it? I'd swear there wasn't a weapon or self-defense mechanism on any of
them. They'll never believe it back home." He stared at great­grandfather with absolute terror.
Great-grandfather was looking up into the sky, still expecting the curse of Cheroboa to
materialize. "You wouldn't think—" said the first alien, thinking about the energy beams passing
through the old man without hurting him at all, think­ing about the frogs. "No. No. You wouldn't
think—" He paused. "He sure—"
    "Is in lousy
shape, ain't he?" finished the second alien.
    "Yeah," said the
first alien. "I should be in such lousy shape!"
    They returned to
their spaceship and left the Earth as fast as they could travel. They never came back.
    "You can come out
now!" yelled great-grandmother to great-grandson. "The crazy white men are gone."
    "They are?" asked
great-grandfather, looking disap­pointed. "Nuts! Just when I had the curse down pat,
too."
    Great-grandmother
rolled her eyes.
    Great-grandson
came out from behind a rock. Great­grandfather stared at the rock. "He's putting on weight, ain't
he? White man's school has made him fat and weak."
    Great-grandmother
sighed. It had been a long day.
    Every day was a
long day that was spent with a rascal like great-grandfather.
    "It's time we got
some sleep," said great-grand­mother.
    Great-grandfather
yawned.
    Great-grandson
came up to them and looped an arm in theirs. Lifting them gently to their feet, he walked them
across the sacred ground to the burial rack. Ten­derly, he helped them climb back onto the burial
rack.
    "You're a good
great-grandson," said great-grand­mother. "Will we see you next Sunday?"
    "Same time as
always," said great-grandson.
    "He's such a good
great-grandson," said great-grand­mother.
    "He brings me
cheap tobacco," muttered great­grandfather.
    Great-grandmother
would have kicked him, but he was already snoring.
     

Mother of Cloth, Heart of Clock
    I meant to kill him but I
had no idea I could do it so completely. I surprised myself. But I guess I lose control
sometimes. I go mad, smash things, break out the windows and throw animal drop­pings at the
Sunday crowds. Mad, that's what they think I am. But I don't care what they think, except they're
going to kill me. I care about that.
    I care about them
going to kill me. Wouldn't any­one? Ask anybody else in these cages and they'll all tell you the
same thing. Nobody likes to get killed. Except the snakes. Sometimes I wonder if the snakes even
know if they're alive or dead. Snakes are an in­different lot.
    Perhaps it's just
as well that they kill me. And this time, I hope they do it right. I don't want to go through
this again. I'm tired of lying here on this soiled straw matting, at the mercy of my keeper's
indigestion. Regu­lar feedings? I should say not. Braddock used to be my keeper; how the crowds
loved me then. Fed like clock­work, I was, and sleek and well-petted. The crowds went for me
then. I was the fair-haired one then. Yes, sir, no question of it.
    But now, since
they found Braddock's body partly ingested, the stomach torn out like the sawdust stuffings of a
wooden doll, we animals have to take what we can get, which isn't much. Our new keeper, he must
be nearly demented, the way he drinks and all, and when his stomach is upset, do we get fed? We
do not.
    Ever since I
killed that man, I guess, things have been bad. I used to be in the same cage with Flippy and
Jumpo, but