“Don’t turn around,” says the hoarse voice behind him.
“Who are you?” quavers Gordon, in his darkened office. “How did you–”
“You’re a good loan officer. Maybe the only good loan officer in the city. How do you survive in this business, not being on the take?”
“I’m no rat,” says Gordon firmly. “They all know it.”
Papers flip onto his desk. “There’s an application in there. A solid one. Take it to your boss tomorrow.”
“And then what?”
“Watch for my sign.”
“But how do I know you’re a worthwhile credit ri–” says Gordon, but Bat-Homebuyer is already gone.
Friday, November 28, 2008
“Fiction of the last century often posited that mannequins were in some way trapped,” says Volure, “that they longed for freedom of movement, or left their pedestals to creep about at night. Of course the Book of Stillness teaches otherwise.”
Pearl looks carefully at the bare-chested jeans-wearer gazing flatly out the window. “But they use subjective time dilators, right?”
“Only when they’re starting out. The professionals are in deep trance.”
“How much do you have to pay them?”
He laughs. “They pay us.”
Pearl thinks she catches the mannequin breathing, but it might just be the sun going down.
The Littlest Tarrasque wakes from its eons-long slumber and scratches its nose. It’s sooo hungry! It decides to maraud for food.
“Hello there,” says a friendly adventurer while the Littlest Tarrasque is busy marauding at some minnows. “Are you lost?”
The Littlest Tarrasque nods.
“Why not take a nap in this rune-laden adamant chest?”
But it turns out that’s a trap! Those sneaky adventurers! The Littlest Tarrasque giggles, and rends them joint from joint.
Eventually the Littlest Tarrasque rememembers that it eats rocks and burrows deep into the side of Mount Worldspine (there are lots of rocks in there).
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” says Cole nervously, “I’m just saying you have to remember what we’re doing here. The revolution’s about more than one girl.”
“The revolution is nothing without her.” Figaro’s eyes are burning, but his voice is steady. “Leave if you think it’s the right thing to do, but I’m going after her.”
Cole glances back at Machinetown, steaming like the breath of the mountain. “Life to the daring, fate to the coin,” he mumbles, and tightens his pistol belt.
At the mouth of the cave, the little white bear waits, the antenna on its head beeping patiently.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Knights of Cayenne wear thick mustaches, but only, you understand, as a preventative measure against the sneezing. They also carry canteens of sour cream.
Savarin would of course have difficulty with the first part. She’s sure she can overcome it, though, by means of a scarf or shaved-down corks or just force of will. She peppers her hair every day before scimitar practice. So what if the others think she has lice?
Let them sneer and mutter. To be a Knight of Cayenne is to face the flames, she knows, and to have the strength not to wipe your eyes.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
“You’re half-starved, you poor thing,” soothes Troy.
The mass of protoplasm shivers.
“They kept us apart for so long,” he says, “and they wouldn’t listen when I told them what to feed you. I’m sorry. I’d understand if you didn’t want to follow me anywhere again.”
Tentative pseudopods pulse questingly toward him.
“But I lied and I pretended and I got back in here, baby. And I’m not coming out alone.”
The blob surges forward, lumpy and asymmetrical, but rippling with hunger and life.
“Good girl,” says Troy, “eat up,” and tosses it a jelly bean that tastes like revenge.
The leggings Mariette wears to work on Wednesday are regrettable, and by noon she’s taking full advantage of that fact.
“I just want to go back in time and wear my skinny jeans instead,” she frets.
“DUDE THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE REALLY SUPPOSED TO USE YOUR WISHES FOR,” says her genie uneasily.
“Nope!” she slaps the table. “I’ve decided. I wish I’d worn the jeans this morning–under the black cotton skirt!”
Flash, bang!
Mariette is pleased. Her coworkers in the break room toss their lunch things in the garbage (they sort of hate that Mariette gets a genie).
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
“Agnes is going to the library to pretend to study,” Agnes tells her phone. It processes this, and then, as she’s walking through the RFID sentinels, purrs something new from the feed.
“No phones, please,” says the librarian in the wheelchair, like Agnes needs the extra guilt. She covertly wakes it again (muted) once she’s around the corner.
Hector is in the library, her phone says, because there’s too much drama in his room.
Agnes peeks down through the lightwell to confirm this. “Oh no, phone!” she whispers. “That means Jason–”
Amelia and Jason ended their relationship, it hiccups.
“:(,” Agnes sighs.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Sydney gets new eyes in an operation but it turns out they’re Mexican ghost eyes.
“Oh crap!” says Sydney. “Now my eyes are haunted!”
“My hand was haunted!” says this guy who is definitely not named what you think he is named. “That’s why I chopped it off.”
“‘If thine eye offendeth thee, pluck it out,'” quotes Sydney thoughtfully. “I wonder how modern movies and ancient literature, perhaps even the phenomenon of martyrdom, relate to our latent fears of the neurophysiological imbalance that underlies body integrity identity disorder (BIID)?”
“Then I put a chainsaw on the stump!” says the other guy.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008