THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE 40TH

The postcard for South Carolina was an unusually thick postcard. It was a laminated card the kind that shifted between two images when tilted in one direction and another. The photo was of a group of people seated at some restaurant holding up fancy drinks and smiling, which changed into an obviously manipulated photo of the people acting extremely inebriated with oversize eyes, missing clothing, and the fancy drink glasses emptied.  The caption said, "Change your perspective at Dirk's" Darren shook his head. Some people would do anything to promote their business. He turned the card over and started to read.

FAÇADES

            As soon as Fred hung up on his ex-girlfriend, after having delivering a particularly stinging retort, he went into his preparation room.

            Although an object associated with omen, Fred found the vanity desk a valuable asset in his routine. Now he sat down at the desk, centering his reflection in the mirror and studied the face he saw in there.

            Handsome, yes. The lips held a sardonic curve though.  A touch of cruelty in the eyes. The face of someone who often reminded others they were beneath him, because he could afford to do so. He opened the top drawer on his left, and reached inside. Selecting the tool he wanted, a palette knife, he lifted it out. He leaned forward closer towards the mirror and squinted slightly. Perhaps it was time he looked into contacts. Sometimes it was really hard to see the edges.

            Ah. There. Fred took the knife and carefully inserted it just underneath his jawline. He pushed the blade in slowly, to avoid creating any punctures in the skin. Then he began prying his face off, whispering words of power all the while.

            Fred moved his hands in a deft, practical manner, and in less than two minutes, he was able to peel the entire face off.  Placing the thin layer of epidermis  flat upon his right palm, he uttered another word of power, and the slack, rubbery skin snapped into a rigid mask.

            He stood up and carried the mask to the large cabinet that lined an entire wall of his preparation room. He slid open the panel constructed to appear as two hinged doors, scanning the dozens of compartments within for the empty support. He spotted it to his upper right. Carefully placing the mask upon the support, he stepped back and closed his eyes.

            He planned to go out later that evening with Charles and Brad, plus possibly Gail. It’d be a mellow evening. But he needed to know if Gail was going to be present or not. It made a difference.

            Walking back out into his kitchen, he picked up his phone and dialed Brad’s number. After the fourth ring, Brad picked up.

            “Brad, it’s Fred. How you doing?”

            Bra’s reply was enthusiastic. Brad tended to be enthusiastic, often more than enough for everyone else in a group. “Fred! I’m doing just awesome! You’re not gonna bail tonight, right man?”

            “No, I’m still in. I was just checking to see if Gail did decide to join us or not?”

            “Why? You hoping to go somewhere with her?”

            “What? No, no. Just figuring out if I’m gonna drive. I could pick her up. If not, I’ll just call a cab.”

            “Gotcha! How ‘bout I check in with her, call you back, let ya know?”

            “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

            “No sweat pal! Call ya back soon!”

            Fred put the phone down on the counter.  He might not be certain yet what he would be wearing for the evening yet, but he could at least narrow down his choices, save some time.

            Returning to the cabinet, Fred surveyed the different masks. There was the obvious option if Gail didn’t come along- the same one he always wore when with Brad and Charles. Although, that mask was starting to show some wear, and while not in danger of cracking or crumbling just yet, he needed to be careful with it. It would be time to make a duplicate quite soon, but just the thought of starting that process from scratch washed Fred over with exhaustion. He went back into the kitchen and plugged in his coffee machine, allowing a fresh pot to brew while he continued his deliberations on what to wear.

            If Gail was coming along, Fred was indeed interested in her, as he was interested in each and every one of his conquests. Fred found the analysis, the search of each person he interacted with fascinating enough, but when he set his sights on someone he wanted to seduce, then it became much more than a simple pursuit.

            It became Art.

            A project of psychology, sculpture, and conversational dexterity.  There was nothing like the initial  starburst of desire and intrigue to motivate Fred to begin the creation of a new face.  When it came to the other faces, the ones he used for work, errands, friends, family, Fred was not as eager, but he understood the need to craft as many faces for the mundane as for the more exciting aspects of his lifestyle.

