Peony rocks onto his heels, knees spread a little, feet pointed. He lets his back sag.
He finds the first knuckle on each of his thumbs, the ones that are almost part of his palm, and presses them to his eyes. The back side, the softer part. He touches the pads of his fingers and bows his head.
This is how he is praying–not for luck or protection, but for revelation. I have shuttered my sight, he is saying; lend me Yours. Trade me, for these few seconds, vision for Vision. Eyes for Eyes.
Orange on black, the patterns begin.
“Keep the fire hot for me,” says Grace before she leaves. “Keep it lit. I’ll be back.”
There’s enough wood on the pile for five days; Teviot makes it last nine. On the tenth day he burns his chair, then the table. On the fifteenth he burns their only book.
On the eighteenth he burns his blankets, then his sweater and socks. On the twenty-first he burns hair and fingernail clippings. On the twenty-second he burns the last matches. He burns their dust, and their memory.
He burns air. He burns hunger.
On the thirtieth day he burns hope, blue-hot, white-quick.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
“You got the plates?” pants Petra.
“Yeah,” says Terrell, “let’s WHOUF.” A big red shape bounces off his face, and he drops.
“A critical hit,” booms a voice. “For the Dieslinger!”
“You’re kidding,” groans Petra.
“Hands up, criminal–”
“God. Look.” Petra peels off her ski mask. “I’m an image consultant, okay? And seriously, this Dungeons and whatever…”
“You recognized it!”
“But think of the zeitgeist! You want recognition with dice, you go with gambling.” She puts an arm around his shoulder.
“Oooh,” he says. “So I could yell, like, ‘Snake Eyes, scum!'”
“You got it,” laughs Petra, and guts him.
Mercy can’t help noticing that hers is the only pink skin visible; it makes her itch.
“Look, you go ahead,” she mutters.
“Don’t wuss out on me!” Vetta laughs. “You’ll be fine once we’re in.”
“What if somebody decides to…?” Mercy grimaces. “Not that I think–” But they’re at the door.
The bouncer scowls, but Vetta somehow gets them in. The music’s thud-heavy, the light in strange spectra, and the dancing–Mercy’s intrigued. It’s so different.
“Told you!” shouts Vetta, grinning.
A guy at the bar overhears, glances back, quirks an eyebrow. Mercy winks. He’s pretty cute, for a zombie.
“Do your worst, demon!” grunts Slagjor, as Gr’nThax’s fireburst splashes from his gleaming blade.
“It’s time, young friend,” whispers Poniard Toepad.
“What?” says Token Smallchÿlde, surprised. “But you’re–”
“The beast knows my tricks,” Poniard hisses. “But he discounts you. You’re our only hope!”
Gathering his courage, Token bursts from his hiding place and scrambles up Gr’nThax’s snout. With a whoop, he slides down and leaps from its thrashing tail.
“What?” Gr’nThax roars. “NO!”
But Token’s already snatched the gleaming treasure from its pedestal.<
"At last!" exults Slagjor. "The Next Arc of Plot!”
“Dangit!” says Gr’nThax. “I die in that one.”
“They never show that in movies,” Jean-Pierre points out grumpily.
“True.” Bertrand tosses out the nine of clubs; it tumbles lazily, end over end. “One doesn’t just freeze in vacuum. One doesn’t merely suffocate. One explodes!”
“The ultimate contextualization!” says Jacques, grabbing the nine and stuffing it in his hand. “An attempt to fill the void with self–”
“Spare us,” groans Jean-Pierre.
“There is nothing outside the text!” Jacques insists. He means this literally; the three of them are in a spaceship made of origami newsprint.
It should be noted that this is basically the worst possible kind of spaceship.
“Mister Crane!” manages Bollweevil, startled. “A delightful surprise! How–how long were…?”
“Been waiting,” says Crane quietly. Crane’s always quiet. “Saving up.”
“Yes, you’ve taken great advantage of our rollover–”
“Never liked you.” Crane moves closer. “Word-counting, extortion, this little basement tyranny.”
“Not another word, Crane,” says Bollweevil coldly. He brushes the shotgun under the desk.
“Been saving,” says Crane, and brings his arm up.
Bollweevil’s jerking at the gun, but the fistful of exclamation marks is already exploding around him: a thunder of percussive silences. There’s blood in his ears. Crane walks forward, smiling, and Bollweevil’s screams are soundless.
“Please,” Bianca cringes, “Sophie, listen,” as water creeps from the carpet.
“The FUCK!” Sophie’s face is unpinches and pales. The vase of flowers implodes from the floor up onto the table. She draws back her hand.
“Please don’t get mad,” says Bianca.
“You’re on that shit again,” says Sophie. “That fucking drug.”
“Listen,” says Bianca. “You weren’t–weren’t supposed to be back yet…”
“Hey, what’s up?” Sophie retreats from the room. Her movements have a strange, lazy grace, alternated with an odd sharpness. Bianca remembers the first time she saw it: delight, fascination, this new perspective on how people move forward.