“Too far to walk back to the city now.” Luck keeps his head low as they look over the ridge. “I can’t believe you survived the trip once…”
“I hid on a river barge.” Blot’s face is blue with blackberries. “It didn’t hurt, then, as long as we were going south.”
“Neither of us belonged there anyway,” says Luck. “And I know there are people on this side of the river, no matter what they say. Other people, other cities.”
“You believe those baby stories?” Blot’s scorn is older than she is.
“I believe,” says Luck, “in a place called Hope.”
Friday, December 30, 2005
“No!” shouts Moxie, arms pinioned by two of Misery’s goons, as two more smash the casing off her little basement generator. The room goes dark and quiet.
“Let’s take Miss Bitters outside, boys,” Misery chuckles. “I think she’ll want to watch.”
Moxie kicks and struggles, but doesn’t bite. She’s busy counting under her breath.
“Three Missouri,” she mutters, “two Missouri, one–”
Crack. Misery spins around to see the bloom of light at the top of the tower–then a flicker, and a surge. Soon the whole roof’s on fire.
Not far off, a fugitive winks its lantern, then sails away north.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
“Moxie Bitters,” says Moxie Bitters.
“Misery Slant,” says Misery Slant.
They don’t bother shaking hands. They eye each other, Moxie up, Misery down: sometimes a book is written on its covers.
“You’re not worth bribing, are you, Miss Bitters?”
“I prefer Moxie,” says Moxie, “and no, Misery, I’m not.”
“Then we have a problem, Moxie,” says Misery. “And I prefer Miss Slant.”
“The lighthouse stays on,” says Moxie, and shakes her hair back. “That’s what a lighthouse does: welcome by warning, safety in departure.”
“The Platonic lighthouse, perhaps, yes. This particular lighthouse will go out,” says Misery.
“Maybe tomorrow. Not tonight.”
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The British artillery doesn’t even reach the fort walls. The brigade lacks scaling ladders, so Appleseed’s safe on the wall, watching. In the distance, the Shawnee sit: there’s nothing else to do.
“You didn’t try too hard,” he says, “to stop me.”
“No.”
“I saved twelve families, bringing them here.”
“They’ll be cold enough, in time.” Frost smiles. “But their deaths would have changed the Ohio campaign–kept the Shawnee useful. Now, they won’t be able to use the colonies’ conflict with the Empire to preserve their independence.”
Appleseed shivers.
“Why freeze farmers,” murmurs Frost, “when I could shatter a nation?”
Monday, December 26, 2005
Girls of a certain complexion, at certain times in particular climates, blush with their knees. It’s not a scraped or bloodied redness, just the same flush that rises to the cheeks of most such girls in exertion or embarrassment.
The girl’s response is typically negative. That which is not smooth and even must be cured or concealed: pants, thigh-highs, even foundation.
That response is misguided. The blushing knee is the orbital laser strike of seduction, and it hits Fenimore foursquare, as Alma steps up out of the little boat. He’s atoms. Alma, perfectly innocent, just ran out of untorn hose.
Friday, December 23, 2005
“Hey, it’s Apple Jack!” calls Farmer Ethshire. “Got any more of that cider?” Ethshire’s grinning, winking, but Appleseed’s face is grey and tight.
“Shawnee,” he shouts as he lopes in. “Shawnee and the British, get your family to Fort Stephenson, now!”
Ethshire’s eyes go wide, but he’s looking past Appleseed. Appleseed turns back to see a winter wind in August, tearing stalks of wheat from the ground and carrying them, frozen, sharp as glass. In flight, one becomes arrow. It drives through Ethshire’s heart.
Jack spits two appleseeds at the ground where he falls, and makes for the farmhouse, and hopes.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
There are two Jacks; the one with the tattoos is Jack Frost. The tattoos were not his idea.
The other one is called Apple Jack, or John Chapman, or Chaplain, or sometimes Appleseed. Appleseed is barefoot, but his soles are tough. He wears a sinner’s sackcloth. He is running.
“Why can’t you understand,” pants Appleseed, “that what you kill on Earth you defile in Heaven?”
Frost Jack lazily draws a fractal on the bark of an oak tree. It explodes from the heartwood; Appleseed dodges splinters.
“Leaves fall,” says Frost Jack. “Water freezes. A beginning demands an end.”
Appleseed runs harder.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
“Deploy snowboards!” shouts the Justin, and he and Ptah slam sliding into the side of the black glass pyramid. They cut their chutes away; they slalom down with pink neon in their wake. But the charcoalsuits can afford to land harder, and they’re close behind.
There’s a rosewood Martin at the bottom, plugged right into the building.
“The Justin can’t play guitar!” says the Justin, panicked. “He took pop-and-lock lessons instead!”
“Let go of pop, the Justin,” says Ptah. “Play your soul.”
The Justin closes his eyes and hits high B. The suits scream. The pyramid sings the blues.
Monday, December 19, 2005