Heath L. Buckmaster

It was close to midnight when I turned off the alarm and cracked open the front door to listen for another scream. I was sure I had heard the distinct sound of a female screaming only minutes before - the window in the bedroom was open only a few inches, inhibited by the security latches. But a few inches was just enough for the noise to get through the screen and into my ears as I dreamed of a peanut butter cascade pouring down Niagara Falls.

I was positive it was a scream, so I crept out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where the alarm panel sat glowing with a red warning to intruders who might peek through the window to see if the system was armed. With the press of a few buttons I was defenseless, and I snuck up to the front door, turning the porch light off with a flick of the switch.

Outside, the yard grew instantly dark - the garden lighting had already gone off only a half-hour before, and without street lighting the only illumination came from the waning moon and the Jimmerson's porch light a few houses down. I casually wondered why this street had no city-provided lighting, but a second scream from down the street shook me from my question and I jumped back inside and slammed the door. That was definitely a scream.

What is the protocol for something like this? Call 9-1-1? Get a makeshift weapon and leave the security of my home to see what was going on at the end of the block? The only weapon I could come up with was a kitchen fire extinguisher that had expired nearly a year ago and was likely never to be replaced. And what would the 9-1-1 operator say? "You heard a scream? Is that all?"

Yes. At the moment that was all, since I was now back inside with the door closed and locked. Maybe I was hearing a strange bird, or the sound of a car's tires squealing. I wasn't prepared to distract a few police officers from real issues to come investigate what could just be someone's bald tires on their Honda Prelude.

Begrudgingly, I reached behind the microwave to get the fire extinguisher. It had never been used, so presumably was still full of fire retardant - I could hear the liquid moving around inside the canister while I walked back to the front door. I grabbed my keys from a small table, unlocked the door, and stepped outside.

My house slippers made no sound on the front porch as I turned around and locked the door behind me. It was quiet and cool outside, even though the day had been near 100. Once the sun went down, the valley temperatures plummeted almost forty degrees. It was why I had been able to open the windows and cool the house down instead of running the air conditioner, and now, because of those open windows I was walking across my front yard listening for any sounds that could convince me to run back inside and call the police. But now it was silent, and still, as if I had not stepped out into my front yard, but into a cemetery.

Since I had turned off my own porch light, it was difficult to see where I was stepping - although I was very familiar with the layout of my front yard. Down the block I saw a single porch light shining out onto the street casting shadows in every direction. There was no movement in the neighbourhood. I did not hear the sound of any cars driving by, and even the wind took a break from fluttering the remaining leaves on the trees that were moving toward fall.

I walked down the sidewalk, past the apricot tree, then the apple tree, then the elm that separated my yard from the next. No apples this year - apparently the unusual fall heat was unkind to the tree, or else there was a nutrient problem in the soil. But apples weren't important at the moment, especially since one of the shadows in front of me had shifted slightly to the left.

I gasped, as quietly as I could. I began shivering, even though it really wasn't cold enough for that. For a moment I stood motionless until my hands started cramping from holding the fire extinguisher too tight to my chest. The shadow had definitely moved - which meant it wasn't a shadow at all. Someone was out there in the darkness. Someone who was either the screamer, or the cause of it. And frankly, I didn't want to meet up with either of them at 12:08am when I should have been in bed having bizarre dreams about peanut butter.

The elm tree was to my right, and I quietly stepped onto the grass near the tree and put my back to the bark. Peeking around the side I stared into the shadows, willing my eyes to grant me night vision just this once. I couldn't see anything, then I remembered that trick you learn for "seeing" in the dark. It's all about using peripheral vision instead of looking at something directly. If you aim your eyes just to the side of where you really want to look, then you can easily see movement and shapes. Who knows why the eyes had that strange nighttime blind spot, but as I scanned to the left and right of the shadows, I saw the vague outline of a figure standing.

Curse that trick. It would have been so much simpler to pretend there was nothing there since I couldn't look at it directly, but now that I'd seen him, or it, there was no turning back. I had to look again. Focusing my eyes in the general vicinity of the figure, I saw the shape again - and it moved, ever so slightly toward me. Now there was cause for alarm - great alarm.

