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George sifted through the junk on the shelf as fast as he could - old cans of Kiwi shoe polish and shoepolish rags, a broken kerosene lamp, two mostly empty bottles of Windex, an old flat can of Turtle wax. For some reason this can struck him, and he spent nearly thirty seconds looking at the turtle on the lid with a kind of hypnotic wonder. Then he tossed it back...
It
No, Bill thought coldly, not a Spider either, not really, but this shape isn't one It picked out of our minds, it's just the closest our minds can come to (the deadlights) whatever It really is. But It's something else, there's some final shape, one that I can almost see the way you might see the shape of a man moving behind a movie screen while the show is on, some other shape, but I don't want to see It, please God, don't let me see It... It was imprisoned in this final shape, the shape of the Spider, by their common unsought and unfathered vision. It was against this It that they would live or die.
It PAGE Ritual of Chud, Under the City, Ch13, a couple of pages in
Carrie Norfleet hillarynorfleet@chartermi.net last revised on October 18, 1999 |
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