            So, Gail. He’d taken some months to increase his knowledge of her personality, her intellect, and her interests.  He’d been a friend to her. But now Fred wanted to be a lover. So he began a new face.

            Each face took months, but Fred knew the end result would be extraordinary, so he always had just enough patience for each project.  Years of experience had honed his craft into artwork so impeccable that no one had ever guessed his secret.

            The Gail face was one with a little bit of stubble, but it wasn’t the physical aspect of the mask that Fred was most proud of. There were the faint creases of one used to much laughter, the slight flush underneath the coppery tone of a outdoorsy, active person.

            It wasn’t until Fred had finished his second cup of coffee that his phone rang. Fred picked it up and checked to see if it was Brad’s number. Upon confirmation that it was, Fred pressed the connect button.

            “Fred! Better make sure your tank is full! You’re picking Gail up!”

            Fred spent a few more minutes discussing the evening details with his effervescent friend, then called Gail to set up the pick-up time, which would be in about an hour. Just enough time to prepare.

            He put his coffee cup in the sink, rinsed it out, then  opened a drawer and pulled out one of his cloth napkins and wiped his lips carefully. Any kind of substance on his skin could affect the mask placement, so he took care to make sure no drop of coffee remained on his mouth. Then he smiled, excitement beginning to rise within. It was going to be a fun evening. He needed to hurry, though. He tossed the napkin onto the counter, where it landed next to the coffee machine, and wiping his hands on his pants, he went into his preparation room.

            Removing the Gail face from its support, he returned to the desk. He crossed his eyes slightly to keep his focus a bit blurry so that he would not have to see the details of his own real, lifeless, and boring face, the one he’d hidden from all eyes ever since he’d learned the craft of creating new faces, many years ago.

            He began reciting the words of power that would allow the mask to transform into organic, living flesh. Within moments, the rigid edges of the mask collapsed into warm, pliant skin.

            Fred lifted the face up, and began pressing it onto his own skin, still chanting. The face merged seamlessly, flesh joining together.  When he was done, Fred studied the result in the mirror, and smiled, pleased.  He could already feel his muscles twitching, unknitting then rebuilding themselves. His physique and movements would now match the entire persona that his face reflected.

            Stretching as he stood, Fred began to strip, checking his watch. He’d have to hurry. Quickly he headed into his bathroom for a perfunctory shower. Dressing swiftly, he hurried out of his apartment.

            The evening progressed much as Fred had anticipated. He’d caught Gail glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes several times during their dinner, and knew that she was beginning to find him attractive on a deeper level than his looks. He had surprised her (and himself) by dancing with her afterwards, something he normally was neither very much good at nor inclined to do. After the movie, Gail had requested they all go for dessert, but Bred and Charlie had declined. So Fred and Gail were able to have some time to themselves over coffee and tiramisu.

            When Fred dropped Gail off at her apartment, he parked the car and walked with her into the lobby, then up the stairs to her apartment door. There, she’d looked at Fred with speculation, then mischief. She’d leaned in and crushed his lips with her own, before giggling and slipping into her apartment, exclaiming “Call me soon!” just before closing the door.  Fred had grinned broadly. Soon, he would know Gail much more intimately. He stroked his own cheek, nodding slowly with pride at his accomplishment.

            The traffic en route to his own place was unusually congested, especially for that lateness of the hour. Fred fidgeted in his seat, drumming with impatient fingers upon the steering wheel. When he neared his own street, Fred could see the undulating light waves throbbing amongst the rooftops and trees, and realized there was some kind of emergency situation in his neighborhood. Frowning, he turned the corner and beheld-

            No. No, ohmygodno, Nononononononitcoudlntbe.

            Gone.

            His apartment was gone.

            A smoking, charred wreck, the walls collapsed. He could see right into his kitchen, his bedroom, and the-

            Oh god.

            The preparation room. Now just charcoal and ashes.

            A sudden, painful recollection. He’d tossed the napkin onto the counter, and it’d landed against the coffee machine. The coffee machine he’d forgotten to unplug in his haste to go pick up Gail. The linen must have caught fire at some point. And now his faces were all gone. Years of work.

