“As you know, Nadnerb, infodumps are the basis of our modern society,” says Snikda interestingly. “Through quantum laser hacking of our delta waves, we can transmit information directly from machine to brain–elimininating the ancient process called ‘education,’ and allowing us to enjoy a new golden age of philosophy, science and art.” The Space Navy captain and 6’4″ father of two chuckles. “Whenever I look in a mirror and see my attractive, bioengineered body and vibrant blue hair, I can’t help but think–this modern life would be impossible–if not for infodumps!”
“I didn’t actually know that,” says Snikda.
“Lacie?” says Leroy. “That’s your real name?”
The masked man shrugs. “I only tell it to people up here, your majesty.”
“If we’re telling secrets, I slept with my sister.”
Lacie might be smiling. “Feel better?”
“A little.”
“Kneel.”
Leroy tries not to shiver–just the cold, he thinks. He’s ready. In the crowd, even the babies aren’t breathing.
“There’s a reason we have kings, your majesty,” murmurs Lacie, and gently pushes Leroy’s head down to the block. “It’s so, when we turn, we have someone to turn on.”
Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Lacie padded the basket.
The birds are gone, and instead of screaming there’s a chuckle in the air.
There’s no more floor, no shadow. Cosette stops walking when Millicent begins to stumble and looks back into the gulf of dawn: it’s utter whiteness, but it’s a whiteness of void, not light. It doesn’t hurt her eyes.
This is what she sings to the sunless morning.
“Ambergris and berry dreams
India and rhyme
Carry claret honeybees
Paradromic sighs–
Close your eyes and swallow sleep
Night is on its way
Your ears are sharp, your tongue is keen;
Your dreams a bitter stain.”
The air keeps chuckling.
The subject of not being Mick Jagger is a longtime favorite of Allen’s. It started as a daydream: were he Mick Jagger, how would he spend his money? What security code would he set for his mansion? How big, in simple poundage, would his penis be?
Then again, at least Allen’s songs aren’t getting bleeped on TV. He hasn’t endured the messy divorces or the jail time.
“There’s a lot for you to envy,” he admits, in the basement.
“That’s wha’m saying,” says Mick between spoonfuls of applesauce.
Allen yawns. “Want me to untie you or anything?”
“Actually no?” says Mick.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
“One,” says the medium, “or two?”
“Can you do them again?” asks Amina.
“Sure.” The medium scuffs out the runes and picks up the chalk again. “One? Or two?”
“One,” she replies. Her grandmother does look sharper that way, although Amina worries that the second version had a brighter dress.
“Okay, good. Now, two… or three?”
In “two” her grandmother has a purse, and Amina’s pretty sure Ga-No preferred a fanny pack. “Three,” she says.
“Getting closer,” says the medium encouragingly. “Three, or hn’groc khtnn lhrrr?”
The tentacles are only there for a flicker. “Oh,” breathes Amina, “definitely the second.”
You can paint the walls green and blue; you can trade the cold bar lights for bulbs. You can hang posters and play music and knock out big windows, but the soul of a hospital, its atomic nature, is its smell.
Chicago wonders if they pipe it in through the little oxygen nose masks. Maybe it steams off the coffee? But it’s not much like coffee–more like instant oatmeal, cooked with disinfectant and chewed fingers and piss.
Things are fucked up, says the smell in its little yellow voice. Things are fucked for you and they are not getting better.
“I feel strange,” says Drinker, and starts to blur.
Bariad drops his marsh grass and swishes his tail. “Whoa, quantum,” he says. “Do you need my backbrain? I can try to stabilize you–”
“Brontosaurs,” Drinker whispers. His eyes are bright with the future. “They call us brontosaurs and then th h hey say we don’t ex ex is ist”
He pulls apart. Impossibility rips out from him, a wave; the herd begins to split. Bariad is thirty tons of panic. He batters at the wall of time with all his minds, and runs, and rams free, out–
Into a different book.
Hanzo extrapolates his fingers, popping, recursing, mandelbrating: branched at some knuckles, merely bent at others. His arms sag under their weight. His nerves whisper back about the cold tile floor and the warm breath of a computer exhaust fan; he stubs a dozen thumbs, bends them back and climbs creepers up and over. Fingers pile up in the corners. Hanzo’s bones begin to ache. He picks up a phone and dials it with somebody’s chopsticks. His grip wraps chair legs, table legs, people legs: a short man yelps.
“We’re going to need some more paper,” sighs the policeman with the inkpad.