THE MONSTER

*it walked in the woods.

it was never born. it existed under the pine needles the fire burn, deep and smokeless in the mold. in heat and In darkness and decay there is growth. there is life and there is growth. it grew, but it was not alive. it walks unbreathing through the woods, and thought and was hideous and strong, and it was not born and it did not live. it grew and moved about without living.

It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mould into the cool of a morning. it was huge. it was lumped and crusted with it's own hateful substance's, and pieces of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and laying writhing, and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.

It had no mercy,no laughter,no beauty. it's hard strength and great intelligence. And—perhaps it could not be destroyed. it crawled out of it mound in the wood and laying pulsing in the sunlight for a long moment. patches of its Sean Whitley in the Golden glow parts of it were nubbled and flacked. and whose dead bones had given it the form of a man?

It scrabbled painfully with its half-formed hands, beating the ground and the bole of a tree. it rode on lifted itself up on it's crumbling elbows, and it tore up a great handful of herbs shredding them against its chest, and it costs and gazed at the gray-green juices with intelligent calm. it's wavered to It feet, and sized a young sapling and destroyed it, folding the slender trunk back on itself again and again, watching attentively and useless, fibre splinters. and it snatched up a fear-frozen field- creature, crushing it slowly letting blood and Pulpy flesh and fur ooze from between it's fingers, run down and rocks on the forearms.

it began searching

Kimbo drifted through the tall grass is like a puff of dust,his bushy tail curled tightly over his back and his long jaw's agape. he ran with an endless easy lope, loving his freedom and the power of his flanks and furry shoulder's. his tongue lolled listlessly over his lips. his lips were black and serrated, and each tiny liplet swayed with his doggy in Gallop. kimbo was all dog, all healthy animal.

he leaped high over a boulder and landed with a startled yelp as a longeared cony shot from it's hiding place under The Rock. kimbo hurted after it, grunting with each grade trust of his legs. the rabbit bounce just ahead of him keeping his distance its ears flattened on its crawling back and his little legs nibbling away at distance hungrily. it stopped, and kimbo pounced, and the rabbits shut away at a tangent and popped into a hollow log. Kimbo yelped again and rushed sniffling at the log, and knowing it's failure, curvetted but once around the stump and ran on into the forest. The thing that watched from the woods raised it's arms and waited for kimbo. kimbo sensed it there, standing dead-still by the path. To him it was bulk which smelled of carrion not fit for him to roll in, and he snuffled distastefully and ran to pass it.

the thing let him come abreast and dropped a heavy twisted fist on him. kimbo saw it coming and curled up tight as he ran, and the hand clipped stunningly on his rump, sending him rolling and yipping down the slope.kimbo straddled to his feet, and shook his head, shook his body with a deep growl,came back to the silent thing with green murder in his eyes.he walked stiffly, straight-legged,his tail as low as his lowered head and a ruff of furry round his neck. The thing raised it's arms again, again, waited.

kimbo slowly,then flipped himself through the air at the monster's throat.his jaw's closed on it; his teeth clicked together through a mass of filth, and he fell choking and snarling at it's feet. The thing leaned down and struck twice, and after the dog's back was broken, it sat beside him and began to tear him apart.

"be back in an hour or so," said Alton Drew, picking up his rifle from the corner behind the wood box. his brother laughed.

"old kimbo 'bout runs your life Alton,"

he said. "ah,I know the ol' devil," said Alton. "when I whistle for him for half an hour and he don't show up he's in a jam or he's treed something with shootin' at. The ol' son of a gun calls me by not answerin'."

Cory Drew shoved a full glass of milk over to his nine-year old daughter and smiled. " You think as much o' that houn' dog o' your's as I do of Babe here"

Babe slid off her chair and ran to her uncle. "Gonna catch me the bad fella Uncle Alton?" she shrilled. The "bad fella" was Cory's and invention—the one who lurked in corner's ready to pounce on little girls who chased the chickens and played around mowing machines and hurled green apples with a powerful young arm at the sides of the hogs, to hear the synchronized thud and grunt; little girls who swore with an Austrian accent like an ex-hired man not hey had had; who dug caves in haystacks till they tipped over, and kept pet crawfish in tomorrow's milk can's, and rode work horses to a lather in the pasture.

Get back here and keep away uncle Alton's gun!" said Cory. "if you see the bad fella, Alton,chase him back here. he has a date with babe here for that stunt of her last night." The preceding evening,babe had kind-heartedly poured pepper on the cow's salt block.