            Without being conscious of his own movements, Fred staggered out of his car, and stumbled towards the plastic ribbon cordon. An uniformed officer stepped  into Fred’s path, holding an hand up. Fred dug into his picket, pulling out his wallet and held it out to the officer desperately. “That’s my home, check my license address,” Fred cried, sidestepping the officer and running towards his place. He was vaguely aware of the officer calling after him as he ducked under the cordon, but he didn’t stop moving.

            At least, not until he was restrained by another officer and a firefighter, both covered in soot and ashes. Fred struggled against their grip for a few moments, then went limp and sank to his knees.

            Fred felt nothing but a hole within himself, so cold it burned. He knelt with head bowed so far his chin pressed into his chest and wept. He had no idea how he could live through the next few months with only his own face, the face that had no personality. No life.

            No life.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 39TH POSTCARD- RHODE ISLAND

THIS TOO TOO SOLID FLESH

            Sarah smiled at the receptionist at the front desk, and was rewarded with equal warmth. At the silent query of the receptionist’s eyebrows, Sarah nodded quickly.

            “My name’s Sarah Amberly,” she informed the receptionist, opening up her wallet to display her driver’s license. The receptionist smiled, and turned her attention to the computer monitor before her. Suddenly, her smile faltered.

            “I’m sorry, I need to clarify the dates you plan to stay, there may be an error in the system.” the receptionist told Sarah, her eyebrows now slightly furrowed.

            Sarah nodded to augment her certainty. “I’ll be staying through Saturday. The twenty-seventh.”

            The reception paled slightly. “You-you will be staying through Com-communion Night? That’s Friday.”

            Sarah shook her head in puzzlement . “ I don’t know what that is,, but yes I will be staying through Friday. Is the hotel booked full for that night?”

            “No, no, quite the opposite actu-“ the receptionist abruptly fell silent, typing  on her keyboard for a few moments, then she picked up a keycard and swiped it. Inserting it into an envelope, she handed it to Sarah with a shadow of her former smile.  “Room Fourteen twelve. Elevators are back through the lobby and to your right.”

            Sarah nodded, taking the envelope in hand and grasping the extended handle of her baggage, she turned away from the desk.

            “Stay in on Friday,” the receptionist blurted behind Sarah.  Sarah glanced back over her shoulder at the receptionist, who was busy shuffling papers on the counter, completely engrossed in her task.

            Sarah continued towards the elevators puzzled, but she dismissed the subject from her mind as soon as she entered her room and began her unpacking.

            Sarah had succeeded in parlaying her work trip into a short vacation- bookending her work time with an entire day on either end. She needed just a little time to herself, to try and begin the whole process of moving on. She needed to get on with her life without Fred.  When she was working, she could pour herself into her taskmaking without allowing herself to be distracted by her own mind. But when she was all alone, like now, then she would find herself growing tearful. 

            She still missed Fred, still wanted him, still wondered if she should have forgiven him, five weeks after she’d gathered the courage to tell him she could not be in a relationship with someone who lied to her and cheated on her and stole money from her.

            Fred had acted so wounded, so confused that Sarah had felt like the most evil bitch in the world for not understanding Fred was human, that he made mistakes. Yet she knew that there were mistakes and there were deliberate betrayals, and she had had enough of these. The last straw pretty much had been when Fred accused her of her own philandering; the very idea was anathema to her entire core of values

            But she also remembered his touch, his kisses, his tenderness , his generosity (although that had dwindled after the first few months of their two years plus together) and his dazzling smile.

            That night, while Sarah lay all alone in the darkened room, she wept until she fell asleep.

            Sarah woke up earlier than intended, so with the extra time she had before she needed to be at the meeting with the company partners that were locally situated, she decided to get some breakfast. This was a luxury she rarely allowed herself at home, usually getting by on a latte and a bagel until she could grab a quick lunch.

            A quick search using one of the apps on her phone revealed the location of a decently reviewed diner nearby the hotel. Sarah walked the short distance in casual clothing, since she’d have time to  change into her professional outfit.

