Ficlets

Robert pored over the charts again. The sound of the TV made his teeth grind, but he said nothing. He never said anything. That would change on… the 17th, yes.

He pulled a rusted folding chair from under the table and shuffled through the books stacked on it, removed a leatherbound volume reeking of age and exotic spices. Page 432, marked with a pink Post-It.

He dug up a legal pad, a pen and his old, coverless Latin dictionary. Encrypted Latin to plain Latin, plain Latin to English.

The Goat could pass via the gaunt mother’s womb when the stars were right, if invited. He checked the charts again: still the 17th, had to be.

For now, let Arden watch ESPN and Gold fret over the plaintive cries that occasionally came from the bathroom. (Gold’s conscience might prove a liability, but he was the only other person Robert knew with the proper interests, and Robert needed at least three voices.)

Robert rechecked the charts. Two days, and the world would be the face under his bootheel, Arden and Gold included.