Hey there world,
This is the final part of the Cath R. Wood & Russell Philips close encounter of the fictitious kind.
If you haven’t read the earlier parts, try them first, as you won’t really get this post without the background into it. The links are just below.
Hoping you’ve had a cracker of a weekend.
In the manner of a lense being opened, light had spread with their move on to the road, still holding the pair within its boundary. Slowly turning back to face the car, jaws hanging, Russ and Cath took in the sight of the enormous midnight black phantom on the roof languidly extending its legs, and watched in absolute horror as the impossibly big otherworldly beast stepped down on to the bonnet, denting it under its weight…………..
…………….Standing at least three and a half metres in height, heavily built, yet well proportioned, the beast did not appear either naked, nor clothed. Man shaped and entirely black, the shiny liquid black of sump oil when drained, the phantom had no other colour at all to it. With eyes the same viscous glossy black, the tremendous beast was huge and magnificent, entirely bald with pointed ‘Spock’ like ears, a long narrow jawline, and a sharp thin nose. Thick heavy bands of muscles covered its arms, legs, chest, and it sported a neck Mike Tyson would have envied. The only thing it lacked was obvious gender. Watching on in abject horror, the enormous biped strode toward them, stopping an arms length in front of the pair.
And then it did the most unexpected thing.
It laughed. It was a deep throaty laugh, rich and full and loud; the sort of laugh that can only happen with the head thrown back, a laugh that starts in the belly, and just works its way out. Recovering from its moment of merriment, it looked down at the inseparable pair, and slowly extended its huge hand, palm up, toward them. Half way between Cath and itself, it turned its hand over, lengthened what could only be described as its right index finger, and then pointed it at the ground. Bending at the knee, the beast crouched down, placing the tip of its still extended finger toward the road. A short blue arc extended two centimetres between finger and bitumen, the behemoth traced a circle the size of the base of a large milo tin into the blue metal surface. Sparks and smoke playfully dancing with his movement. Circle complete, it drew out a gravelly orange core of bitumen and road some thirty centimetres long, holding it gently its gargantuan hand, the beast stood, turned, and strode back over to the little Holden. Not looking back, it stepped onto the bonnet for a second time, moving to the roof, to vanish completely from sight.
As quickly as it had come, the light disappeared leaving a dancing fading image semi burned into Cath and Russ’s retina’s.
“Cath, what does the stop watch say?” asked Russell, still blinking away the after images of seriously bright light.
“Eight minutes, 28 seconds.” she said, the watch beeping with a press of her finger.
“Now what time does your watch say?”
“Eight thirty eight.”
“So eight minutes and twenty seconds have passed. Your watch was functioning the whole time, and the time hasn’t changed?” looking at the hastily drawn ‘8.38’ written on the back of his hand.
“And we just saw a big bright white light coming down from the sky, in a perfect circle, that got bigger and smaller every time we moved around under it?”
“And a big black scary thing cut a hole in the road with its finger?”
“And there’s still a hole in the road?”
“And the bonnet has two big dents in it?”
“And it laughed at us?”
“Shit.” said Russ, a man rarely stumped for words.
Eyes now readjusted once more to the night, Cath and Russ slowly walked back to the car, Russ opening Cath’s door for her, proof of the gent that he is. Walking back around to the drivers side, Russell Philips, still in a slightly shock filled daze, turned the key, the engine kicking over immediately. Turning the lights on, then the right indicator, he pulled out on to Great Northern Highway, and was back at 112 km per hour in less than a minute. The lights of New Norcia beginning to show in the distance.
“Cath. How many bars have you got?”
Click the picture of the Noah above, and on ‘Mr. Cave’ and those dastardly ‘Bad Seed’s’ he hangs around with will sing you a rather splendid song. Apparently, there’s no night out in the jail?
PS -This really, really, didn’t happen. It is utter bollocks, actually, I think it to be a fairly crap story even by my standards. I give it two out of ten. Drink cider, you know you deserve it.
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