            Once seated in one of the booths, Sarah immediately ordered a coffee, figuring she could find a Starbucks for her daily latte en route to the meeting.

            The waitress who took her order and poured out her coffee with a polite smile wore a nametag that said MIKE. Sarah was curious enough to inquire about the nametag, asking if the waitress was subbing.

            “Oh no, that’s my name. Short for Michaela, but everybody’s always called me Mike, “ the waitress replied cheerfully. “You’re not from around here, yeah?”

            “That’s right- I’m in town for business, I’m actually from South Carolina.”

            “Is that right? I got cousins there- what part of South Carolina you from?”

            The two women continued to chat for several more minutes, warming up to each other. Then Sarah remembered something from the previous night, something the receptionist at her hotel had said.

            “Could you tell me about Communion Night?” she asked the waitress. Mike jumped at the question, enough to cause the coffee inside the pot she held to spill out and scald her hand. With a pained hiss, Mike quickly lowered the pot to Sarah’s tabletop, dropping it an inch above the surface, causing a loud impact which drew a lot of glances from the other patrons.

            “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” Sarah exclaimed, “I didn’t mean to-“ she faltered as she realized she didn’t really understand what kind of reaction she’d evoked in Mike- if it was surprise, fear, or something else. “-make you do that.”

            Mike glanced at her own hand, studying the reddened skin for a moment. “It’s fine,” she said dismissively. “Hazards of the job. Listen, you’re not actually going to be here for that, are you? “

            Sarah nodded, her face wrinkled by a puzzled frown. Mike shook her head, pressing her lips together as one might upon seeing a dog that has just jumped upon the couch, knowing full well it’s not allowed. “Listen, if I were you, I really wouldn’t be doing that. If your business is done before then, you might be better off leaving town before then.”

            Sarah noted that Mike seemed rather reluctant to even utter the words ‘Communion Night’. What was this event all about, if it had a name and a date, but no one seemed to even like talking about it? “If my business isn’t done by then?” she ventured.

            Mike sighed heavily.  Picking up the coffeepot with her unscalded hand, she locked gazes with Sarah. “Then be sure to stay inside,” she warned, before turning away and striding into the kitchen.

            A different server came out to clear Sarah’s table and bring her check.

            Back at the hotel, as Sarah was changing her clothes, Fred appeared unbidden in her thoughts and she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, God, she felt so alone. Shaking her head to rid herself of the unwanted memories, she continued dressing.

            Once she arrived at the meeting, she was able to throw herself into the minutiae of the business at hand, and for the next few hours, she was sufficiently distracted.

            The depression began once again, however, when one of the men at the meeting invited Sarah out for drinks afterward.  She had had enough of dating, the entire process of the tentative development of a bond with someone else was just too exhausting to think about.  She had not had enough of men, though. 

            She made a desultory attempt at masturbation back in her room, but she could only conjure up images of Fred and she didn’t want to give Fred even that much credit; to be featured in her fantasies.  Grunting with frustration, she lay back on her bed, trying to think how she would fill the evening as it ticked by all too slowly.

            While she lay there, avoiding thoughts of her ex-boyfriend, Sarah fell asleep. As a result, since she hadn’t set the alarm, Sarah overslept the next day and didn’t even have time to grab a latte from Starbucks as she rushed to her meeting.  This was the most important one; the one she was presenting at and the primary reason for her trip.

            She managed to pull off the presentation rather well, and in her self-congratulatory after-glow, she accepted the invitation extended to her a second time by the same man from the previous meeting, one of the local executives.

            Sarah regretted the decision before she even finished her first drink. Derek, as he was called, had a rather high opinion of himself. So high, that he preferred to discuss only this particular topic: his opinion of himself. He evidently thought he was quite the suave man, since he was actually astonished at Sarah’s polite refusal of his suggestion they both go back to his place.

            “But you’ll be leaving tomorrow after the wrap-up,” he exclaimed, as if that were sufficient reason she should acquiesce that very moment.  “There won’t be another opportunity tomorrow night!”

