Air Kwatz

By Ronald Anthony Cross

This tale is part in a long series of "Kwatz" stories, a sort of elemental pantheon of Spritz, which Ron Cross has been working on during the last couple of years. “Air Kwatz,” like all of his work, rather defies introduction. Suffice to say that what follows is highly original, beautifully rendered, and happily irreverent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781479458660

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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

AIR KWATZ

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1981 by Ronald Anthony Cross.

Originally published in The Berkley Showcase: New Writings in Science Fiction and Fantasy, Vol. 4.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

AIR KWATZ

Ronald Anthony Cross

I

Sunup in big city: another lovely morning, the shooting hour was just ending and already the grim efficient humane society was carting off the last of them. It was always a silent hour after the shooting, but today was to be especially so; only a few stragglers still at it, but at great distance, so that all you heard was a soft pop pop pop every now and then to sort of augment the early morning solitude. Had any birds remained, I would like to think they would have been singing their hearts out.

Heads popped out apartment windows, tall buildings were studded with them (mine among them)—was it safe to go out yet?

Comparatively so, was the answer, was always the answer. Now we ventured forth to rush to our mundane jobs, we being the ordinary Joes (although my name is Alonso).

The rush hour emerged like the buzzing of a swarm of bees from that one liquid moment of silence that follows the early morning shooting hour. Then we were out and darting here and there, stealing sly glances at our wristwatches. (In my case an empty wrist which I savored like a goblet that still held a hint of the bouquet of a fine wine: I had thrown away my watch— when was it? Ah well.)

Here and there still a stray body, perhaps two, I’ll admit it. But you’re not going to turn me against the grim efficient humane society: they’re okay with me. Same goes for the shooters. They have their hour, we ours. And for the most part they stick to it.

Just as I said that, pop pop pop makes me out a