Cometary Tales

By Richard Meehan, Jr

"If you like your science fiction with a side of clever, droll, understated humor, you're in luck. Whether it's a plague - can one big one be a plague? - of alien vermin bent on alien conquest, or an interesting new take on a certain legendary piper, or a fancy new contraption that bypasses the laws of physics, you can't go wrong with Meehan's smart, sassy Cometary Tales. I love it!" ~ K.G. McAbee, author of RUBY MOONS AND ALABASTER STARS and DARKNESS BECKONS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Meehan, Jr
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370390670

Richard Meehan, Jr

I love to write - always have. Some of my stories are completely true, while others are totally not. That's the way of non-fiction and fiction. As with all writers that keep plugging at the art, my work has been published here and there over a large number of years. I've authored opinion columns, short stories, s.f., children's poems, personal experience, Christian literature, and other speculative pieces. It's not the sale of my work that counts for me, although it's a great feeling when something does sell. Instead, I take great satisfaction from knowing that I have readers. Don't get me wrong, though. Money is good. If you find something here that you like, please purchase the download or make an offer as the case may be.

Book preview

Cometary Tales

by

Richard Meehan, Jr.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Richard Meehan, Jr.

Cover design by Richard Meehan, Jr.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. If you enjoyed this book, please look for other works by Richard Meehan, Jr. The author welcomes comments and reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: April 2016

ISBN: 9781370390670

Contents

Just a Matter of Interpretation

The Bar Killer

Vibrapod

Turn About Is Fair

Excerpt from Starship for Sale

About the Author

Just a Matter of Interpretation

In contrast to the hot gorge rising in Bob’s throat, the cool April morning promised to mature into brilliant azure skies adorned with puffy clouds. He hoped to survive long enough to enjoy it. Unfortunately, the creature seemed to have other ideas. It kept shuffling nearer despite the pitchfork he was brandishing. In all his born days he had never seen nor smelled anything so bad. Even last year’s stillborn calf couldn’t match the stench coming off the thing. Bob swallowed hard.

He noticed that time was getting by. The sun was creeping over the treetops along the stream now. Mist was rising from the watercourse in a ghostly white line which seemed to cut him off from any possibility of help. He doubted anybody from the house could see what was happening even if they were awake yet.

As if to take advantage of his despair, the creature wriggled closer still. He poked at it, took another step backward.

Perhaps sensing his fear, the creature rose up like a rattlesnake preparing to strike. Its underbelly was covered in lobster-like pinchers, all clacking and spinning in circles like hundreds of little disk harrows. Two unblinking kidney-shaped eyes, each the size of May-Belle’s china turkey platter, were situated to either side of long thick lips. Bob’s own terrified reflection taunted him. An inexplicable sensation of being in the presence of a vast intellect shot panic through his knees.

He tried to gauge how much further he had to back up to get to Big Red. The tractor had to be close; he couldn’t take his eyes off the creature though. If he could move fast enough maybe he could get aboard and lock himself in the cab before the thing figured out what was happening. The creature dropped its head, began to edge around the reach of his pitchfork. It was trying to cut him off!

Sweat trickled maddeningly down the back of his neck from beneath the band of his straw hat despite the morning chill. His glasses were fogging. Not for a second would he drop his guard to wipe or scratch.

As Bob moved, so did the creature. It was a shuffling dance of horror with a bull-sized partner that looked like it could squash him flat with a single misstep. Whichever way the creature trundled it left a glistening trail of slime.

Now the sun was on his neck; he could see Big Red only thirty feet away. The creature was working him around in a circle! It still had not managed to get between him and the tractor; there was a chance. Muscles bunched in his legs, but he had learned long ago that he couldn’t trust that feeling of power anymore – too damn old. A whiff of newly turned soil brought welcome relief from the horrible smell, along with a touch of hope. His glasses cleared slightly. Time to run for it!

With a mighty effort, Bob pumped his legs in the loose dirt. One moment he was lurching toward the tractor. The next, his mouth was full of grit. Gasping and sputtering, he rolled onto his back. The creature loomed above him, the pitchfork gripped in a multitude of belly claws. It nibbled at the sharp tines with prominent, chitinous lips. When it noticed he was watching, a flurry of movement resulted in the tines prodding at his chest instead. Those huge kidney eyes bore into him from mere inches away. Miasmic fumes sent his mind into a whirlwind.

Until about an hour ago, the day had been going along fine. He had gathered the eggs for May-Belle before he headed out to plow the stream-side field. That way, Dickie (she sure hated that nickname), Jack Senior, and the young’uns could have a big country breakfast with all the trimmings when they finally woke up. He could smell the bacon frying already – yummmm. Dickie had said she wanted the boys to learn what potato farming was all about. Evidently four in the morning was too much farming for them. And it was still way early, probably six-ish. He doubted anybody would miss him for at least another hour or so. By then he’d probably be dead. It was just a matter of interpreting the facts.

He happened to notice the creature’s skin had the texture of armadillo hide, especially around those lips. A pitchfork wasn’t much of a weapon, dang it, considering. That thought drew an odd giggle from him; he felt vaguely guilty.

Why hadn’t he just stayed up in Big Red where it was safe instead of acting like a blooming idiot trying to get up close and personable with this … this … whatever? There really ain’t no fool like and old fool, sure enough.

Maybe the whatever was thinking this too. It kept weaving over him as if it wanted to ask something but was afraid of getting an answer. He glanced down at the pitchfork still resting on his chest. The thought of taking it back and sticking it up the creature’s posterior, wherever that was, brought another giggle out of him. He realized that wasn’t quite right either, so he let off a guffaw instead.

The creature shrank back as if surprised.

To the tune of loud buzzing, dust began to fall on Bob’s cheeks. He watched the handle of the pitchfork disintegrate amid spinning claws. The metal head fell; one of the tines clipped his glasses, knocking them off. It stung. Something wet trickled down his temple. His disorientation started to clear.

Shoulders aching, he struggled to rise, but only got as far as his elbows. Why hadn’t the creature done him in already? He growled, Get on with whatever it is you’re gonna do, dang it! I want to get me some breakfast with the grand-young’uns!

The creature seemed to catch the gist. Armored lips parted to make a gaping black hole.

SPLAT!

A fist-sized object, dripping slobber, fell out of its mouth. Whatever the item was plopped right on his coveralls bib and rolled down between his legs where it gave off