            “I’m staying through Communion Night,” Sarah informed Derek. She took some quiet satisfaction in the way he spluttered into his drink, splashing alcohol into his eye.

            “Well, if you need a place to stay inside for that evening,” Derek retorted, recovering his self-perceived suaveness as he wiped his face with his napkin.

            “Why does everyone say that?” Sarah demanded, nettled. Derek ignored the question, returning to his favorite topic.

            Soon after, Sarah begged off the rest of the evening, claiming a sudden bout of exhaustion (his ego WAS tiring) and after rejecting his offer of a ride, she took a taxi back to the hotel.

            As soon as she stepped into her room, she could already feel the crushing weight of loneliness threatening to bear down upon her. To forestall the burden, Sarah called her mother, something she rarely did willingly.

            An hour later, Sarah jabbed the disconnect icon on her phone, a sourness in her mouth. She’d already known the outcome of her call, but it was still frustrating to have to deal with her mother’s indifference and lack of interest. Ever since she’d left Fred, her mother had treated Sarah as if she was an imbecilic cold shell of a human being, unable to love. Her mother wanted grandchildren, and she perceived this breakup as the final clang of that window of opportunity crashing shut.

            That night, Sarah’s dreams were filled with vague impressions of skin upon skin, of flesh coming together, of fluids warm, slick and sticky. She awakened the next day simultaneously repulsed and horny.

            She avoided contact with Daniel at the wrap-up meeting, but he still managed to corner her during one of the coffee breaks for one last attempt to seduce her, but she left him in no state of uncertainty as to his lack of success.

            “Your loss,” he sneered, “and we’ll just see if you get through tomorrow night too.” This last barbed comment he shot at her before going back into the conference room to sulk.

            Sarah decided she was determined to discover the entire history behind this mysterious event.

            A cursory visit to the public library turned up nothing in the way of books upon the subject, and the archived newspapers on the date she assumed Communion Night held no mention of the event either.  However, upon broadening her search of the newspapers published a few days before and after; she discovered a number of advisory notices to remain indoors prior to the annual date, and then afterwards, a spike in obituaries. These held no pattern; all ages and types of people appeared to die on Communion Night, but the cause of death was not printed.

            No more enlightened than before, Sarah decided t o to try another tack. She took a taxi to the local university, surmising that the university library might have more older and less mainstream resource books.

            Upon entry in the university library, she made a beeline for the Resources and Archives department. This wing of the library appeared to be an older structure; the part of the library that she had entered through seemed to be a newer addition.

            She approached a young man slouched over his own iPad at the counter. He looked to be a student himself, earning a few dollars for minding a very little-frequented wing. When Sarah stepped up to the counter, the youth peered at her through his long disheveled bangs. He blinked rapidly a few times, jerking his head up as if astonished at seeing a patron.

            “Yes?” he inquired in a voice incongruously high for his stubbled, above-average looks.

            Sarah smiled, and cut to the chase. “Communion Night. What do you have on that?” The youth blinked even more, nearly losing his grasp upon his tablet, grabbing for it before it slid off his lap onto the floor beneath his stool.

            “Commun- why? What do you know about that?” the youth stammered, his voice unfortunately rising even further up the scale.

            Sarah gave him a look of annoyance. The last few days had been chipping away at her patience, and she wasn’t going to bestow much more of it on this guy. “Nothing. That’s why I’m asking,” she said, her voice weighted with sarcasm.

            “Um, yeah. Okay,” the student spluttered. “Well, we don’t, we don’t really have any books on that. It’s just kind of a local thing. Have you tried the public library?” he offered with a shrug and a smile mean to be disarming.

            “Already been there.  So there’s nothing on Communion Night whatsoever? Fine. Then tell me about it,” Sarah demanded.

