“What about you, what are you doing in Budapest?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Zach says mysteriously.
She rolls her eyes. “You can tell me if you’re plainclothes. I’ve worked with the police here, risk management for the nonviolent demonstrations. We get along fine.”
“I’m not plainclothes.”
Her eyes saccade between the points of glare on his glasses, and she decides to believe that. He’s got a sort of arrogant puppydog energy–he’s come into new privileges and they don’t quite fit across his shoulders. Useful.
“I’m Sara,” she says.
“I know,” Zach chuckles.
“What?” says Sara. “How?”
In the middle of the pond there’s a tree and you can climb, barefoot and careful, some fifty old two-by-fours up to its stubby limbs. Everybody jumps off the lowest branch. Boys showing off for the girls jump from the second one. Boys showing off for boys jump from the top.
Laura drives herself and Tom back, seat belts over wet bathing suits. She plays good songs on the stereo; he’s funny. She twists her ring and asks, “sweetie, why didn’t I ever date you?”
“That’s a pretty confident question,” he says, falling, flailing, metaphor rushing up at him.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
When the Justin divested himself of material goods, he donated most to the worthy cause of the Teen Choice Awards; but some he had buried. Thus he had a gondola in the next world, and a pole.
He had been pushing down the after-Nile for days, looking for Ptah, when a stringy-haired hermit with a Strat called to him. “Coins for the ferryman,” he cried. “Silver dollars from my blind eyes, for passage across.”
“Wrong river,” said the Justin, “but I’ll take you for free.” He poled in through reeds.
“Bless you!”
“What’s your name?”
“Stevie,” the hermit said.
“It’s time we stopped pretending, Dagan,” murmurs Tamara throatily. Dagan becomes suddenly aware of her nearness, the warmth and bulk of her tall body.
“I d-don’t know what you mean,” he replies nervously.
Then she’s gripping his wrists, pinning his naked back against the window, ravishing his mouth with brutal, hungry kisses. The evening’s champagne makes Dagan giddy; blood rushes to his head–and heat, to lower places.
“Stop–no–” he gasps. “It’s wrong, I’m your secretary–”
“The only thing that could be wrong, now,” she growls, “would be stopping,” and scoops him up to carry him into the bedroom.
You can’t use a brush for this: they’re already perfectly good at depicting the truth. You need a fountain pen.
Cardiff pumps the lever and drenches the halogen bulb in ink, which mostly steams or drips right off: the smell is oily and redolent of mushrooms. He empties cartridge after cartridge, and some the residue begins to build up. It dims.
When it’s thick enough, he can take off his dark goggles and look directly at it. The dry shell has already started cracking; Cardiff waves his fingers slowly over them and watches their outlines flicker like lightning on the wall.
Which is why, the next day, she simply walks up behind Proserpina, grabs a fistful of her hair, and hauls sideways. Proserpina bites back a yelp and lets the taller girl pull her off the dining hall chair.
“I’ve read the boarding school stories too,” Radiane says, trembling. “I’m not going to be your little victim, you understand? I know how to handle a bully.”
She cautiously lets go. Proserpina wipes tears from her eyes. “You know how to stand up to me, you say?”
“Y-yes,” snaps Radiane.
“Good,” breathes Proserpina, and proceeds to break Radiane’s nose and two ribs.
“It’s a known area of vulnerability,” says Harris. “Aquatic attack! Enemy frogmen, firing spearguns from the reeds before the bodyguard can shake off his shock!”
“Or her shock,” says Burlington.
“A female bodyguard wouldn’t be shocked,” says Harris firmly.
Burlington lets this pass and waves vaguely. “Okay,” he says, “your solution?”
Harris yanks the curtain from the big plastic tank. Its occupant heaves itself onto the edge, whiskers brandished in a rampant pose of fierce vigilance.
“Let’s see them,” grins Harris, “get past a guard manatee!”
The manatee proves to be completely useless so they eat it and get a dog.
Waves soften the smeared-out traces of his figure.
“There’s only one place safe from it,” says the end of the world, stepping out onto a wave. “Where nothing can really be inscribed.”
“That’s absurd!” he snaps, trying to follow. He doesn’t have the trick of it: he splashes where she skates. “There are plenty of symbols in the sea. White whales, albatrosses–for heaven’s sake, look what you’re doing–”
“Not the water,” she says, “although it’s better than the sand.” The sea floor drops out beneath him; he treads.
“Then where?” he gasps.
Rising, the great beast swallows them both.
“Fall, Socialist Satans!” Randigrad shrieks through cavernous megaphones, unleashing another cannonade. Marxopolis rocks on its treads and spits back an electrostatic volley.
“Your epithets are inconsistent with rationality,” it trumpets. “Clearly your logic is as flawed as your elitist philosophy!”
“Eat alloy!” snaps Randigrad, and labors to bring its broadside to bear.
Deep in the sweating bowels of Marxopolis, Karl and Leoben heave at one of the thousand yokes that keep the gears turning, then brace for the shock of impact.
“Heard anything about what the infidel Objectivists use for power?” says Leoben wistfully.
“Pretty much the same thing,” says Karl.