The Loveblind Bird chases the little skiff with sails cracking, bow high, hydrofoils slicing the sea.
“A ship that size shouldn’t be this far out!” says Ratio Tile.
“Well, he won’t be around long enough to tell anyone about us,” says Dog Shouting. “Dragalong, man the bolter.”
See Me rummages through a casket for a set of brass oculars. “Maybe he was being towed by a bigger ship, snapped his line…”
“Gimme those,” says Dog, grabbing the lenses and peering. “We can still catch him before he gets to–there, that small waystation!”
“That’s no waystation,” murmurs Ratio. “That’s the moon.”
Thursday, October 25, 2007
“You know what Stoppard said about actors?” says Pilsner. “They’re the opposite of people.”
“What, if we touch we explode?” Beulah grins. “I think you’re giving yourself a little too much–”
“No,” says Pilsner, “he meant that once you hone your voice and face to create emotional impact, once you do it again and again for months, you gain a distance from true emotion that can’t be closed. Nothing you express after that, even in all honesty, can be free of performance. Actors are the opposition to people because people react.”
Beulah blinks. “Pils, I…”
“Gotcha!” he says, just lightly enough.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
“And your income is, heh, not derived from any activity declared to be criminal,” says the county clerk with a twinkled eye. Chicago’s eyes are flat.
“Just enter the petition,” she says.
“Sweetie, we get a lot of kids in here,” he says reasonably. “I know life with Mom and Dad can be tough, but unless you have a signed form–”
“Here.”
“–and not in shaky cursive–”
“It’s notarized,” Chicago snaps.
“Emancipation isn’t for fun, Miss.” He’s flat-eyed now too. “You’ll be a legal adult and your decisions will have real weight, you understand that?”
Chicago’s heart pounds and pounds.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Pannzer belches up a load of mousse de foie gras and it falls heavily into Raumon’s body cavity, teasing him with its rich texture, its warmth, its scent–oh, that he had been denied nostrils in the transformation! Raumon spins out from the kitchen in an agony of frustrated hunger. Why couldn’t he at least have been house staff, and be off cavorting with the feather dusters instead?
“Try the grey stuff, it’s delicious!” yelps the deranged pyro maitre’d. “Don’t believe me? Ask the dishes!”
Oh, for a tongue to taste with, thinks Raumon despairingly. Oh, for a mouth to scream.
“We have to do something, Uncle!” cries Stoicheia. The hall is collapsing; above, Ferlighi roars with laughter and picks off another victim. “We have to use the words!”
Logos is gray-faced with terror. “They are forbidden,” he says. “We must not dilute them!”
“I’d rather dilute them than die!” Stoicheia shouts.
Ferlighi utters a thunderclap and scatters them. By the time Stoicheia makes her way back to him, Logos is unmoving, eyes gray and glassy.
“Priceless®!” giggles Ferlighi, and traces bright circles in the air. “And now, child, you too–”
“Nike™,” Stoicheia whispers, and her feet are like unto wings.
“I’m here about your father’s business matters and I won’t be coy, little miss,” says Buchanan, over his game hen. “You see, he left certain shares to you, but as you’re a child–”
“Aren’t you my trustee, Mother?” says Proserpina.
Her mother blinks. “Er, yes,” she says.
“Except women don’t vote on Board matters,” says Buchanan. “It simply isn’t done–yet. Now, I can try to bring them around, but I need your agreement to serve as proxy, see?”
“Perfectly.”
“That’s your pop’s spirit!” winks Buchanan.
“Could you pass the salt?” asks Proserpina sweetly. “I could do with just a grain.”
Thursday, October 18, 2007
There is a lingering moral superiority inherent in having flossed. Suri scans Harez’s mouth as he talks, searching for signs of gingivitis.
“And, er, they’ve achieved a significant number of our tactical goals,” Harez mumbles, trying to keep his lips close together. “So I wanted to let them, well, blow off some steam?”
“Yes, I see, Lieutenant,” says Suri. “And you’re sure we’ve got the surplus munitions?”
“Absolutely,” Harez assures her. “Triple-checked.”
Suri takes a mouthful of cool water and lets it swish through the aching gaps between her teeth. “All right,” she says. “A little genocide never hurt anybody.”
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
One thing to remember about any given swampy river: there are crocodiles.
Except in the afterlife there weren’t, which made sense: their chief function (in human perception) was largely abrogated. Denied symbiosis, the white plovers wheeled and dove and annoyed the Justin, who was trying to spar.
“Concentrate,” hissed Stevie, reed low and steady.
“I don’t want bird poopy on my soul!” the Justin protested.
“Just concentrate on your time signature. Soon enough you’ll have to deal with more than birds!”
Not far down the river, ready to prove them right, the crocohippolion lurked; and the plovers went nowhere near her.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
Here’s to thy health: give him the cup. (A draught
anointed with a poison most severe!)
Laer. Another bout, your majesty; good Prince,
what sayest thou?
Ham. I’ll justly serve thee nonce.
[They play.]
Gert. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, dab thy brow.
King. (But is that kerchief one I poison’d hence?
I’d best be sure.) Nay, take instead the wine.
Gert. I’ll have it. Gack!
Laer. Look here, a hit!
King. Poison! The Queen!
Ham. A venomed foil? This treachery will out!
Here, see how I have poison’d this grenade–
“Short fiction market’s disappearing,” says Ballard.
“More precisely, it was never there,” says Cote, “but fine, let’s take it as a proving ground, a brand-builder. What are you building toward?”
“Novels, which aren’t worth the time required. Um… video games?”
Cote snorts. “Writing for games is like sculpting for wolverines.”
“Then I guess TV or movies,” says Ballard.
“Right!” says Cote. “Except, thanks in part to my copy of Bittorrent, the money’s disappearing there too.”
Ballard frowns. “So how do you make money off stories when information is free?”
“Well hey!” says Cote. “This one doesn’t have a goddamn ending!”