Geffy holds the pinch of rushlight between finger and trembling thumb for a long time, a catgut string of anticipation. It took him all week to scrape together this dose. The next one will take longer.
Then he snorts it, and for an hour he’s a lord.
No one questions him; hansoms appear at his gesture, women blush or curtsey, and his pockets turn out silver coins. The clothes on his back are of inconsequence. All anyone sees is the clarity of his eyes–
And then he’s done, kneeling and shaking, trying to tongue up the last crumbs of the drug.
Friday, February 20, 2009
“Please hold your applause until the last student has crossed,” says the dean in his careful accent. “Hector Alvarez!”
Hector steps double-time to the oomp oomp of the brass, grips firmly, and exits the stage with a diploma and a hushed audience. So too do his classmates, until it comes to Diego–whose cousin can’t strangle a whoop of proud glee.
After that each family dares a little more, and before the dean presents the class, the place is a roaring, stomping tide.
“Hey,” says his awkward dad, outside. “Sorry we didn’t–”
“I totally understand,” says Hector, who totally understands.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Donithan reads a storefront labelled
BUTTER
london
and, for a long and fuzzy moment, takes it as an imperative.
He hasn’t moved across enough time zones for jet lag; it’s just the brainlock that sets in when retracting one’s awareness into eight cubic feet. Poor Donithan! he thinks. Afforded trips on enormous machines that fling him through the sky across continents. Oh, pity the privileged!
He drags himself away from the closed price-gougery and shuffles toward his gate. His trail of thought shimmers on the floor behind him, like a slug’s mucus, or a hot fat skating on a pan.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
When the sprawling new development opens just off the exit, the remaining stores in the Richmond Mall pack up their inventory, put on their sheepish hats and scurry over to foist themselves upon the weary of I-75.
Behind its dark and empty windows, strange things flower.
The plastic plants burst into bloom; the ghost of flute music rises, tritoned and sinister. The leftover nerves of fifty thousand bored teenagers spawn a new race of restless fey, hands eagerly filching, eyes like bright cigarettes.
Then the owners burn it down for insurance money and build a giant church on the remains.
Friday, February 27, 2009
“I’m sad we didn’t get admitted,” says Seth Rogen Character. “If only we could start our own college.”
“But all we know about is pot!” moans McLovin Guy.
They pause, for pot hits. Then:
“I know!”
They solicit marijuana-advocacy funding and get accreditation from a Canadian board; they build greenhouses and study soil acidity. They research, lobby and present their findings. The school makes a little bit of difference in the world.
But there’s a twist! It was a pot dream all along.
“We’re so high right now,” giggles Jonah Hill Character.
Pot is so good at getting you high!
“Do you believe your parents about how old you are?” says Marian suddenly.
Robert takes a long time to answer, but that’s why Marian asked him. “I believe my birth certificate,” he says.
“But who says that’s yours?” she says. “It’s a record purely by fiat. And consensus. Both of which could be lies.”
“Some people really don’t know their birthdays. Adopted kids, refugees.”
Marian quiets at that.
“In the old orphanages, they’d all share the same day,” he presses. “See, they didn’t have parents to disbelieve–”
“All right,” she says.
They just sit and wait for the bus after that.
The length of an ongoing illness can be estimated by the accumulation of materiel on one’s nightstand. Beginning with bottles of water and Advil, it propagates to medication, tissues, spilled cough drops and thermometer probe sheaths. A waste bin arrives and fills itself. Then a TV tray, for tasteless meals and overflow.
Doned’s cold has persisted for seven hundred forty-five days and at some point the entropy collapsed back into order: two bottles, one Kleenex box and a garbage disposal system that borders on the pneumatic. They’re in this together, he and the virus. Neither will let the other go.
Mhing’s only a part-time secret assassin; his official position is Chosen Supervisor of the Glorious Municipal Plumbing System.
“And my uncle says it IS your responsibility to fix the koi pond,” says Lai smugly.
“I must beg a momentary excuse,” says Mhing, a blue sleeve in his peripheral vision.
“Hurry up!” snaps Lai.
Mhing does hurry: he vaults the garden wall, phoonts a blowdart at a quickly-stiffening court stenographer, and returns, unruffled, before Lai’s tea can cool.
“My tea got cold!” says Lai. “I’m telling the Emperor!”
Mhing regrets that killing Lai would make his assassinness considerably less secret.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009