            The youth’s mouth resembled that of a fish; slowly opening and remaining agape then quickly closing before repeating, as the youth clearly spun his mental wheels searching for a reply. Sarah simply stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

            “You know what?” the flustered student exclaimed, “I think there might be something that will help you out. But,” he added, holding up his index finger in a (overdramatically so, Sarah thought) gesture of admonishment, “whatever you want to know or learn, don’t be too curious. If you’re here tomorrow night-“

            “-Stay inside,” Sarah interrupted. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

            The youth shrugged, and then slid off his stool, slapping his iPad upon the countertop as he wandered off into the stacks behind him.

            Several minutes later, he returned holding a large leather-bound book that had seen better centuries.

            “You can’t check this out, and technically it can’t even leave this counter, but you can take it over there to read if you want,” he said, gesturing towards a cluster of reading booths with the book.

            Sarah took the book to read the title, but there was none, not on the cover or the spine. She flipped it open and was mildly surprised to see that it was handwritten. A diary of sorts, apparently.

            “There’s a description in there by the writer, some guy who lived here hundreds of years ago. But it hasn’t really changed since, so what you see in there is still pretty much about right,” the youth volunteered.

            Sarah rewarded him with a genuine smile of appreciation, and walked briskly over to the nearest booth.

            After wasting perhaps half an hour searching to and fro through the pages, she finally found the entry she sought. Sure enough, the date corresponded to Friday’s date, but roughly two hundred years and change years earlier.

            The entry made, by the author, a Nathaniel Merick, gave a brief history of the meaning behind Communion Night- the meaning was literal- partaking of the flesh of God to become one with Him.

            But the God Merick wrote about was not a Christian one. It was what Merick called an Old One, a God from the farthest reaches of space that came to Earth long before humans were even a possibility in the protoplasmic soup. When the stars shifted, this God lost much power and went to sleep underneath the sea. But when the stars were right, when certain planets were in conjunction, then events like Communion Night were made possible.

            “It be Persones of Character quite Depleted,” Merick explained, “which do decide to Partake of this Communion moste Dreadful. The Desolate, the Unloved, the Mad, and those whom Wish to quit this Mortale Coyl.”

            Merick’s description of the actual ritual or ceremony or festivities was frustratingly amiss, though. Sarah searched further for more details, but all she could really glean was that these whom participated, didn’t survive. But they did indeed become joined with this Old One.

            Sarah closed the book, her curiosity at once allayed and piqued. She handed the book back to the student and made her way out of the library, her thoughts in a tangle.

            The next day was Friday, the day of Communion Night. She spent the day as a tourist, browsing the local boutiques and seeking out the best options for a leisurely lunch. tacitly avoiding any reference to Communion. She did note that as the day wore on, the places of business all closed up earlier than their posted hours, and the people who passed by her kept glancing at the setting sun as if to determine how much time before it sank below the horizon.

            One local finally broached the subject of Communion Night to Sarah. He was an elderly man driving a pickup truck that was so old and worn it looked like it was made of tin foil. He slowed down to a crawl to keep pace with Sarah as she walked down the sidewalk.

            “Miss, you want to be getting inside soon,” he called out to her. “It’s not safe to be out after dark tonight. We got what you might call a local tradition and-“

            Sarah turned to smile at the driver. “Communion Night, right?” The driver blinked, flustered.

            “Yes, miss. And I’m sorry to say, there’ll be mischief tonight. Best for you to stay indoors.” He smiled in what was probably supposed to be an innocuous manner.

            “If I don’t?” Sarah inquired airily. The man’s face underwent a rapid transformation, and Sarah wasn’t sure if she saw sorrow or anger before he pasted on the smile again.

            “I wish you would. But,” the driver added, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve, “if you do stay out after dark . . . at least try to keep out of the rain. You take care, miss.” With that the driver nodded once at her and drove ahead.

            Sarah stared up at the clear skies. Rain?

            The streets were nearly empty at dusk. The only other two people she saw was a very depressed looking man with thick glasses walking along with his hands in his pockets and head down, and a woman who was clearly homeless. The woman gesticulated and muttered in wild spurts as she slowly spun on her feet barely encased in tattered shoes.

