It’s snowing in Mexico, each flake a crystal skull. The end of the world sticks out her tongue and tastes sugar.
He stumbles out behind her, onto the tired road and its oily freckles. “Is this nuclear winter?” he asks, shielding his eyes. “Why is the sun so bright?”
“Humanity,” she says, “toyed with forces beyond its control,” and traces in the air: a dot, the center of three ellipses.
“With the atom?” he asks.
“No. The symbol.”
He opens his hand to catch a snowskull. There’s a name on its forehead, but it melts before he can make it out.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The raids on the People’s Linen Closet were tolerable, and Yamin didn’t mind his censoring the cat–it’s only when Benny starts wearing fatigues that the threat of an apartment dictatorship becomes serious.
“We need to talk,” says Yamin.
Benny smiles. “The Humble Minister enjoys conversation with his fellow citizens!”
“First, why does People’s Rent Scheme mean I pay–”
“How dare you question the People’s will!” Benny shouts. “Go to your black site!”
Yamin gives up and shuffles away. His cell phone rings. “Hello,” he sighs.
“Listen,” whispers Benny, “roommate unrest is growing here, can I trade the cat for arms?”
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Amos and Amos take advantage of the switch to whiteboards by dumpster-diving for the broken slates, carrying them piecewise to their secret and illegal attic room above McInerny Hall. According to the paperwork, the attic is filled with asbestos. The paperwork is probably right.
Amos stopped attending classes weeks ago, which is fine, since Amos sits exams for both of them. They’re passing, barely. Amos spends his stipend on a space heater and white chalk. They keep a CD on repeat.
They winter together, plotting the perfect murder, while a man from New Jersey sings a song about burning alive.
In 1988, Apollonia Kotero was elected Queen of Good Rats.
“Nothing to do with sewers or dumps,” she tells you, “we’re talking well-groomed rats here, show rats, community pillars.”
Remember how you fed your boa constrictor. Feel the spring of sweat.
“They bear you no grudge.” The rats are piling around her, white and gray, sleek as a polished tornado. “They understand that some lives must be given to feed the greater predator.”
Relief, but not for long: she’s a skeleton now, the frame of a frightening structure.
“They hope,” she murmures from within the compound beast, “you understand too.”
A thud, and a sudden knife in the corkboard, and a cool voice behind her: “What have I told you about showing up here?”
The rat-eating man hisses, then bounds out the open window.
“If I look down onto the street,” asks Mina carefully, “I won’t see anything, will I?”
“You’re quick,” says the newcomer, and ambles up to retrieve his knife. “Next time I may not chase him off. He knows more than he ought to…”
“I don’t believe we were ever introduced,” says Mina.
“Quincey Morris,” says Dracula’s receptionist, “and Miss Murray, I think I need your help.”
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The wheel was invented quite a few times, actually, and a lot later than most people think. “Cavemen” would have had little use for it; it wasn’t until humanity began constructing with stone and timber that the transport of heavy materiel became a daily necessity.
To be strict, the very first inventor of the wheel resided in the cool foothills of what would someday be known as Haute-Savoie, in France. She climbed a precarious boulder, found it tumbling away beneath her, and became an example for so much future human interaction with technology: running, running, going backward all the way.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Ginny wears hand-me-down gingham and these days, it’s almost enough to earn her credit with the retro kids, but she hasn’t explored enough to understand that. She expects the same taunts here as she got in elementary and junior high. She’s learned to shut them out so thoroughly that she doesn’t notice their absence.
If anyone notices Ginny at all it’s as a submarine, ducking through the halls, silent in a world of thunder; but inside she’s not frightened. She’s oblivious to everything but the warm beat of her faith. Inside she is praying, praying to Saint Britney Jean.
“Hello?” she says, derailed.
“Don’t worry!” hiccups the man. His voice is deeper than his giggle: almost a baritone, with the occasional squeak. “It’s not one of his!”
“His?” Mina wonders if she should call the police. For a detective? “His what?”
“His meaner things. His rat. His bat. His owl, moth, fox, wolf. I caught this one myself, downstairs, I only brought it for a snack in case I had to wait which I did, you see?”
Mina tries to determine whether it’s anti-feminist to faint now.
“If you’re waiting too,” he says reasonably, “the line starts behind me.”
Thursday, January 4, 2007