"Marc Laidlaw - Sneakers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

SNEAKERS
By
Marc Laidlaw




It's easy to exploit the fears of the young. Easier still because those
fears never entirely leave us. We think we've outgrown them; we believe
that maturity has taught us better; we hope that all those fears weren't
presentments of the future. And when someone like Marc Laidlaw comes
along and gives us a piece like "Sneakers, "we know—even though we
don't want to know—that maturity and experience and sophistication
count for nothing when the sun goes down and there are sounds out
there we cannot identify. And they don't mean a thing when a shadow
climbs the wall without a light to cast it.



~~o~O~o~~



WHAT ARE YOU dreaming, kid?

Oh, don't squeeze your eyes, you can't shut me out. Rolling over won't
help—not that blanket either. It might protect you from monsters but not
from me.

Let me show you something. Got it right here…

Well look at that. Is it your mom? Can't you see her plain as day? Yeah,
well try moonlight. Cold and white, not like the sun, all washed out; a
five-hundred-thousandth of daylight. It can't protect you.

She doesn't look healthy, kid. Her eyes are yellow, soft as
cobwebs—touch them and they'll tear. Her skin is like that too, isn't it?
No, Mom's not doing so good. Hair all falling out. Her teeth are swollen,
black, and charred.

Yeah, something's wrong.

You don't look so good yourself, kiddo—

"Mom… ?"

What if she doesn't answer?

Louder this time: "Mom!"