When Elias ran away to join the wandering mage, rucksack on a shoulder and need in his eyes, he expected to endure danger: loose demons, dimensions of shadow, infinite walking brooms. He didn’t expect to spend two weeks huddled amidst turnip sacks in a rickety wagon.
“You said you were an itineromancer,” he scowls at his ersatz teacher.
“Yes, when I want to be,” says Domingo.
“But!” bursts Elias. “That’s the whole–does this work at all? Can’t you go wherever you want with your magic?”
“Sure I can,” says Domingo placidly, settling back. “As long as I’ve been there before.”
The first time Staunton saves his family from terrorists, he has to set his broken leg himself, then walk up ten flights of stairs. He’s a media hero; he says it was just another day on the job.
The second time, he drives a car bomb off a bridge, rolling out the door at the last second. The third–one day before retirement–he guns down fifty trained assassins, while falling out a window.
The fourth time he punches out a cruise missile.
“What’s happening to me?” he whispers, terrified, in the confession booth.
“Miracles,” the priest says. “Sainthood takes three.”
Riot backpedals its dragon wings and lands next to the gray stone talons of loneliness; the scents of snow, fried eggs and sweat wriggle among them in a desperate thrash of neon worms. Coffee skitters with gecko toes up the table leg and under a book. The fog, of course, creeps in on kittenfeet.
Amidst all of them, Johann toils onwards; he’s deep in the metaphysical guts of the siren ape and he’s not going to look up any time soon. One by one his poor forgotten bits of city resign themselves to another night of scrounging. Only the stone remains.
“I just wonder if the whole thing has something to do with the fact that my dad was travelling so much–”
“That doesn’t make much sense,” says Oatman sharply. “He couldn’t have known you’d end up in this situation, could he?”
Dakota blinks. “Well,” he says, “no.”
“No sense in blaming him, then.”
“What kind of therapy is this?” asks Dakota.
“Reverse psychiatry,” says Oatman, quite pleased. “Didn’t you read the door stencil?”
“It was backwards,” mutters Dakota.
“Let’s move on to this ennui you’ve felt lately,” says Oatman. “Do you think it will start when James dumps you next month?”
[audio:http://www.xorph.com/anacrusis/audio/the_implicit.mp3]
I always strive to make Anacrusis as accessible as possible and browser-independent, but the vagaries of audio embedding have necessitated a Flash interface for today’s recorded story. If that doesn’t work for you, you can
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ogg,
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This is how it is. Beg. Borrow. Cast about for any edge to take a hook: anecdotes, throwaways, everything your friends forget. Scavenge the jetsam of conversation and test it all for steel.
Writing is an act of self-preservation, and of self-indulgence, but it doesn’t have to be a selfish act. If it ever is, you’ll stop. Don’t stop. Don’t forget that what you’ve done rests on the offhand grace of your peers, your betters and the great heaving, breathing, sharp-cornered language you call home.
This is how it is. Scrounge. Steal. Transform it, and give it back.
Sullivan pulls the two halves of the lady apart. She wiggles her feet; applause; he grins, flourishing scarves.
“That’s an old trick, though,” he says. “Which is why I’m going to cut this lady… in three!”
They ooh and titter in anticipation. Sullivan walks to the wing of the stage, grabs the fire axe, walks back on and starts hacking. Blood fountains merrily. Part of her skull falls off.
Sullivan roars over the crowd. “But that’s not all! I will now make myself… disappear!”
The police swarm the stage. Sullivan’s buried in a truncheoned, khaki pileon.
“MAGIC!” he shrieks, invisible beneath them.