The fever, to Juno, is an excuse for an afternoon alone. The afternoon alone is an excuse for a fix. The fix is an excuse to indulge in her purity ritual.
Sometimes she does it two or three times just to make sure it takes: check the door locks, set needle to vinyl, space heater, phone silent, line chair up with seams in the tile. Compulsion. Her hands are shaking a little, but they have plenty of reasons to do so.
For what, begs the question, is the ritual an excuse? Dopamine circuits close in Juno’s brain, sparing her the answer.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The prevailing theory around numbers from Nameless dreams goes that they are indeterminate, resolving only upon observation by a sapient. That’s usually Tach, or someone like him, in deep trance. The trance keeps your mind intact. Probably.
The people at the French Polar Institute, upon hiring the people Tach and Ashlock are impersonating, had a theory: that some of the Dumont d’Urville staff survived. This theory is hemorrhaging credence. Tach’s theory is that they should get the hell out of here.
Ashlock’s theory is that they must deliver their little number, like Tolkien’s ring, to the burning heart of the world.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
“How long ago did you hurt yourself?”
“About three hours,” says Boston, “what with the walk here.”
“You walked for three hours?” says the doctor, taking in Boston’s pallor, his jerky speech.
“No no,” says Boston, “I ate something afterwards, and then there was the prayer meeting to get to.”
“So nothing too serious,” smiles the doctor. Â “What is the nature of your injury?”
“I cut off my testicles with a pair of scissors so I wouldn’t be tempted so much by prostitutes,” says Boston, opening his pants.
Later he hunts down and kills John Wilkes Booth (seriously, look it up).
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The subway was never finished, in fact barely begun: it has only three branches, east-west along the river and south from there at both Fifth and Waterson. Even among the city’s survivors, the entrances are almost unknown.
But not to Hank Blackpaw.
“Why don’t you tell anyone else about this place?” pants Moire, glad to be out of the frostbite storm. “We could set up shelters–”
Hank points to the ceiling; Moire glances up to see it fragmented, near collapse.
“Oh,” says Moire, “I,” and shuts up with a click.
Hank Blackpaw smiles in silence, and pads off into the dark.
Monday, December 13, 2010
“Forgive me,” says Holofernes, mouth stuffed with cheese, “if I’m having trouble understanding your kindness here.”
“I simply admire your work,” says Judith, lashes batting.
“I know, right?” says Holofernes, washing down the cheese with a jug of wine. “(Glug glug glug.) But that’s the thing, I’ve got Bethulia under siege here!”
“I reserved a special supply,” says Judith. “Just for attacking generals with awesome names.”
“Did you know it’s Greek?”
“I even know the root words,” she purrs.
Then he falls asleep and Judith breaks the siege by cutting his fucking head off with a knife (seriously, look it up).
Friday, December 10, 2010
“Three counts possession of partially hydrogenated soybean oil,” says the bailiff, “intent to distribute. Â One count trafficking in corn syrups. Â One count supplying fats to a minor.”
“Man, that was entrapment, man,” sniffs Roscoe. Â He’s still wearing his fry apron, and exotic oil scents waft through the court.
“Prosecution requests remand, your honor,” says Sienna. “Defendant is a repeat offender who has put the lives of children at risk–”
“Y’all hypocrites,” snaps Roscoe. Â “Like anybody here ain’t going home to light up a frydaddy tonight!”
Glaring, Sienna clenches a grubby meal toy in her pocket and wills her stomach to silence.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Doors down here seal but do not lock.
Inside everything’s cranberry, lit by single stripes of emergency diode three links down the failsafe chain. Â It’s warm enough, by the grace of the geothermal, but nothing controlled by a bitwise system still has a switch intact.
“This is worse than I thought,” says Ashlock, shivering for several reasons. Â She pops the topmost drive from the RAID, and its surface goes from warm to uncomfortably hot. Â “Let’s get to the generator.”
Tach sees it first: Â the awful mark of desperation, a wall-spray flecked with bone. Â In red light, the blood barely glitters.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
At times of deep self-loathing, Jake discovers, Maslow’s hierarchy is reversed: sleep evades him, and peanut butter tastes like a dead thing in his mouth.
“You’ve failed me for the last time, Maslow!” Jake shouts.
“No, Mister Jake!” cries Maslow, covering his head and scurrying for cover. “The Maslow is so sorry!” Jake whips him around the house with a willow switch anyway, but it doesn’t make his food taste any better.
“Why do you let him treat you that way?” asks Amy, dabbing Maslow’s forehead with a cool cloth.
“The Maslow has needs too,” says Maslow, shivering with delight.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
It gets dubbed the Honesty Virus even though of course it’s a bacterial infection. The symptoms are about as close to genuine honesty as sodium pentathol is to the truth, too, but that doesn’t stop anyone from believing it.
Kids in cities hold parties to give it to each other; there are at least three strains, so you get a few chances. The content of their glossolalia is overwrought and trite. Haint, a bit older, knows well enough to fear it. The mind arranges stray words with cruelty at the top, like vapor in the neck of a brown glass bottle.