SPRING CLEANING

G. A. Scheinoha

From a few teeth, assorted bicuspids, canines and incisors tossed carelessly to earth, sprang forth a handful of mortals. Or were they more?

You see, it came about in this manner. Dr. Harold, the village dentist had pulled teeth for years but never considered disposing of the extracted choppers.

There was something vaguely sinful in simply destroying what God alone had wrought. And, as the decades passed, the accumulated weight of once pearly whites grew; the twisted or cracked stubs with their more grotesquely gnarled roots, sometimes perfectly formed crowns, their cores eaten away by cavities.

One day, all these chewers began to rattle like old dry bones in their coffins. From each cupboard Dr. Harold heard first a wispy gnashing that grew steadily in volume until it sounded as if the whole world stood just outside his office, grinding their bridgework to a wordless yet somehow still melodious rhythm.

You can well imagine his nurse's dismay as he rushed from the examining room, ignored her urgent pleas, a duffel bag tucked beneath his arm. Something from within, not unlike (teeth?) gnawed at the fabric from the inside as though to chomp its way out.

Dr. Harold dived behind the wheel of his Buick. He hadn't driven very far outside the village limits when he thought he heard cloth tear. Slamming the car to a stop, the harried dentist yanked the bag out, drew the zipper open, reached in—and something bit him.

He jerked his hand free of the duffel to find half a dozen molars buried in the back and across the palm. "Arrgh!" he cried, wrung his arm to dislodge these odd assailants, the human/inhuman equivalent of porcupine quills.

Wherever they fell, the soil smoldered, tendrils of smoke stretched upwards like fingers and out of these grew forms that stood, straightened themselves up to reveal human shape. But what decay showed upon the faces of these beings.

Maybe the good doctor had seen one too many zombie movies. Or it was just too much strain on an already overtaxed brain. He piled into the Buick, the tires squawked a rubbery patch, last evidence of his passing.

The doctor was never seen again. Some claim he's taken up residence in a mental hospital somewhere. Though heavily sedated, he carries on about these hundreds of teeth chewing, gnawing, grinding, chomping.

Who knows what the real story, the entire truth is? But if you hear what begins as a slow gritting, the steady grate of uppers and lowers, well, need I say more?