Gladiators
by
John C. Mannone
“Lois, get over here. Check this
out.”
“Wait a
minute, Fred, I got to get the cheese bread baked before our guests arrive.”
Moments
later his wife shuffles to the living room with flour still on her hands.
Fred rustles
the paper to page A3 and reads the headline there:
January 1, 2013[AP]: Televisions Go Haywire
All over America
this morning, TVs are behaving strangely.
“A hyperwarp
transformation of space-time is sucking people
into the screen,”
Dr. Lovelace from the Brook Institute said.
Witnesses reported
that their loved ones started to mysteriously
go missing; the
strange phenomena started this morning. It’s be-
lieved to be
caused by some electrical disturbance. “It’s advised
that no one watch
their TVs until the problem is resolved,”
Lovelace said.
“Can you
believe this stuff? Well, I’m watching the bowl game anyway and that’s that.”
Fred slams down the paper on the coffee table and fetches a beer.
“Don’t you
think you ought to look into that first?” Lois shifts her eyes from Fred to the
blank TV screen, then back to the kitchen. “I gotta get this baking done! It’s
probably a Nostradamoff prank left over from 2012 doomsday farce.”
“It’s
Nostradamus. And you’re probably right. This is bullshit.” Fred’s fingers work
the aluminum tab to pop on the beer can; spume runs down the sides of the can
and onto the table. “Damn it!” Fred
slurps the beer foaming through the keyhole-shaped opening before more spills
to the floor.
“The playoff
starts in thirty minutes—it’s the Gladiators versus the Saints.” Fred
authoritatively clicks the remote; powers the TV on. “There!”
‘Honey, I
need your help in the kitchen for a minute . . . Fred, please!”
After a few more moments, Lois
stomps into the living room. “Damn it, Fred, why can’t . . . Fred? Fred! Where
the hell did you go?”
Lois hears
the commotion on the TV, but it doesn’t look like a football crowd. She inches
closer to the set. She mumbles to herself, “Thousands of cats and dogs in the
stands, meowing and barking, as if cheering. And the field is full of . . . mice?
She peers more closely to see.
She
screams but she’s only frightened for a moment; she’s now secure in the comfort
of Fred’s arms again. But he isn’t saying anything. He just wraps his long-sleeved
arms around Lois, holds her tight, closing his eyes.
She doesn’t notice
his furry
hands. She doesn’t sense the giant shadow looming, doesn’t see its fangs.
John
C. Mannone has poems in Windhover, North
Dakota Quarterly, Poetry South, Baltimore
Review, and others. Winner/Nominee of numerous
contests/awards, John edits poetry for Abyss
& Apex and other journals. He’s a physics professor teaching high
school math in Tennessee.
http://jcmannone.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/jcmannone/