            The Desolate, the Unloved, the Mad, Sarah recalled. Were these two going to participate? She wanted to observe, to satisfy her curiosity. She had no desire to perish, but surely if she remained a passive bystander, she’d avoid the fate of these who partook of the Communion?

            She wasn’t sure if the homeless woman actually had a plan in mind, so she began to follow the doleful man.  After several blocks, Sarah realized that there was someone walking a short distance behind her. As casually as she could, Sarah glanced behind her and saw a teenage girl clutching a photograph in her hand, stony-faced.

            A boy pedaling his bicycle furiously in the other direction nearly lost control of his bike as he darted his eyes continuously between the vestiges of the setting sun and the group of stragglers amongst whom Sarah walked.  At the last possible minute, the boy wrenched his handlebars around and continued rapidly down the street. A cacophony of screeches and indecipherable yelling informed Sarah that the homeless woman was indeed keeping pace with the other walkers, which now also included a middle-aged woman with tears running down her face, and two men in their twenties holding hands.

            Sarah slapped her arm as a mosquito bit her. But when she lifted her hand, she saw no crushed insect, dot of blood , or swelling on her arm. She saw instead a circle on her flesh about the size of a dime, sizzling and smoking slightly. She frowned, wincing as the delayed reaction of pain hit her. She gingerly poked the afflicted area, which felt spongy and also sent further jagged streaks of pain out from its center.

            She looked up to see that the others were now removing their clothes, in the jaundiced glow of the streetlights now coming on. Then she felt another bite, on her exposed neck. Yelping, Sarah clapped a hand to her neck, and felt a new wound identical to the one on her arm.

            She stared at the others, who ignored each other completely (except the two men who were helping each other undress.)  She could see small wisps of smoke appearing on their bodies, but the others remained stoic. Then something fell upon her eyelashes and burned them off.

            It was raining, Sarah finally realized, and this rain was literally acid rain. It didn’t seem to do much to her clothes, but wherever it touched her skin and hair . . .

She swept an horrified gaze across the vista before her- the naked people in various poses allowing the rain to eat away their skin drop by drop. The rain started to get heavier, and Sarah ran.

            She ran for the hotel, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid the deluge. The rain poured down on her and melted her.  The pain was indescribable and Sarah was unable to breathe, so stunned was her body system at the agony, but then soon it was over, Her nerves had been burned. Sarah couldn’t see what was happening any longer, her retinas long turned to bubbling, sizzling liquid.  But she could feel her mass moving, her flesh flowing down the street. She somehow retained her awareness, a consciousness of who she was and where she was going.

            Eventually, her liquid matter merged with that of the others, and she knew them intimately. She knew their identities, their thoughts, their despair. And they knew hers.  They had achieved Communion with each other. Now the only thing left to do was to partake in the final Communion, joining as one with their God, that ancient denizen of the deep, underneath the sea.

            As the seething, liquefied flesh made its way to the docks, to sink into the water, to congeal into a creature never imagined by any human mind, to then swim down further into the crushing depths to seek the Old One, Sarah felt joy, because she knew now she would truly never be alone again.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 38TH POSTCARD

      Darren ran his finger over the front of the Pennsylvania postcard, studying the photograph of the Heinz Stadium in Pittsburgh. He favored the San Francisco 49ers, but there was no denying the Steelers had a great track record. He wasn't too sure about their throwback uniforms though. Made it a little harder to take the Steelers seriously. He sat down on his sofa, waited for Riley to jump up on the sofa. Since Darren had began reading the cards, he'd found himself becoming more lenient with Riley, out of guilt over Riley's obvious consternation at all the attention and time he gave the postcards.           Once Riley's head was in his lap, and the dog had stated his thanks, his affection for Darren and his greater affection for bacon, Darren turned over the postcard and was immediately surprised at the volume of words already written in the tiny space. He blinke-

LOGORRHEA MAXIMUS

            You walk in with a bemused expression. I fold my newspaper, and put down the pen I’d been filling out the New York Times crossword puzzle with. I shake my hand slightly to ease out the cramps threatening to tense my hand.

