Private Me-Mont

its primed for the movie and ready to shoot!

Private

Me-Mont

>
(excerpted from
Chapter II)

by: Edward and
Mariana

Calhoun

The floating bag, rising amongst

the
towers of the golden city. The tall skyscrapers shone a myriad of
reflections

in the sunlight. From his parents penthouse young Timmy
watched the bag rising up. The

creature loomed over young Jenkins.
Its brain, he noticed, in the odd moment, was

partially exposed. Was
that the doctors madness? The experiments inside the locked

and
hallowed bungalow, destroyed a mere half hour ago by the hidden bomb.
The bomb

he himself had planted, at the behest of Adaline. The beast
cast around, its nose

searching for his scent. Luckily, he was
downwind. The sand was damp . He was going

straight to hell. He knew.
He should have kissed her when he had the chance. Now it

was far too
late. In order to kiss her, he would have to kiss the beast hunting
for

him, and that would, to say the least, invite death. No, he
sighed to himself, getting

up as the beast itself unwound itself
along the scent of his trail.

Back at El Dorado, the Blackness was
coming. The bases

underneath the ground held no recourse for the last
of the Scientists. All the girls

were wild now. In that they held
even more beauty. There were many letters from the

office. Many
memos, with all the stuff blacked out. Like the eyes from that

one
comic he’d found, Lil Orphan Annie, only someone had gone through and
blacked

out all the eyes. In the hallway he found the folded over
newspaper with the comics

page exposed, the characters eyes all
blacked out. Was someone following him, trailing

him? But who, and
why leave this clue of blacked eyes? He didn’t know, he couldn’t

say.
He returned to the office. No one but him, and the dentists office
had known

about his appointment. He was getting his teeth whitened.
The manner in which his

words could be construed for the purpose of
mixing trees. His passion for tattoos and

bamboo. The week in the
daily monstrously. His hands covered the scabs behind his ear.

He
could still pick at it when he wanted, in private. He drove over the
road. Up

amongst the bumping of the little track that his neighbor
called a road. What could he

do. The movement was by far too rough.
His dreams were liquid. His hands just wanted

to scratch the itch.
The dream was liquid. His hand could scratch the itch. His

hand.
Already, edging up into his inner ear. The path followed a circular
route. He

cast a glance in his mirror. A vision was there. A series
of 4 pyramids, each with a

flat top, each in utter ruin.