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Georgia

It’s dark in this part of the office, but Georgia’s not sure it’s empty yet. Empty but for him. It. Him? Tonight she’ll be watching from above. Tonight she’ll know whether he comes to life.

The dropped ceiling tiles are flimsy, but there’s a reinforced catcrawl nearby. She gets a grip, hauls herself onto it, and comes face to face with a giant cobra.

Hooded. Cobra. In the ceiling. It’s rising, swaying, eyes are taking all the light–

The Crocodile Hunter’s strong hand smashes through the tile and grabs the snake, pulls it down, white dust and Georgia can suddenly scream.

Thursday, December 1, 2005
A story about The Union

Georgia

It keeps moving, and Georgia’s starting to worry. It’s been there for months, just the old joke that gets stale in every office: big cardboard cutout, ha ha, put a lei on it, stick it in an empty cube.

But it keeps moving, and nobody ever sees it move. Everyone twitches an eyebrow to see it in a new place–everyone. Nobody’s unsurprised. Which means nobody’s doing it. Georgia’s there earlier and later than anyone. She’s been watching, she’d have seen, yet she hasn’t. And those creepy glossy eyes…

Just a cardboard Crocodile Hunter, ha ha. But what’s it hunting now?

Monday, July 28, 2003
A story yet Uncategorized
Attribution-Share Alike 3.0
This work is licensed under a Attribution-Share Alike 3.0.