"The Walls Of The Universe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Melko Paul)

The Walls of the UniverseThe Walls of the Universe
by Paul Melko



Paul lives in Ohio in Universe #7621 with his beautiful wife and three children,
the third a very recent addition. He was born in Universe #7271, but was
kidnapped by a crazed version of himself and forced to write thinly disguised
Harry Potter novels until he escaped by clocking the other Paul on the head with
the complete manuscript of Harry Potter and the Poorly Tuned Piano. #7621 is not
so bad, but he misses the Ultra Jojopops from his old universe that came in
virimo and ommerdoge flavors.
The screen door slammed behind John Rayburn, rattling in its frame. He and his
dad had been meaning to fix the hinges and paint it before winter, but just then
he wanted to rip it off and fling it into the fields.
"Johnny?" his mother called after him, but by then he was in the dark shadow of
the barn. He slipped around the far end and any more of his mother's calls were
lost among the sliding of cricket legs. His breath blew from his mouth in
clouds.
John came to the edge of the pumpkin patch, stood for a moment, then plunged
into it. Through the pumpkin patch was east, toward Case Institute of Technology
where he hoped to start as a freshman the next year. Not that it was likely.
There was always the University of Toledo, his father had said. One or two years
of work could pay for a year of tuition there.
He kicked a half-rotten pumpkin. Seeds and wispy strings of pumpkin guts
spiraled through the air. The smell of dark earth and rotten pumpkin reminded
him it was a week before Halloween and they hadn't had time to harvest the
pumpkins: a waste and a thousand dollars lost to earthworms. He ignored how many
credits that money would have bought.
The pumpkin field ended at the tree line, the eastern edge of the farm. The
trees Ч old maples and elms Ч abutted McMaster Road, beyond which was the
abandoned quarry. He stood in the trees, just breathing, letting the anger seep
away.
It wasn't his parents' fault. If anyone was to blame, it was him. He hadn't had
to beat the crap out of Ted Carson. He hadn't had to tell Ted Carson's mom off.
That had entirely been him. Though the look on Mrs. Carson's face had almost
been worth it when he told her her son was an asshole. What a mess.
He spun at the sound of a stick cracking.
For a moment he thought that Ted Carson had chased him out of the farmhouse,
that he and his mother were there in the woods. But the figure who stood there
was just a boy, holding a broken branch in his hand.
"Johnny?" the boy said. The branch flagged in his grip, touching the ground.
John peered into the dark. He wasn't a boy; he was a teenager. John stepped
closer. The teen was dressed in jeans and plaid shirt. Over the shirt he wore a
sleeveless red coat that looked oddly out of date.
His eyes lingered on the stranger's face. No, not a stranger. The teen had his
face.
"Hey, Johnny. It's me, Johnny."
The figure in the woods was him.