Free Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer Page B
Authors: William Browning Spencer
would unlock a vision of her and while some announcer droned on about plaque and statistical studies, Philip would see her gray eyes and the blond curve of her neck and hear her say, in a voice from some exaggerated, fantasy South, "Philip Kenan , whuhut kind of girl do you think ah am?"
Philip's thoughts came full circle to Amelia again. He would destroy his burdensome novel and marry her. No. He couldn't.
Could he? He wished he were a more decisive human being. Although, of course, so much was preordained.
Philip, a tortured realist, longed not for free will but for the illusion of free will.
10
Monica returned to work.
“I see they fired all the slackers," she said, smiling savagely. Her grin was a little ragged; she had lost a couple of teeth, others were chipped, and her jaw had been reconstructed with a new truculent thrust.
Because the workload had increased, Monica stayed on into Philip's shift. He could see she had changed, but he could not, at first, identify the precise nature of the change. She still worked with a frenzied intensity, screamed imperially at paste-up artists and talked loudly to herself ("Look at this! They want a whole Webster's dictionary on this card!").
She was altered physically, of course. There were a number of nasty scars on her face. One angled laceration had required the shaving of her left eyebrow, and the hair had not grown back. Her outthrust jaw and a tendency on the part of her left eyelid to droop created an expression of simple-minded cunning. Her right ankle had been broken, necessitating a brace and an orthopedic shoe and producing what in a normal person would have been a limp but which, in the hyperactive Monica, was a bird like hop.
All these physical changes were nothing compared to a mental shift that Philip found unsettling.
On the third day of Monica's return, a chance remark by Bingham unlocked some internal door, and that night Philip dreamed of MicroMeg. The old printer's remark had been uttered casually into the cool night air. "Old Ralph has got himself a model employee in that Monica. She's twice as efficient since she got run over. Let's hope Ralph don't put two and two together or we will all be having accidents."
Philip dreamed he was in the men's restroom on the fifth floor of MicroMeg. He knew it was the fifth floor restroom, because Ray Barnstable was brushing his teeth at the sink. Ray spent most of his office hours in this restroom.
"Is Jennings still in the building?" Ray asked.
"No," Philip said. Jennings was Ray Barnstable's hated rival and they shared an office.
"Good," Ray said, and he left the restroom. He would now go—as Philip knew from office gossip—and search Jennings' desk drawers for incriminating information.
The restroom expanded suddenly, growing to the size of a train station. Indeed, there appeared to be a train at the far end, a great, black blur of an engine surrounded by a milling crowd. A line of stalls, dozens of them, stretched down the long white expanse in the direction of the train.
Philip's bowels cramped and he flung open the first of the stalls and availed himself of the toilet. As he sat there, dizzy and oddly hollowed by a sudden liquid evacuation, his eyes fell upon the door and the scrawled writing there: " Phnglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn ." He knew the translation, of course, which was "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."
He felt a numbing horror, a sense of his insignificance amid black, cosmic forces. He yanked his pants up and stumbled out of the stall as he heard the unholy wail of the train.
The crowd that surrounded the train rose like burnt leaves swirling on an autumn bonfire. Not men at all, but winged creatures, and—for with this knowledge came the realization that they were much more distant than he had at first assumed—creatures of a far greater size than men, the least of
Philip's thoughts came full circle to Amelia again. He would destroy his burdensome novel and marry her. No. He couldn't.
Could he? He wished he were a more decisive human being. Although, of course, so much was preordained.
Philip, a tortured realist, longed not for free will but for the illusion of free will.
10
Monica returned to work.
“I see they fired all the slackers," she said, smiling savagely. Her grin was a little ragged; she had lost a couple of teeth, others were chipped, and her jaw had been reconstructed with a new truculent thrust.
Because the workload had increased, Monica stayed on into Philip's shift. He could see she had changed, but he could not, at first, identify the precise nature of the change. She still worked with a frenzied intensity, screamed imperially at paste-up artists and talked loudly to herself ("Look at this! They want a whole Webster's dictionary on this card!").
She was altered physically, of course. There were a number of nasty scars on her face. One angled laceration had required the shaving of her left eyebrow, and the hair had not grown back. Her outthrust jaw and a tendency on the part of her left eyelid to droop created an expression of simple-minded cunning. Her right ankle had been broken, necessitating a brace and an orthopedic shoe and producing what in a normal person would have been a limp but which, in the hyperactive Monica, was a bird like hop.
All these physical changes were nothing compared to a mental shift that Philip found unsettling.
On the third day of Monica's return, a chance remark by Bingham unlocked some internal door, and that night Philip dreamed of MicroMeg. The old printer's remark had been uttered casually into the cool night air. "Old Ralph has got himself a model employee in that Monica. She's twice as efficient since she got run over. Let's hope Ralph don't put two and two together or we will all be having accidents."
Philip dreamed he was in the men's restroom on the fifth floor of MicroMeg. He knew it was the fifth floor restroom, because Ray Barnstable was brushing his teeth at the sink. Ray spent most of his office hours in this restroom.
"Is Jennings still in the building?" Ray asked.
"No," Philip said. Jennings was Ray Barnstable's hated rival and they shared an office.
"Good," Ray said, and he left the restroom. He would now go—as Philip knew from office gossip—and search Jennings' desk drawers for incriminating information.
The restroom expanded suddenly, growing to the size of a train station. Indeed, there appeared to be a train at the far end, a great, black blur of an engine surrounded by a milling crowd. A line of stalls, dozens of them, stretched down the long white expanse in the direction of the train.
Philip's bowels cramped and he flung open the first of the stalls and availed himself of the toilet. As he sat there, dizzy and oddly hollowed by a sudden liquid evacuation, his eyes fell upon the door and the scrawled writing there: " Phnglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn ." He knew the translation, of course, which was "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."
He felt a numbing horror, a sense of his insignificance amid black, cosmic forces. He yanked his pants up and stumbled out of the stall as he heard the unholy wail of the train.
The crowd that surrounded the train rose like burnt leaves swirling on an autumn bonfire. Not men at all, but winged creatures, and—for with this knowledge came the realization that they were much more distant than he had at first assumed—creatures of a far greater size than men, the least of
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