Most of a boltblacked trimaran has already washed up on the sandbar when Reaching the West Reaches awakens. He forces himself up to walk its length, gathering pieces of other shattered boats, driftwood and one precious, unbroken jar of ration water. Even moonstone floats.
He pulls six precious bronze nails from his automaton leg and drives them in with his fist. He won’t be able to stand well until he’s found something to replace them, which is just as well: his patchwork craft leaks.
Reaching the West Reaches grinds out to sail, and gulls follow the splash of his bailing helmet.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
It’s called the Joe E. Barnett Memorial Spelling Bee because Joe E. Barnett died of spelling-related injuries. Not actually spelling-bee-related; this was back in the forties before you could use “bee” to refer to phenomena outside a hive.
But you can now, so every year the kids at FMS compete in some sort of spectacular dedication to his sacrifice. “Daguerreotype!” gasps Claudia, scrambling up the hill, dodging boulders. “D-A-G-U-E-R-Eaaaagghhh”
“You know what killed him?” asks Tilman, sweating his turn. “Barnett?”
“No,” says Carlos.
“‘Dolorifuge.'”
“Seriously?” grumbles Carlos. “That’s a fourth-grade word.”
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
“Is he the child of great destiny?” asks Baldr. “Was he born under a blood moon to a woman whose belly was cut to free him, and is there a silver birthmark in the hollow of his throat? Did nine herons attend upon his first steps? When first he spoke, was it with the voice of seraphs or in a language dead four thousand years; does his touch heal or does a sword await his hand? Will he slay his father? Was he, in a word, foretold?”
“Hardly,” says Miss Chamuel.
“Good,” Baldr grunts, “I think poorly of prophecy these days.”
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The hooded man walks the line, kicking barrels from under the rebels’ feet. They’re not even suspended high enough to snap their necks in the fall; no such mercy. A rotting peach splashes Hedrick’s knee.
He’s trying to remember their days in the mountains: fervency, philosophy, unity of mind and body. The Master, small and old, saying they all had within them the strength to move worlds.
The hooded man steps toward him. Hedrick drops his center, leans in and throws.
The gallows rack barely gives him time to bug his eyes before they all hurtle, together, out into the crowd.
Monday, February 11, 2008
In winter everything’s a little harder: the car grinds through two twists on the key, and the old dog takes an extra sigh. The pads of her fingers feel like leather. Knees and doorjambs stick.
Beneficence burns wood from trees which, she knows, have seen worse winters. And stayed green too. Pine, spruce and Douglas-fir. Their smoke baffles up the chimney stack, kissing heat to brick.
Beneficence goes outside to watch the smoke, some nights. Even against the blueberry sky it’s faint. She goes back in, unsure if she saw anything; but each time the door sticks a little less.
The guards hover an inch from the surface of the lake, but as soon as they touch it they’re doggy-paddling, hapless. Tyler doesn’t even body-check them. He just skates around, tripping.
On the shore, Daniel’s eating popcorn. Toe kicks an irritated rock.
“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I bet we could do that too if we could–I mean, where’s his weight distributed? What’s holding him up?”
“Tension,” says Dylan, too close to his ear.
Tyler leans down to brush wave-tips with one finger, and his sandals slice a glittering wave from the arc of his turn.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
“Tenses! Tenses! Parse her tenses!” cries a member of the Kelly Link Discussion Group.
“Are her protagonists defined by schizophrenic breaks?” asks another, red-eyed and desperate. “Are they defined at all?”
“I just like the one about the TV show!” howls a third.
The members of the Kelly Link Discussion Group are deaf, and do not know it. They stumble about on the broken hooves of satyrs, cursed to walk like Isaac Laquedem. None of them can read each other’s lips.
Kelly Link is actually in the Kelly Link Discussion Group but she doesn’t feel she has much to contribute.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
“No, not tonight.”
“Oh please! Black Jack Sullivan? And the Dooley Kid!”
“I have a nurse’s appointment.”
“It’s nearly evening,” says Proserpina blankly.
“It’s a…” Radiane smooths her dress. “Whatsit. Woman. Thing.”
Proserpina thinks about her dreams and doesn’t push it. She just goes to the closet in the abandoned wing, dresses down and goes to the fight alone. It doesn’t occur to her that she could be in danger; and indeed she gets nothing more than a nod and a shoulder-squeeze from the man at the gate. The whole night is quite routine.
Which is how she gets caught.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
“The great thing about aikido,” Jocelyn explains, “is that it’s all about harmony, so neither you nor your attacker gets hurt.”
Cordelia frowns. “That’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jocelyn blinks.
” If I come at you with a haymaker, the least you can do is break my nose,” says Cordelia. “And get yours broken too! These days people treat email conversations with more attention than real ones. Fighting is our last chance for human contact!”
“Are you trying to convince me,” says Jocelyn, “that I have a social responsibility to get hit in the face?”
“Well, you specifically, yes.”