The endless war between Divine and Infernal drives the spin of every atom in our universe, and in terms of sheer fury involved, it has nothing on the current community annexing debate in Higley, Arizona.
“Third through Eighth must go to Mesa,” snaps the council chairman. “The county line stops at Main!”
“No, they will go to Gilbert,” says Davea. “We’re not joining your myopic tax bloc!”
“The line must hold!”
“Fellow merchants!” cries Davea. “Take up the cry!”
Bertram quivers, knowing his vote will decide it.
Above, the six thousand swords of the seraphs have paused to watch him choose.
Windel’s head is beating like the protest drums of the stupid hill tribes–which issue they probably won’t even get to, today. It’s hard to conquer a continent when the ruling council stinks.
“Lords,” Windel says, “we must have your decision on the prohibition of alcohol in the newly conquered lands! What are your votes?”
But as always, they’re deadlocked: three wet, three dry.
Leaving the chamber, Windel kicks his agenda in frustration, and his aide scrambles to scoop up the scattered papers. “I’m this close to instigating a coup,” Windel growls.
“What,” his aide says hesitantly, “like a regime change?”
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars are coming on.
Casi had these on her ceiling, too, when she was a teenager, but she didn’t have this many, or this solid an understanding of the sky. The former occupant of this room pasted stars trickling down closet molding and peeking out from behind the mirror; Orion winks at her from above the TV.
Does a room remember the childhoods it’s seen? Is childhood–like a room, like a constellation–anything but a construct formed of negative space? If these walls could talk, they’d recite Greek poetry. Casi’s would have mumbled Dashboard lyrics.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
You have to be able to fly to get into Truce. There have been complaints about this over the years, but the response from management is always the same: piggyback.
Once inside, the dampers come on and you change out of your costume at the coat check: heroes at one door, “persons of enlightened self-interest” at the other. And you can get a decent drink, and there’s no one clamoring for a picture, calling you Lasergirl. You can be Jenna. Just Jenna.
And if he asks you to dance, well, mistakes you make at Truce maybe won’t get anyone killed.
The thing nobody thinks about is that it’s difficult to hold things, without fingerprints. Dollar bills, telephones, pub darts and pens: they just disappear when Tegan2‘s applying what should be the right amount of pressure. She’s broken more glasses that way.
It’s one of the minor side effects of clonehood–forced growth means skipping the details–but it occupies a frustrating amount of Tegan2‘s attention. Her friends joke that she should become a burglar, as if every scrap of her DNA isn’t owned.
Marlo’s learned to be quick at catching. Tegan2 keeps meaning to look up t-ball leagues.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Too fast?” Their lips hover very close.
“Keith!” Her urgent eyes. “This isn’t as easy as it feels, this isn’t–if you–you can’t. It means too much.”
“All right,” he says. “What about a peck on the cheek?”
“Maybe–”
“Or on the soft place,” he murmurs, “right here behind your jaw…”
“Nnno!” She pulls back. “You’re not playing fair.”
“All right,” he says, a little hurt, reckless. “You tell me what I’m supposed to do, then.”
She holds out her hand.
“Here?”
He takes it.
“Okay.”
“Ready?”
“Okay.”
Then they kiss so hard she splits her lip.
“Hello!” beams Ryan as the ululations subside, “and welcome back to Graven Idol. Before the break you got to see Enlil perform ‘Ripening the Harvest,’ followed by Raël’s interesting take on ‘The Driving of the Infidel from the Lands of Our Fathers.’ Next up, let’s see what Molech’s got for us!”
The spotlight picks out a lopsided red clay figurine. His priest scuttles onstage, sets fire to a little pool of lamp oil, and dunks a baby in it.
“Okay!” says Ryan. “Judges?”
“That was really something special,” sniffles the one who’s usually a mean drunk.
“╚╘ï®â‚ªâ‚ª,” replies Molech, in cuneiform.