John walked down the dirt path along the bay side. The parade's clamorous noises doppled to a hum as he walked further and further away. The contorted sky was mixed with gray, black, and velvet colors that twined together, spun and moved by fast. Rain would soon be arriving.
The moist, thick air was almost suffocating and John could smell a sour odor coming from within his windbreaker. He was starting to sweat. The tang of woodsmoke lingered in the air and it burnt his eyes as if onion water was flung into his face. The parade had not yet ended, but he didn't feel like standing through the rest of it.
He walked alone, hands in his windbreaker's pockets, passing by rows of new, old, scraped, and dented cars. The water was black and very still, with the exception of the chill that blew past every once in awhile, which made the top of the water ripple and blow northward. John pulled up his jacket tight despite the fact that he was sweating. The homes and condominimums across the bay were barely visible through the thickening mist.
The wind began to pick up and it blew across the bay with savage malevolence. John's brow furrowed and he walked faster, the gravel path crunching under his feet. As he walked faster the rows of cars passed by him quicker. He looked up ahead, behind him and at his sides. No one was around. The weather was becoming eerie and fickle and he knew he had a good walk ahead of him before he came to his Dodgson.
A wall of low shrubbery littered with debris was coming up. On the other side, trees. A babble of noises came from within them--crickets, frogs, lunes...
He passed the shrubbery unaware that his heart was thudding heavily up until he passed it. It was dark and no one was around. He had watched TV specials about stalkers and thieves who hid in bushes and in short cuts waiting for anyone to pass. A sibiliate hiss came from within the shruberry that he had just passed. It was low, but loud enough for him to hear. It was a whisper.
Sweat beaded under his eyes and across his forehead and he could feel a sticky wetness from under his arms. It dripped down his sides. He pulled both hands out of his pockets and began to walk even faster pretending that he had never heard that noise. That hiss. That whisper.
He rubbed his hands together, closed his eyes, looked up, and thanked God his car was within viewing distance. He realized that his heart was still thudding. What in God's name was in those bushes that drove him to a state of screaming-meemies? Who?
He walked the rest of the way to his car. His hands hung stiffly at his sides. The festive noises of the parade were now a low lull. Before he reached his car, he had fished his keys from his pocket.
The monster eyes, harbored within the sessiling, debris-ridden shrubbery opened and slanted into thin slivers that arched upward for a moment as if they smiled... then closed.
The story Something Watching is Copyright 1998 by Jack Fisher.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.