She knows everyone in the world, and these are their names:
- The Magician
- The Popess
- Strength and her friend Temperance
- Star
- Death
- The Knight
- The King
- The Queen of Swords
And herself, of course, the Page. So when she meets the man in the worn blue coat she doesn’t know what to call him.
“I’m the Emperor, my child,” he says. “Emperor Norton the First. Not Emperor here, of course, just a state visit, a diplomatic consort mission envoy. Where am I?”
“The world,” says the Page uneasily.
“Ah,” he says, “but what do you call it?”
She calls it Summersend.
Friday, September 29, 2006
“Secret dealer room,” calls the old guy over his shoulder, grinning. “Special chance, just for you! Very close now!”
“Remind me why we’re following him?” mutters Alex.
“All the good stuff, you have to buy gray-market,” Tyler says. “Underground. Trust me, I’ve got a good feeling about this guy.”
“And if he’s just some psycho?”
Tyler grins. “Four on one? We could take him.”
“You don’t know,” says Toe, “he could be a karate master, maybe that mop is like his bo staff–”
“Just because he’s Asian doesn’t mean he knows karate,” snaps Daniel. Toe turns from gray to pink.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Mina sweeps past the forelock-tugging receptionist and into the dim office. “I want you to know that this isn’t film noir,” she says bluntly. “I am neither a waif nor a fatale and I will not fall for your tough exterior. I’m here because my best friend went missing from a locked room and the police have given up, and hiring a PI is my very last–”
He holds up a hand. She stops.
“I can solve your case,” purrs the detective. “In one hour and seventeen minutes I shall commence.”
“What happens then?” asks Mina.
“Sunset,” says Inspector Dracula.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Sky Harbor has no Terminal One, so you don’t have to go through security to enter it, since the sidewalks won’t take you there. There’s nothing to keep those without tickets from standing near the gate. No planes are boarding passengers in Zone A. She can’t have packed or sold her sofa; he won’t need to find someone to take over their lease. She can’t touch his chin with her thumb or tuck his hair into place. He can’t blot his eyes with his sleeve.
Sky Harbor has no Terminal One, so they can’t possibly be standing in it, saying goodbye.
Monday, September 25, 2006
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Friday, September 22, 2006
Hugh sings about cruel women as the Kia zips toward the barrier at fifty, sixty, sixty-five. He’s got Wild Turkey triple vision, so it’s a good thing he’s not steering–he’d probably miss it.
Car and barrier introduce themselves. The airbag deploys with exactly the flawed but rakish angle they discovered last week; Hugh’s head dislocates the driver’s window, and his right shoulder dislocates itself.
“Okay!” shouts the lady in the white coat as they rush toward the steaming wreck, clipboards flapping. “Get photos, get x-rays, measure blood loss stat!”
“Begher huhrry,” says Hugh, whose jaw is already healing.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
“Relax, T,” grins Alex as they squeeze shoulders crowdwise. “We’re among your people.”
“Toe wasn’t short enough?” asks Daniel. “It’s T now?”
“I reject all nicknames that do not reduce aggregate syllable count,” says Tyler.
“These are not my people,” says Toe, a little gray.
“Remind me when we got our WonderCon badges, Daniel?” Alex grins wider.
“Why, just after last year’s WonderCon, Alex.”
“Attending a con with nerds doesn’t nerdify me,” grunts Toe. “I enjoy Star Wars. Star Wars is mass American pop culture.”
“Granted,” says Alex, “but the lightsaber on your belt, T, that puts you over the line.”
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The end of the world stops and tilts her head, and a moment later he hears it too: soft white noise, rising, as loud as a jet. It’s gone.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Everyone breathing,” she says, “together.”
“Did you want to finish your monologue?” he asks.
“We should go look outside,” she says dreamily.
She descends the steps from the apron of the stage, then walks up the aisle. He looks down to find he’s been writing his notes in white ink. He shrugs and follows her. It’s not hard: the end of the world leaves footprints of dust.
Monday, September 18, 2006