“I looked up ‘steeplechase’ yesterday,” says Percival nervously.
“Okay.” Jephthah duct-tapes Percival’s wrists together. “Boaz, bring them steaks over!”
“It’s a British horse race! Also a track event. There is a canine version, but not combined–”
“American traditions are different,” Jephthah says. “Hold still.” He finishes strapping Percival with ribeye and begins attaching the Burger King crown, which says GORGE 3. Behind him, the dogs bay wildly.
“King George wasn’t even alive on the first Thanksgiving!” Percival shrills.
“Well, depending on how careful they are,” says Jephthah cheerily as Boaz releases the hounds, “you just might live through this one!”
Thursday, November 24, 2005
“Please stop fiddling with that and drive,” Jan snaps.
“My car, my dial,” says Serena, and twists it down. The blaring advertisements echoing through the downtown canyon crackle and fade.
Jan shakes his head. “Broad-spectrum antiharmonics. That just makes them breed new frequencies, you know.”
“And my triclosan hand soap created SARS, sure,” says Serena. “You can stay ahead if you’re willing to pay for it. And for this–” she closes her eyes and inhales the silence. “I’m willing.”
“Might be paying more than you think,” sighs Jan.
Behind them, the ambutank roars up, siren on high, silent as surprise.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Saturday mornings Kit goes to the home to put half his flowers in a vase for his mother, who is still asleep. He needs the rest of the day for practice.
First he goes out to a vacant lot in the industrial park and stands in the middle, and rails at the sky. He tries to make deals. He begs kneeling.
Next he goes home for lunch, which is a casserole he made himself, and pretended to find.
Of the three town funeral homes, at least one is always occupied. He sits in back. He leaves the rest of his flowers.
Caradog wakes in horror, and a grimy toilet stall, and the cold knowledge that he doesn’t know his own first name. But here–on his hand–sweaty blue pen: AK 89TH W.3
That’s the key, he knows it. Caradog lunges out into the bathroom and sees someone–there’s no time for trust! He smashes the surprised man’s head into a sink, then grabs his face and shoves him back into the stall.
Some time later, Pensieve wakes. Where is he? Who is he? He stumbles out of the stall and–there, in the mirror, blue pen backwards on his cheek–
Wednesday, February 8, 2006
You need the car, first, some kind of dark green body with purple racing stripes, and the suggestion of snakeskin. Maybe snakeskin seats. Do they make those? Regardless, it’s a big flat boat and it probably steers with those fins. Convertible.
Next you need the passenger, channeling Dave Abbruzzese with one hand, playing wind tunnel with the other.
And then the driver: wearing Ray-Bans and shake the haters, faded blue alligator polo, one hand at twelve on the wheel. Her other hand’s out the window too, back near the handle, like maybe any minute she’s going to open the door.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
“It’s going through your head,” says her mother, like maybe she missed that.
“Brain piercing is perfectly safe,” says Alberta. “I went and got it done at a licensed clinic, okay? Not some stand at the mall. I can show you a copy of the certificate–”
“You look like a damn–a damn Stooge Brothers joke!”
“Who?”
“I am taking you back there tomorrow,” sobs her mother, “and we are getting that taken–don’t roll your eyes at me!”
But Alberta is rolling them, so far that her pupils disappear.
“Alberta?” says her mother.
Foam starts to leak from Alberta’s mouth.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Jelly treads slush, keeping her head up, flippers sliding off stacks of inkjet waste. She grabs something from waist level: “Quantum Fox Gets The Pox, A Novella.” She flips through the first couple pages.
“Does it ever occur to you,” says Douglas, bobbing nearby, “that whatever we toss away is just going to float back to us?”
“Not if we keep going deeper,” says Jelly.
JJ surfaces, right on cue, blowing paper dust from his snorkel. “Got it!” he gasps, waving a battered manuscript. “I found one, guys, I found a ten-pager that’s almost worthwhile!” Then a shark eats him.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Dot’s been collecting thumbs a long time, and few doors in the Answer remain barred to her. She picks one from around her wrist, warms it in her hands and presses it to the little pad: the soft eldritch click makes her grin. Through the door and she’s among the huge black sarcophagi, padding toward the center.
There’s a single pane of perfect glass there. Dot breathes mist on it and quickly traces the mystic cat’s-eye symbol, the one in the zero, the I and O.
Light suffuses the glass. Around her, the tombs of the ancients hum to life.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
“Tiger Style!” snaps Master Whung. His acolytes wield bamboo brushes and mousse, shaping an elegant, low-maintenance look that shows off his highlights. Master Whung’s style will retain bounce and body even after a hard day!
Master O’Connell chuckles. “Mantis Style!” His assistants whirl like leaves on the wind, leaving the Master with a daring ‘do that will have all eyes on him–a waxed, glossy heavy hold!
The two men size each other up. Suddenly, Master Whung leaps forward, drawing twin butterfly combs. Master O’Connell punches him in the neck, and he dies.
Listen, you don’t fuck with Mantis Style.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006