“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
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
The first time Proserpina explicitly notices one of her teachers is during choir practice. She herself is an unspectacular alto (Iala, by popular acclaim, first soprano; Radiane doesn’t sing).
The teacher in question is Miss Havisham, their choirmistress, nearly thirty and prone to occasional lectures on Liberation about which the school administration probably should not know. The way she attracts Proserpina’s notice is a simple, straightforward sobbing breakdown. Iala’s contingent bustles into comfort formation, and soon all is right again; but when she loosens her bodice to breathe more easily, Proserpina spies the blue point of a tattoo between her breasts.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
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
“There were some people in the Noughts,” says Albany, “who tried to cut the ‘God spot’ out of the brain. Mexico icepick lobotomies, you know.”
“I’m guessing they cut out a lot more,” shudders Westwood.
“Well, to all appearances, yeah. But I’m not convinced they missed. I think whatever hardwires us to search for the divine has other purposes. The whole drive gives us some evolutionary advantage.”
“What, like altruism? Individuals sacrificing for the species?”
“Hardly,” Albany says. “We’re apes. You know what most apes are?”
“No,” says Westwood.
“Apex predators,” says Albany, and pops the host wafer into her mouth.
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Loveblind Bird kisses the tops of the waves.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” mutters See Me.
The Princess Leaves pulls a blanket around his shoulders. “There wasn’t anything you could have done,” she says. “They’ll follow us–that’s the only explanation for the ease of our escape. But that’s only because he left them no other choice.”
See Me shakes his head. The Princess touches his cheek. Then his ear.
Dog Shouting is at the cabin door, unnoticed; she watches for a moment before she raps the frame.
“We’re not out of this yet,” she says, with hard blue eyes.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
“And since the disk heads can write or read at an atomic-spin level,” explains Ninsun, “you can just slap together a storage unit out of whatever’s lying around.” She grins. “A lot of people around here use river mud.”
“Hey, it’s biodegradable, right?” chuckles Kopra.
Ninsun rolls her eyes. “And there’s even an artists’ collective who’ll decorate the tablet for you,” she says. “They use local materials too, like they’ll just use the end of a reed–”
Kopra’s interested. “Have these guys got a marketing rep yet? What’s the collective called?”
“Summer,” says Ninsun, “only they leave out an M.”
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
They pull the bag away, and Cehrazad blinks in the sudden light. She dropped Dunyazad’s mask on the way here, in fear and resignation: she was caught, and would hide behind no face but her own.
“This isn’t her,” grunts someone in surprise.
“What?” A head wearing an ornate full mask blocks the light. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Cehrazad,” she manages, “of House Loong.”
Silence. Then: “You were wearing your sister’s face.”
This time Cehrazad is the silent one.
“Get her an underface,” grumbles her captor, and when he turns in profile his mask is like a great and cruel bird.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007