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more than a dust devil stir red by wild wind.
    She heard a roar start up and glanced overhead at a lighted dirigible that floated there, its great gear system grinding and clanking. She sucked an intake of surprised breath. Beyond the dirigible she spied the glass ceiling. Even as she stared, astounded, a gargantuan set of curious human eyes in a strange giant's face closed in toward the glass, peering in.
    She was inside the box. She had sacrificed herself and now out there stood someone else who would be tricked into this box with her . There was no rip in time! There was no danger of her world in South Dakota disappearing.
    She began to scream and wave her arms, but the eyes never blinked or showed any recognition of her frenzied movements.
    It was as if she were but a little cog in th e machine, nothing more, nothing worth examination. She heard a whirring begin and looked around her. From the edges of the street, from where the brick and stone buildings stood, reality began to wither and fall away like leaves from an autumn tree, reve a ling stark limbs. First the buildings became wheels, and the street became a wood floor, and on and on and on until the transformation reached where she stood, a small box clutched in her hands, and turned her into an accessory of the small noisy little m a chine. At the very end of her consciousness, Angie felt enlightened and realized the truth at last. The rip in time did not destroy the world out there . It took this one that for a short time thrived just like any other universe, and broke it asunder, ripp ing it apart to make it into working parts of the evil little machine, the destroyer of worlds.
    THE END

 
     
    FRANKENSTEIN:
    Return From the Wastelands
     
     
    by
     
     
    Billie Sue Mosiman
     
     

 
    Copyright Billie Sue Mosiman 1993, 2012
     
    First published in FRANKENSTEIN, THE MONSTER AWAKES as “ Fallen Angel, Malignant Devil,” edited by Martin H. Greenberg, published by DAW Books 1993. Slightly revised from original publication.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Dedicated to Mary Shelley who gave us our first monster.
     

 
    My Beloved Sister,
    I write to you about a deadly serious and Olympian idea. It is of a monster. I know you recall the one I mean, the only one that has ever been allowed entry into the world since Neptune was purported to rise from the deep blue ocean waters.
    But before I get to that, I also want to write of my misery at the news of your recent illness. I fear we both have reached beyond our prime years and are on the slow sad descent toward embrace with our creator. How many times this year alone has the archenemy pneumonia come to be your bedside companion? As for me, my cough has not abated nor, according to my good doctor, will it. It is the most bitter potion of later life to recognize the waning of the physical strength. The virility of my soul is as strong as ever (as is yours, I pray), but the body falters too long before the spirit. Did we ever once think that we would grow as old as our loving parents who watched so meticulously our little childhood games?
    But I have more to tell you than this common haggling we all have with the dimming of the light. It is most important to me that I share my lifelong obsession with someone at last, and there is no better candidate nor understanding friend than you, dear Margaret.
    Now let us speak of the monster — the creature who has obsessed me. I ask you to remember twenty years past my ordeal on the ship carrying Dr. Frankenstein into the northern regions where he searched for the great monstrous being whom he had created. I sent you letters, hopin g to divest my mind of worry and woe on that perilous journey. No one has been able to forget the tragedy of Frankenstein's unfortunate passing, least of all me. That bone-cold fearful trip, the coming revolt of my crew, and then! Then the being himself ap p earing in the very room where his master had just momentarily given over his ghost to