The Creature Stirs...

The air is still, the only sounds are of spiders creeping across the stone walls of the underground cavern. Light struggles to break though the few cracks and windows, but dust and gossamer choke it to a wisp. The cold, musty room is the picture of neglect, and of death. Death comes to mind as one’s eyes settle on the coffin situated in the middle of the room.

No decoration or adornment, blanketed with filth, the crypt sits silently as the dust flits through the occasional ray of light. One is impressed with a feeling of timelessness, as if the inexorable motion of the earth has no effect here, as if one is stranded on an island frozen and unaffected by the rushing waters of days gone by.

The silence weighs heavily and cautiously, like a beast in slumber, and seems as if it will remain forever. Yet suddenly, the silence is broken. The sound is a rustling, far more audible than the scraping of rats or the scurrying of spiders. The sound is coming from within the coffin. A muffled knock is heard and the origin confirmed. There is something in the coffin, and that thing is alive.

Scratch, scrape, knock. The thing inside the coffin begins to move with a greater regularity, as if probing the interior of the box for a latch, or a hole, some nature of escape. Scratch, scrape, knock. The thing in the box is becoming more desperate and frustrated. As suddenly as it had broken, the silence is returned. An hour passes, maybe a day?

The hinges of the coffin scream in dry protest as a set of thin, dessicated fingers scrap around the lid. The hand attached to those fingers pushes the lid up, exposing the creature that lives inside. The corpse coughs and a cloud of dust is expelled from its mouth, the creature rasps. It grips the sides of the coffin and slowly stands erect, the filthy gown that clings to its thin, brown frame is dotted with rotten holes and cakes of dust.

The creature looks at you. Its yellow eyes fixed on yours, and it steps from the coffin and begins to move towards you. You are paralyzed by fear, as the creature reaches one bony hand toward you and opens its foul mouth to say...

No, I’m not dead, I’ve just been really busy lately. This stake protruding from my chest is just itchy. I don’t want to call this a resurrection of OTR, as that would infer a prior death, but let’s just say that my unscheduled and unannounced hiatus has come to a close. The door to the OTR Institute has had its hinges oiled, the floor has been swept and a fresh pot of coffee was put on in the break room.

Welcome back everyone (especially you Mom).

If you must know the details of my recent adventures, I’ll keep it short. I am thankfully no longer working out-of-state and now have the privilege of spending each and every night with the loving and fetching Mrs. Sonnier. This situation is made all the more rewarding by the fact that the fetching Mrs. Sonnier is now heavy with child. Despite the fact that careful mathematics indicates that I was somewhere on the upper East Coast and she was likely traipsing around France when this tiny miracle occurred, I will reserve my skepticism until the appropriate test results are available. Until then, we could not be happier, and I could not be more terrified.

Again, if curiosity had taken you by delicate bits, I will relate that the fetching Mrs. Sonnier is a little less than fourteen weeks progressed, and is expected to deliver our little bundle of oi! in late Winter 2009. While I have no pictures to post, (our one and only ultrasound photo looks like a shell-less oyster in profile), composite artists believe he looks something like this:



As my life takes on a more adult flavor, cigarettes and jello shots become a thing of the past, and my concern over the current state of the lawn becomes more forthright in my mind, I hope to have more time to devote to this forum. Though the number of people who partake in my semi-regular diatribes can be counted on James Doohan's right hand, it is an extremely cathartic exercise with the added advantage of keeping the hands away from the genitals.

Salutations to all, and godspeed.