Steve McQueen's Head

The Shriek is not a well-loved fellow. Even his cousin, The Scream, doesn't care for him. But then, they have so little in common. The Scream is a performer, a prima donna. She is plump and, to be honest, a bit jiggly--but, oh, she has range, both distance and variety. And she can dance, up, down, sideways, and in concentric circles, if she pleases. (And, often, she does please.) She and her husband, The Bellow, don't associate with The Shriek. They're a bit snooty about it, really.

The Shriek has another cousin, The Screech. The Screech is not snooty, but he's really too busy running around like Speedy Gonzales to be much of a friend to anyone. Oh, he'll stop in his tracks, all right, in a puff of dust when he hears The Shriek (who wouldn't?), but he's never yet invited The Shriek over for a cup of tea. And he's certainly never offered to share with The Shriek the secret of zig-zagging.

The Shriek, of course, pretends not to mind--and, in truth, he might not. It's hard to say what he's thinking. He's downright inscrutable.

He spends most of his time with Shortstack; we do know that. And he can't dance a lick. He can only go straight up, like lightning, like dead fish, like things attached to booster rockets. He is thin, like an airless balloon just waiting to be puffed and tied into a dachshund. Of course, we don't know whether he really, truly does long to be an inflated wiener dog. Probably not, though. It seems unlikely.

Shortstack's parents don't particularly care for The Shriek, either. But there's not much they can do about his association with their son. He's too quick for them. He'll appear with no warning in the vicinity of Shortstack's mouth and then zip straight up and disappear again before he hits the ceiling. Shortstack's parents have often fantasized about The Shriek slamming into the ceiling, knocking himself unconscious, and falling to the ground, splat, never to be heard from again. They've tried to snatch him from the air, but he pierces their fingers. They've tried to trap him in Mason jars, but he just blasts right through them. (They've lost more good containers that way....) If they could, they would attach him to booster rockets and send him shooting through the roof into space, where sound is at a disadvantage, but they'd have to catch him first, alas.

Shortstack may be the only one on earth who doesn't mind The Shriek. Surely, there is something admirable about this. Surely. Something. And yet Shortstack is not oblivious to his parents' feelings. He sees their winces, shakes his head over their thwarted plans. So, one day, when The Shriek had been visiting for a long while, had clearly overstayed his welcome, Shortstack took pity on his parents. He made a tent with his hands, which were, by luck, unpierceable, and trapped The Shriek inside. The Shriek could not squirm or wiggle out; he could only bang his head against Shortstack's palm over and over again, which, when you think about it, is a little pathetic.

Shortstack looked around for someplace to stash The Shriek. That's when Fiona ambled by. Shortstack had a moment of inspiration. He stuffed The Shriek into Fiona's mouth and then laughed out loud at his own cleverness.

The Shriek tumbled down Fiona's throat, and, for the first time in his life, he didn't go straight. He went end over end, back and forth. He zig-zagged! And, in so doing, he tied himself into a mass of knots. Fiona didn't know what to make of any of this, and she had a very strange look on her face for some time. But eventually, he and Fiona became inseparable, the best of friends. You see, in falling down her throat, he had ceased to be The Shriek and become The Hiss, which, everyone agreed, was a marked improvement.

The End.

by Jessica Campbell