Since his dad is never around, Guarang has to learn to tie his own neckties, and from first principles at that. He discovers the double Windsor and the Four-in-Hand by iteration; he has no way of knowing their significance. Indeed, among his more exotic variations (the clove hitch-granny, for instance, or the half-Stolypin), they don’t stand out.
Guarang tries not to think about the fact that he could just look these things up. Embedded in his superego is the idea that knowledge won supercedes knowledge taken. It doesn’t. Guarang feeds his silk tongue through slippery hands, going for the triple lutz.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The clock on the oven is losing about a minute a week because there’s apparently a localized temporal viscosity centered around the stove. Cork fills it with watches and eats Hot Pockets for a fortnight. When he opens the door again they’re ticking in unison, one hundred seconds slow.
This has annoying implications for his soufflés.
Later the scientists come: no white-coated Government Men, just some PhD kids from the university. They get excited about the alpha constant a lot. Cork buys bulk Hot Pockets and the Journal of Cosmology, wondering if they’ll show the stain that looks like Steve Buscemi.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Zach did one thing, before he left the hospital, before he even left the dream of the drugs. He wasn’t supposed to leave his secured room, but in silence and darkness, he slid a card under the door to Mirna’s. His email address.
She holds it now in the pocket of her cardigan, running one thumb over the edge as a counselor talks to her about shock and the aftermath of trauma. Mirna nods.
And then somehow her substitute teacher is Sara.
“All of you have great potential,” she says, meeting Mirna’s eyes. “I’ll be watching to see you fulfill it.”
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
“This is Dylan we’re talking about,” says Daniel. “Dylan. The girl Dylan. You know? Our friend Dylan?”
“I saw what I saw,” says Philip. “She was hurting them after they gave up. Not for practice, or to test herself. For fun.”
“I’m with Daniel,” says Tyler. “It’s not like she’s suddenly turned evil.”
“Did I mention she started smoking?”
“Oh shit she’s turned evil,” says Tyler.
“I used to smoke,” Toe scowls.
Everybody takes the tiniest hint of a step back from him.
“Jesus–”
“What are you guys talking about?” says Dylan, ambling up.
The silence hums, taut as a violin.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Aniridia walks and pieces things together. This is a house with a train stop out front: however strange either construct might be, she’s sure of that. It’s not a house she’s meant to leave.
What kind of house has doors that only lead in? A prison. An asylum. Really, the same thing.
The frequency of her heart ascends, but Aniridia quells it. Prisons are just one extension of a system of control. Control implies a desire for order, and order, says Newton, implies a system not fully closed.
Aniridia snaps the handle off the pump and starts prying up the floor.
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Milky Way is still there, but the stars are different: they’re having to invent new constellations. Without the weight of legacy, though, it’s hard to get the ones you see to stick.
“That’s the Harper,” says Aloysius.
“It’s the Sugar Baker,” insists Deena. “See? The twinkly part, that’s the tip of his pastry bag.”
“I’m not letting you fill the sky with food just because you’re hungry.”
“Well I’m tired of pastoral iconography!”
“We should just divide it and each take half.”
“Where’s the line then?”
“There,” he says, tracing with his finger, “from the Crane to the morning star.”
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Hilda and Simeon put a piece of cardboard over the first drive-thru window and boink in the back of the Burger King. The scent of hot oil nearby lends excitement; their vigor pops the change drawer open. The manager notices, but he’s currently at the front counter, beatifically pooping his pants.
Out in the restaurant proper, the customers are following one suit or the other, except the lady who’s called up her mother to explicate twenty years of resentment.
At the counter, Titania puts face to hands. “I just wanted a stupid Whopper Junior,” she groans.
“No you didn’t,” says Mustardseed.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Zach is only just off morphine when they deport him.
In a fugue and handcuffs, he nods in response to dour questions in Hungarian. He spends sixteen hours in a cell, touching the bandages lightly. He thinks about Sara.
On the plane, the Vulpine Phalanger sits down next to him.
“Oh,” he says.
“Hey,” she says. He’s never seen her in civilian clothes; she seems younger. “I know a little about scars. Want me to take a look?”
He shrugs.
She peels back the gauze, and she is kind. She purses her lips.
“Those,” she says, “are going to look badass.”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010