Through the Many Corridors
by Douglas F. Warrick
It was weird, wasn’t it? Weird how little it impressed him. It was an alien world, after all, a whole new planet, a landscape that held only a vague familiarity with the world he’d been born in, the atmosphere he’d inhaled for twenty-nine years. Maybe that’s it. It was just congruent enough to orient yourself, to fool yourself into thinking you were okay here. Up was up, down was down, you could breathe the air. But you weren’t okay here. You were drawn into this landscape by a different artist using a different pallet and a different technique and you just weren’t okay here.
Art took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed up ahead. “Chalkie.”
It was at the very edge of the road with its long doughy fingers wrapped over the top of the metal barrier. Its skin was dry, dusty, cracked and curling like old paint, and dull white like chalk. Its tiny black eyes were set deep into its face, which was long and snoutish and bald. Even when nothing on this planet seemed to reflect the glow of that big red moon, the bleeding moon, those eyes picked it up like deep black wells.
About the Author
Douglas F. Warrick lives in Dayton, Ohio where he teaches creative writing to (and plays charades with) the brilliant students at Stivers School for the Arts. His fiction has appeared in Apex Magazine, Daily Science Fiction.com, The Drabblecast, and a variety of anthologies. His collection of short fiction, Plow the Bones, was published by Apex Publications in 2013. He has published essays in Killscreen and The Battle Royale Slam Book.
About the Narrator
Ben Phillips is a programmer and musician living in New Orleans. He was a chief editor of Pseudopod from 2006-2010.