A gnome, a really ugly one, squat of body, gnarled of face, mean of eye, strolled out from around the carton of milk and jerked the box of cereal away from Sheppard. The gnome stuck his filthy mitts into the cereal and shoved the food into his mouth, said mouth containing a long pointed tongue and broken teeth of ugly yellow. Shepard took the bottle of Kahlua from which he had been swilling and emptied the contents down the sink. The gnome went to Sheppard’s bowl and lapped at the colorful contents, dribbling the now pastel milk down his chin. Then the gnome stripped naked. Sheppard went to the cupboard, took down his entire supply of spirits, and upended every bottle into the sink. The gnome climbed into the box of cereal to reach those hard-to-get Fruit-Loops wedged in the corners. Shepard opened his fridge and gazed at the sixpacks of Guinness Stout. He looked at the gnome. The gnome was now lying in Sheppard’s bowl of milk that had one stray, red piece of cereal floating in it. The gnome’s eyes closed, and the small monster splashed milk across his protruding belly and hairy navel. Sheppard decided he was of such stern stuff that he could give all the Guinness to his sister when he went to her and his brother’s-in-law house tonight for dinner. Sheppard looked at the bowl of Fruit Loop colored milk with the gnome in it. Milk suddenly bubbled violently between the gnome’s legs. The gnome was farting it up in the milk, farting up the milk. The lone, red Fruit Loop floated to soggy rest on the gnome’s hairy belly. The gnome bent his head to it, and slurped it up. Sheppard grabbed up his six-packs of Guinness and headed out to his car. His sister wouldn’t mind him showing up early, especially with all this Guinness.
At his sister’s, Sheppard let his family drink all of the Guinness. He really had a great time. For once, he didn’t say anything rude, and his family laughed at his jokes and smiled at him all evening. He drove home without scraping the side of his car on anything. He even showered before he climbed into bed.
The next day Sheppard awoke happy — one day sober! After showering and dressing, Sheppard simply left the apartment and went to work. He called a number about another apartment and drove to it that night, deposit monies in his pocket. He never went back to his old apartment.
Cynthia Joyce Clay, a theater artist, passed the Turing Test at the 1st Loebner Prize Competition. Computer programmers thought she was a Shakespeare conversation program, a truly sf experience. Cynthia was chased by the KGB and surrounded by soldiers with uzis when she was invited to Russia to attend a conference, “Languages of Science: Languages of Art.” This experience in the thriller genre made Cynthia prefer to write sf, fantasy, and zany flash fiction.
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