I was armed with an expired fire extinguisher, against a person who was adept at hiding within the shadows. This was not an encounter I had any desire to meet. My heart was already pounding in my chest, but as I bent down to sneak back to my front door another scream shot across the street and I nearly replied with my own.

I took off at a run, dropping the fire extinguisher onto the ground as I leaped over a hedge of azaleas bordering the yard. My hand was in my pocket frantically grabbing for my house key as I made it to the door. With the porch light off I could not see the front door key. That would have been nearly enough to send me into a panic, had it not been for the sound of running footsteps coming down the street behind me.

I finally felt the shape of the correct key and I jammed it hard into the deadbolt lock. In an instant I was pushing the door open and slamming it close, twisting the lock so hard I was sure it was going to break off into the frame. I raced across the living room, slamming my foot into the coffee table with a yelp, and spun around the door frame into the kitchen to activate the alarm.

With the forceful press of a button, I felt the security of glass break sensors, motion detectors, and open door sensors surround me in a blanket of protection.

And then, the doorbell rang.

Percival Pig was a curious pig. He loved to play in his pen, especially when it was raining outside. The feel of the water splashing onto his perfectly pink skin made him giggle with glee - much to the amusement of the other pigs.

They were jealous, you see, because their skin was black and white with speckles, but Percival was purely pink. Not a single dot of another colour blemished his skin, and when he wasn't rolling around in the mud bath he kept himself perfectly clean.

It was raining today - pouring rain actually. Most of the pigs were under an awning watching the torrential rain beat against the mud puddles. Percival was standing outside with his snout turned up toward the sky letting the shower wash over him. Earlier in the day, before the clouds moved in, he was covered in dirt. It was fun for him to pretend that he was like the other pigs, and if he rolled around in just the right spot he could create the illusion that he wasn't completely pink.

None of the other pigs bought the illusion, but Percival didn't care - he was a pig of the world, with dreams and hopes and aspirations that the other pigs did not seem to share, or in most cases even understand.

"Percival, why would you ever want to go outside the fence? There are no mud puddles out there, and you wouldn't be able to get to to the food trough!" They chided him daily as he stood near the latched gate and stared into the green pasture beyond the farm.

He tried to explain to them, but their tiny brains just didn't believe that there was something else beyond the fence. They were content with their slop and their mud.

Percival, was not. And as the downpour of rain continued, one of the fence posts began to sink. Not only did it sink, but it started to tip over as the ground underneath became waterlogged and could no longer sustain the weight.

The wood made creaking noises, and the pigs under the awning turned their heads to see what was going on. Slowly the fence leaned further and further away, and the latch on the gate sprung open from the strain. They gasped and snorted in surprise. "The gate! It's open!"

The wet pigs who had been standing out in the rain with Percival squealed and ran back under the awning in fear. Percival looked back at them for only a moment before splashing through the mud toward the gate, that was now in danger of breaking away from the fence.

The world was completely open to him - a vast green landscape of wet blades of grass waved in the wind as if they were beckoning him to join them. And so he did. Percival stepped timidly out of the enclosure and touched the grass for the first time in his life. He was used to the rough texture of the straw in the barn, but he had always wondered what the green spikes in the field would feel like.

They did not disappoint him. As he stepped through the glade, the grass bent under his hoofs creating a soft and gentle surface. He jumped in the air with glee as the rain continued to pour, and the other pigs who looked out at him from under the awning grew jealous of his excitement. Some of them crept out into the rain and up to the fence line to watch Percival. They dared not leave the protection of the pen, but they wanted to see where he was going.

Percival was giddy, and he began running around and around rolling in the grass and jumping into the air with a squeal. He chased invisible ghosts to the left, then back to the right, as water sprayed up from the grass where he frolicked.

And Percival would have kept right on frolicking for hours, but as the wet pigs in the pen watched him turn toward the farm house, he suddenly vanished in a spray of water. Several of them thought they heard a squeal, but the pouring rain made it difficult to hear at a distance.

"Was that Percival?" "Did you hear a squeal?" "Where did he go?" "He was right there!" "I told him not to leave the pen!" "What should we do?"

The pigs were all chattering at once, then they grew silent and stared around at each other as the rain splattered across their snouts. None of them had any idea what to do.