He shows her where the film feeds from its reel into the intricate wheels of the Kinetoscope, and holds the stock up before a single hot bulb to show her the nearly-identical frames.
“Now blink like this,” Elijah says, “that many times a second, and watch–”
His hand is on hers, cranking the handle; Corbett’s fist withdraws before her eyes, and Fitzsimmons’s head whips around.
“I should be getting back,” Proserpina says, at last and with regret.
“Come by Saturday,” he says.
“You know I can’t–”
“Say I kidnapped you.”
“They’d never believe,” she says dryly, “you won that struggle.”
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Rooney has grown old.
In thirty-five years he’s never stopped watching the boy, tracking each development in his curling scrapbook: his rise to frat president, entrepreneur, team owner, mayor. It’s all so horribly effortless. Chicago isn’t just eating from his hand, it’s hooked and strung out, begging for another hit.
Now Rooney watches the weekly parade march through downtown, Bueller cackling as a dozen underlings strain to pull his Ferrari. They say he’s got higher political ambitions, very soon. Governor. Senator. Maybe even–
Rooney was in the army; Rooney keeps his rifle clean. Rooney knows what he’s got to do.
Monday, September 29, 2008
“Ready for the jump,” says Rotten Gamble tightly.
The Heavenly dreadnought looms, bolters charging like infernal bees, but the Loveblind Bird races dead on for the reef. Belowdecks, Dragalong and Kid Rabbit scramble to swap crackling hoses.
“Princess, we’ll find him,” Dog Shouting mumbles in her wounded fever. “I promise.”
The Princess presses a cold cloth to Dog’s head, eyes huge and dark.
“Punch it!” shouts Gamble.
The ship booms; power arcs down through salt water. The Loveblind Bird leaps up to ride over the reef on rails of lightning, and lands hard on the other side.
“Ow,” Dog Shouting grunts.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Citrane tries not to be out after dark, but things have been hellish at work and the days are getting shorter. She waits at the bus shelter and hopes (not prays) nobody else comes along.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” grins a methhead’s mouth.
“You need to leave,” she whispers.
“Aww, now, I’m just waitin’ for the 17!” he says, injured. “There’s plenty of room for us both under there.”
“My guardians–”
“Ain’t nobody here but you and me,” he says, and then the invisible swords descend.
Citrane closes her eyes against the spatter, and her pulse rushes in her ears like wingbeats.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Mongo and his goons are finishing up a perfectly good warehouse robbery when they get interrupted, of course.
“Not so fast, evildoers!” booms a voice from the rafters. “You’ve been caught by…
PROJECT C
Armed with the speed… of a Cobra!
The fierceness… of a Cougar!
The tenacity… of a Coelacanth!
The strength… of a Carcophang!”
“A what?”
“It’s an animal that I made up,” explains Project C. “It’s like an elephant but with tiger fur, and extra tusks on top of its head.”
Mongo glares and points at him. “All right, do-gooder,” he growls, “but you’d better have drawings.“
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
One train leaves Chicago traveling at 45 miles per hour; another leaves New York traveling at 65 miles per hour. Both trains are accelerating at an even rate, though Qing’s 11:45 from Grand Central is newer than Russel’s 12:30. Hers has wifi, but they’re both reading books.
A common misconception about trains is that they all ride the same rails; two trains whose origins match each other’s destinations may, like packets, pick entirely distinct sets of nodes. Russel and Qing have a statistically even chance of passing each other as they kiss the southern edge of Erie.
When will they meet?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Take a picture of yourself right now. Don’t change your clothes, don’t fix your hair. Just take the picture.
Post the picture with no editing. Post these instructions with your picture.
Crop out the unwashed dishes.
Admit privately that you’re not quite adhering to the “no editing” part.
Change your clothes; muss your hair. Stare at the lens with a wry expression that is neither a smirk nor a frown but that somehow convey your detachment from this particular ping for attention. Be candid, or anyway candidly posed.
A picture of yourself: a thousand words. Cut out eight hundred ninety-nine.
Friday, September 19, 2008
You and Bogie should pick up a couple pandas to keep you company–a relatively tame development at El Morocco tonight. That is, until these two dames waltz over and try to steal them.
“Hey!” Bogie will say. “Don’t bogart the pandas!”
Lunge for yours (which you have named Mao-Chi) and a scuffle, says the press in the morning, will ensue. Confer soberly with Bogie in your unshaven pajamas.
“It’s a feeding frenzy,” he’ll say. “They’ll want a sacrifice.”
Assume you’re it.
“Well, yeah,” he’ll sigh, “this way I get two pandas,” as their carnivorous black eyes turn to you.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cagley has committed so much oneiricide lately that it’s putting her a little behind on homework.
“Cagley?” her mom says nervously when she starts brushing her teeth at 7:00. “Are you really that tired, sweetie?”
“I’m going to read for a while first,” Cagley assures her, then leaps into bed and spends the next ten hours pushing confused people off buildings. They always disappear with a poof and a yelp before they hit the ground. Well, almost always.
“We’re thinking about taking you in for a sleep study,” frowns her dad in the morning.
“Whatever,” says Cagley, thinking, okay, you’re next.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008