The American obsession with evergreen tannenbaum is mostly based on a translated ditty by a teacher from Liepzig, who didn’t even write the tune. Done well, Christmas lights on naked winter trees appear to hang in the air: transparent structures, Faberge eggs and whorling seashells, traced in wireframe light. They speak of an ethereal world, or a suburb plunged into those parts of the ocean where fish carry their own lanterns. It’s the one chance the trees have all year to show off their lingerie.
Which is why they should really plant some already, thinks Cass, bright and shivering, arms high.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Down among the struts of Raccoon Furnace live the cokers, parsing out scraps of stolen fire. From Coker Inchard you can get it cheap and risk burning granite; Olgy will trade it for a hump in his tent. But from Ewards you can get a magic word.
Pay dearly, take his coal and his whisper and run to the old well down Curbin Street. Throw a piece from your bucket, and wish.
It worked for somebody’s sister’s friend’s lover. It could work for you.
That night Ewards will collect all the wet cold chunks, and dry them, and sell them again.
Friday, December 28, 2007
“People who look at the horoscopes,” says Latifa, “are being led astray. The future’s in the newspaper, all right, but it’s never so obvious.”
“Journalismancy?” asks Salud skeptically. “What, like they print next week’s stock prices by mistake?”
Latifa shakes her head. “The defining attributes of prophecy are that it hides small truths in a mass of writing and that its transcribers don’t know which is which. Elijah, Nostradamus, and now Gannett–when not even the publisher reads a whole newspaper, it’s easy for the future to slip into the gutters.”
“Show me,” says Salud.
“LOST,” reads Latifa, “Seven fat cows.”
Monday, December 31, 2007
Omar preferred computers back when they were imagined as motorcycle analogues: dangerous and powerful things to ride, built for experts, best when skirting laws. Hackers in black or white helmets, gunning off into cyberspace with sunglasses gleaming. You had to have sunglasses; they reflected the monitor so nicely.
Now mirrorshades are out of style, and computers are used to play songs you don’t like on MySpace. Omar named his club the Gentleman Loser and nobody got it. There’s a decent crowd most nights, but he can’t bring himself to strap on a keyboard and mingle. His leather jacket’s too hot anyway.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
“The true nature of reflexology isn’t that the body exists pre-mapped onto the foot,” explains Behrooz. “It’s that the therapist is capable of mapping the zones onto any arbitrary surface. Feet work because they’re an easy and uncluttered interface, but the same technique informs aura readings, chakra theory and what you would probably call ‘voodoo dolls.’ Understand the flow of qi in the body and anything becomes an input device. The wall of this room, for instance.”
He flips a light switch. Avi screams.
“Now,” Behrooz says, “are you going to cooperate, or do I have to explain the sauna?”
“This isn’t supposed to happen to me,” protests Clarice. “You’re supposed to be giving this talk to some birthmarked teenager with violet eyes that change color with her mood!”
The dragon blinks mildly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m a forty-six-year-old single mother,” snaps Clarice, “and my eyes are hazel.”
It shrugs. “I can’t speak for the sword’s predilections. You are its choice; this is your destiny.”
The grip’s wound with ancient leather in grooves that perfectly fit her fingers; the blade nearly leaps into her hand, thrumming with life and power.
It kind of reminds her of her vibrator.
“Really, all the good reviews in the world don’t amount to more than they’re meant,” says Daryl, “to, amount to, mean, to, er, help, I appear to be trapped in this sentence and I don’t know how to get out.”
“Go meta,” says Janis, grinning. “That’s my secret trick for getting out of anything.”
Daryl laughs. “Man, you should tell that to, like, criminals. It’s not a jail if you think outside it!”
Pause.
“I didn’t mention that I was in prison, did I?” says Janis, fiddling with her fork.
Going meta! thinks Daryl frantically. I am going meta right now!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
On her way to the interview Mara asks for courage, and it is granted: she strides in and nails it. The other candidate doesn’t even show up.
Over the first few months she asks for cleverness, and some days it’s with her, and some days it isn’t. It is, however, never with her colleagues. Some get remedial training.
Two years later her job is challenged by a superior. Mara asks for pride; she speaks eloquently, but the position is eliminated.
Mara asks for wrath. Her superior’s position opens up.
Mara attends the funeral, and starts to wonder exactly who she’s asking.