Muzzy, thick, where’s the here blanket, still so they’re HERE tired want GET UP
They’re here. It’s dark. A cold shock and he’s awake; he can move nothing but his eyes.
“We don’t blame you any longer,” sighs Darlene heavily. “We understand. You have to lie, and it’s not your fault.”
“But we can’t have you lying about us anymore,” says Salem, “now can we?”
“You’ll tell no more filthy lies.” Darlene smiles, taps her lips. “No more. Ever again.”
Salem is threading a needle.
Rob’s jaw is holding itself shut, so tight his teeth creak. He’d scream if he could.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
PLEASE TRY AGAIN, it says in phosphor green.
“I did,” snaps Astrid. “I did.”
The diagram shows a hand inserting the card strip-up, which she tries. There’s a short whine, and out it pops.
PLEASE TRY AGAIN. And the diagram, but this time strip-down.
“You. I. Can’t believe–” Astrid jabs it back in, and slams some buttons.
The screen wipes; more whining; somehow, her card’s in the bottom tray. In pieces.
REJECTED. HAVE A NICE DAY. And, smaller: BITCH.
Astrid remembers the hammer Morris left in her truck.
When the police arrive, they have to push through a cheering crowd.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
It’s hard to write in a city where everyone’s writing. It sucks. What’s to make her any different than the rest? She’s pretty but there are prettier, smart but there are smarter, does a little freelance but she’s nowhere near the big leagues.
There are places that reward a work ethic, though. They’re the ones who are set up to do so, theoretically in preparation for a real world that will render that preparation useless.
But. There’s work to be done, and she can do it.
After a time, Emma gives up on fiction. And eventually fiction gives up on her.
Monday, December 15, 2003
The Cold Man can feel the cards tumbling in his head as he runs unaided, every step a guess on broken ground. He doesn’t sweat, but he can still smell his own fear. No doubt he’s not alone.
He shouldn’t have to work like this. They’ve done something here beyond electric fencing–he can shrug that off–and he can’t get grounded. He feels the bullet whine past, a soft tug of air. He’s probably got ten seconds.
Cards shuffle, wash, flip: a Lady. Good, bad–
At nine seconds he dives, finds the ley trunk, is gone faster than air allows.
Friday, December 12, 2003
The phone rebounds off the hook so Nancy has to put it down again, damn it, can’t she even get a storm-off right? Stupid council. Stupid Cuill.
“Did I tell you,” says her mother, kneading bread dough, “about that book I read? A history of the Rutulians.”
“No, Mom.” The flush is still high in Nancy’s cheeks.
“Fascinating people.” She pauses to wipe her forehead, streaking it with flour. “Their word for ‘oppose’ was the same as ‘perpetuate.'”
“Yeah, thanks. And their word for ‘smartass?'” She’s proud of that, for a moment.
“Oh,” Mom says, “they just used ‘Nancy.'”
Stupid Mom.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
The stone basin is inaudible outside this room, but inside it’s a perfect laughing gurgle: cool and sweet, endless, out the tap and down the drain forever. She blocked it up once to flood the room, but it just sank through the floorboards. Even in the room that should have been directly beneath it, there was no sign of a leak.
She chose it as the center of the map she’s drawing, quill ink onto sheets of soft vellum torn from the empty books. The basin wall is north. The room’s a square, labelled “Water Here.”
She never gets thirsty anymore.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
“Are you okay?”
Kai and Ayane are waiting by the door, concerned. Kai pretty clearly has to go: she’s trying to not to hop from foot to foot. “Yeah!” says Jason, muffled. “Sorry, just a minute!”
“What else can you say to that?” mutters Chyler over a euchre hand.
Agnes cracks a grin, and Hector cracks up. It’s lost on Chyler.
“Like you can just go ‘No, actually,'” she says, in a Jasonesque baritone. “‘Having some difficulty. Think you could come on in and help?'”
Hector’s off his chair, and Agnes covers her eyes. Chyler barely notices. Her hand really sucks.
Tuesday, December 9, 2003
Kristi’s never understood the way slow-motion works in movies. Important things happen gracefully, with panning and time for consideration.
For her, it’s just the opposite. Things happen instantly, and thinking back she remembers before and after, but not while. Her brain shuts its eyes at the scary part.
Which is why, trying to remember it, she gets only a few sharp images: her blouse brushing the door, the pull as it snagged the loose latchplate screw. Annoyance as she pivoted around it. Silence. Looking up, sudden horror, seeing Victor, knowing exactly where the grape juice in her other hand had gone.
What would it sound like, if it spoke? “Nasal” makes her think of Gilbert Godfrey, Ad-Roc maybe, but that’s too high. It’d have to be lower, more guttural, lugubrious. Nicolas Cage? Why does that sound right? She pictures it opposite Cher, how the morality would play out: she’s hollow inside! It’s disgusting outside! See–
Maria’s dizzy for a moment when she realizes she’s coming up with instant crap plots for a movie starring… whatever it’d be, all the snot in her head right now if it took on a life of its own. She has got to get out of LA.
“It was getting old,” he says, and takes another bite of bamboo salad, “seeing the same faces, you know? I mean, studding was fun, flying all over the world, but there’s like… ten females out there. They’re not all centerfolds. And half of them are my cousins!”
June’s still staring. “When–how…? They just let you go?”
“Had to, once I learned to talk,” he laughs.
“That’s amazing.” She’s following again the pattern of white on his cheeks, the way it draws her back to those beautiful black eyes…
Ling-Ling smiles, and puts his paw on her hand.
It feels nice.
Thursday, December 4, 2003