“How many books have you collected–specifically, relating to antique races and departed rulers?” asks the King. “Do you know the works of the poets by heart? Have you studied philosophy and the sciences? Are you polite, or at least witty; are you well-read?”
They’re alone in the starlit garden. “I’m only just sixteen,” says Cehrazad shakily.
“I’m only just sixteen, Your Majesty.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Old enough,” he purrs, “to tell me a story tonight,” and touches her arm.
Cehrazad is running, scrambling, wild over fantastic hedges. She stumbles down a vast stairway; the unnamed mask shatters on stone.
Sullivan pulls the two halves of the lady apart. She wiggles her feet; applause; he grins, flourishing scarves.
“That’s an old trick, though,” he says. “Which is why I’m going to cut this lady… in three!”
They ooh and titter in anticipation. Sullivan walks to the wing of the stage, grabs the fire axe, walks back on and starts hacking. Blood fountains merrily. Part of her skull falls off.
Sullivan roars over the crowd. “But that’s not all! I will now make myself… disappear!”
The police swarm the stage. Sullivan’s buried in a truncheoned, khaki pileon.
“MAGIC!” he shrieks, invisible beneath them.
[audio:http://www.xorph.com/anacrusis/audio/the_implicit.mp3]
I always strive to make Anacrusis as accessible as possible and browser-independent, but the vagaries of audio embedding have necessitated a Flash interface for today’s recorded story. If that doesn’t work for you, you can
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This is how it is. Beg. Borrow. Cast about for any edge to take a hook: anecdotes, throwaways, everything your friends forget. Scavenge the jetsam of conversation and test it all for steel.
Writing is an act of self-preservation, and of self-indulgence, but it doesn’t have to be a selfish act. If it ever is, you’ll stop. Don’t stop. Don’t forget that what you’ve done rests on the offhand grace of your peers, your betters and the great heaving, breathing, sharp-cornered language you call home.
This is how it is. Scrounge. Steal. Transform it, and give it back.
“I was reduced to doing birthday parties for a while,” muses William Shatner. “Me. Five hundred dollars a pop.”
Shriek into the gag.
“I know,” he’ll say. “Canadian dollars.” He’ll spread a clanking roll of velvet on the stone beside you. Bloody your wrists against the ropes as he admires the light on surgical steel.
“I thought it was luck when things picked up again, until Nerine… poor Nerine.” He sighs. “I understood, then. Do you know the term ‘cult of celebrity?'”
Gurgle in the affirmative.
“Like any cult,” he’ll say, “it requires sacrifices,” and will begin to excise your liver.
“I just wonder if the whole thing has something to do with the fact that my dad was travelling so much–”
“That doesn’t make much sense,” says Oatman sharply. “He couldn’t have known you’d end up in this situation, could he?”
Dakota blinks. “Well,” he says, “no.”
“No sense in blaming him, then.”
“What kind of therapy is this?” asks Dakota.
“Reverse psychiatry,” says Oatman, quite pleased. “Didn’t you read the door stencil?”
“It was backwards,” mutters Dakota.
“Let’s move on to this ennui you’ve felt lately,” says Oatman. “Do you think it will start when James dumps you next month?”
The Justin followed the shiver of reedy torchlight to a great stone hall, where in the judge’s seat sat a man garbed in deepest black.
“Anubis?” asked the Justin.
“Perhaps,” said the god. “What do you seek, living man?”
“My friend Ptah.”
“Then you know nothing,” the god said, “but we will judge you all the same.” He gestured, and there were scales, and a feather, and a hungry crocohippolion.
The Justin placed his heart on the scales.
“How can you do that, living man?” asked the god curiously.
“Oh,” said the Justin sadly, “the Girl tore it out years ago.”
Riot backpedals its dragon wings and lands next to the gray stone talons of loneliness; the scents of snow, fried eggs and sweat wriggle among them in a desperate thrash of neon worms. Coffee skitters with gecko toes up the table leg and under a book. The fog, of course, creeps in on kittenfeet.
Amidst all of them, Johann toils onwards; he’s deep in the metaphysical guts of the siren ape and he’s not going to look up any time soon. One by one his poor forgotten bits of city resign themselves to another night of scrounging. Only the stone remains.
The first time Staunton saves his family from terrorists, he has to set his broken leg himself, then walk up ten flights of stairs. He’s a media hero; he says it was just another day on the job.
The second time, he drives a car bomb off a bridge, rolling out the door at the last second. The third–one day before retirement–he guns down fifty trained assassins, while falling out a window.
The fourth time he punches out a cruise missile.
“What’s happening to me?” he whispers, terrified, in the confession booth.
“Miracles,” the priest says. “Sainthood takes three.”