            Can I help you, I query. Upon your stammered reply, I smile and nod knowingly. I’d already surmised the gist of your confusion. So you can’t read the signs outside, eh? No, no, I didn’t mean you couldn’t read at all. It’s just- you’re not from around here, are you? I detect a Southern accent. Oh, Mississippi?  Did anyone tell you about our  . . . unique culture here? No? Not even at the airport? Oh you drove here.

            Well for first-comers, and even many people who visit more than once, it can take some getting used to.  It even took us native Pittsburghers some getting used to, you know.

            Well, I wouldn’t call it a dialect. Not anymore, not since the exprecipitation. Exprecipitation. It’s a term- combination of expression and precipitation. Basically, the day it rained words.

            If you got a little time, I can tell you all about it. Yeah?  Well then, here goes.

            The day it rained words, it was a spring day, April thereabouts. Many Pittsburghers can tell you the exact date, it’s like when JFK was shot, or when the Space Shuttle exploded, or of course 9/11.  Me, I just remember it was sometime in April.

            The rain itself didn’t really look or feel any different. But there had to be something in it. Had to be. How else could you explain the changes that started right there and then?

            The first real big change was when we started dropping our local dialect. We stopped saying “yinz”, but we didn’t even go to “y’all”. We all just started saying “all of you”. “Slippy” became “slippery”, or “slick”.  I cannot remember the last time I heard “nebby” or “n’at” uttered around here.

            Then we started talking differently. I don’t mean just the words we used. I mean the grammar, the pronunciation. I heard many of us just started bumping people off Facebook if they misspelled words or used slang. We were turning into a city of vocabulary snobs, and we didn’t even see it at first.

            But then our mayor started passing all these new laws with how printed material should be regulated, and we voted for it all. Then we started t o pay for it all.  I think that’s when we started noticing we had really changed. Who really needs a stop sign that’s three times larger than the rest of the country? We have the longest home games of the entire NFL because our commentators take so much longer now to describe the plays, we have our players just standing waiting for the go ahead to begin play again.   

            But we couldn’t stop. We’d all been exposed to the exprecipitation.  Our local scientists began to correlate the rainfall with the language changes when Pittsburghers who had been away returned to the city, and talked like they had always talked . . . until the next rainfall.

            Our children, they have no idea of what it used to be like. They’re even coining new words that make complete sense, when your break them down into their roots, yet these words never existed before in speech or on paper until now.

            It became a real problem for our tourist business, when we realized that there were major communication breakdowns. The same for conversations via phone or Internet.  But luckily, we have some really fine universities here, and it only took three years before someone came up with Converease.

            That’s right, nearly all of us Pittsburghers are on daily medication. I couldn’t really tell you exactly how it works, except it blocks certain neural pathways in the brain related with language processing, allows us to use vocabulary more in sync with the rest of the country. Of course, there are a few of us that refuse to take the medication, saying there must be a reason Pittsburgh was chosen to experience the exprecipitation, and that we should be proud of our linguistic superiority. Well, you know, whatever. Takes all kinds.

            So yeah, it takes some getting used to. Now, how may I help you?  Ah, you’re looking for the Monongahela Incline? That is an indubitably gratifying enterprise for the uninitiated. I possess no degree of incertitude that you will indeed be appreciative of the winsome tableau of our superlative urbicolous loci. Forthwith, I shall advise you as in the proper lines of collimation to attain your desired terminus.

            Your cardinal flection needs must be gerontegous on the thoroughfare denominated as Boulevard of the Allies, the-

            Your countenance manifests perturbation of significant magnitude, ergo I am necessitated to postulate that your deduction of my migratory elucidations is negated. Therefore I am cognizant of my requisite alleviating curative dram.  Remain you here but a proximate time, I shall rejoin you.

            There. That’s much better- sorry, I hadn’t realized I was late for my Converease dose so anyway- wait- where did you go? You must haven been too frustrated and confused. Indeed, with a rapid glance out the doorway, I see you striding away in a great big huff. You’ll find someone to give you directions, if you possess enough patience.

            Back to the New York Times crossword. Still my favorite way to spend fifteen minutes each Sunday.