I have a friend.
This friend is where I received my very mediocre skills in fire manipulation-- I get most of my powers from observing and imitating others, the way Mystique changes her form. The only thing I can naturally do is fly-- and climb trees. I climb quite well.
Unfortunately, she also tends to have quite a temper in the Dreamworld, so when she is unable to get the part she desires in the Broadway play she tries out for, she decides to burn the theater down. She leaps to the stage and conjures from her lighter a glowing fiery bear. It dances to her mesmeric song and grows, till it reaches the rafters. The other auditioners, and the critics, stare speechless. Then a little blond girl lets out the first hysterical scream.
Panic ensues, and I leap after Mary as she escapes from the chaos, leaving Becca and Amanda to contain the damage. I catch up with her outside an old abandoned Starbucks, and grab her shoulder.
"Mary, WHAT were you thinking? So what if you didn't get the main part, you can't just burn the place down! You're supposed to be a superhero! You have to control these urges!"
She sulks, ripping her arm away from my grasp. "So what if I am? I take care of this town, I've saved these people from destruction a thousand times over, and what credit do I get? They don't even know I exist! I'm the best singer this side of the galaxy, I can break windows or lure the spirit of fire with these lungs, and they don't want to give them a part in the show? Forget it. I'm done saving these high-and-mighty skulkers. This place is so not legit." She stomps off, leather jacket smoking slightly from a singe-mark in the left sleeve.
I run after her. "Look-- I'm sorry that you didn't get the part. I know you'd have been great. But-- you can't just go off and be a giant PRAT! I mean...."
"What she's trying to say," interrupts Laila at a quite suitable moment, "Is that this isn't the best way to deal with the situation. Perhaps you could instead turn it to your advantage. Show the world that you are bigger than Broadway, that you have something even better to offer. Why not try starting your own company? You have the experience." I breathe a sigh of relief, as the two keep talking and the ardor of the flames in the theater slowly snuff out. It turns out, nothing was even very badly burnt. Mary never meant any lasting harm. She just wanted to scare, to impress. The flames were imitations. I thank the stars that I have a sister like Laila, for both fighting crime and settling disputes.
As the four of us friends drive home that night (across the stars, me flying alongside and hanging loosely onto the windowframe, Amanda using shield energy to transport the heavy van across the sky), I feel at peace.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Costume Lady
I love costumes.
I love walking inside a thriftstore and running my hands over velvet and satin and tulle, and dreaming of what new persona could be born from them. So it comes as no surprise that when I see a small booth labeled "Costumes and Capers" inside the mall, I have to investigate. It is no more than a small shop front laden with clothing, piled in heaps and hung over strings on the ceiling, and a small covered pavilion in back, sectioned into dressing room and storage space. A wisened old woman sits on the cushion in front of the booth, calling for her wares with a rich, dark voice like the mysterious traveling trader that she is.
I enter excitedly and begin to paw through her wares. The clothes smell of musty air and musk, mothballs and lavender perfume, far away countries and grass after a rainstorm. They whisper to me tales of lovers' unions and bloody wars and working 9-5 at the airport as a janitor...
How much for this vest?" I ask, lifting a purple satin thing that dreams of palaces.
"Five dollars." The woman replies without looking.
"This embroidered pirate jacket?"
"Twenty-five."
"And this watch?" I lift up a golden pocket watch on a long silver chain, emblazoned with the image of the phoenix on its cover and inlaid with mother of pearl. On the back is the phrase, "May we meet again in Heaven or Hell. Only Time will tell..."and the initials: "J.M."
The woman freezes as she hears the clink of the chain. "Ah," she replies. "I almost forgot that was back there. I put it out on a whim so long ago, about two weeks ago, and no one has asked about it since. It was almost priceless, once...but now the memories clinging to it bring only pain. Here," and the old woman pushes it toward me with a gnarled hand. "May it bring you some measure of happiness. I do not esteem it worth paying for." Aghast but happy, I thank the woman and turn to leave-- but pause, midstep, feeling the pain in her eyes. There is a story here, waiting to be told.
I turn and sink down to the floor of the shop amid flurries of colorful dresses and scarves.
"Madame? Would you mind terribly much if I asked you the tale of this watch?"
A sigh older and heavier than mountains escapes her lips. She adjusts her head scarf and sits down beside me, hidden from shoppers by the front counter. "It is not a terribly long tale, but a sad one, I'm afraid. I haven't ever been asked for it, so it'll take me some time to find where to begin. Usually I'm much better at telling stories, so you'll have to forgive me. But-- no, I don't mind. perhaps it would be good to let it out at last...."
"You see, in my youth, the people of my town all called me the Costume Lady. Mostly I just worked in my mother's shop as her assistant, tailoring old coats and mending shoes and sewing little flowers onto hats. On occasion, I would attempt more daring projects with the little tidbits of exotic things friends and family gave me when they had opportunity. But one day, a stranger blew into town. He had on him the most beautiful clothes...breeches of silk, and a waistcoat of satin, and boots that went nigh up his thighs and were the most exquisite ebony black, like polished stone...he had on these soft, white kidskin gloves, a coat embroidered with silver dragons, and a cane tipped with gold...
"And draped round his waist was this gold watch, fastened with a silver chain. He almost glowed with elegance. He came into my mother's shop to mend a small tear in the inner lining of his tophat. I told him that my mother would be back shortly, fearing to try my hand with the cloth of such a distinguished gentleman, but he insisted that it must be fixed right away, that he had a very important meeting soon and did not want the tear to spread. I wondered what sort of meeting could possibly be so violent as to spread the tear, but said nothing. I acceded to his wishes and mended the hat, and thanking me hastily, the man flew out of the shop and down the street.
"The next day, he was in the shop again, this time for a stain on his collar, which I removed carefully with an assortment of different chemicals. The gentleman again sped out as if he had wings on his heels, but returned the very next day, and the next, with other small complaints, which he cheerfully declared could be fixed by my 'tailor's magic,' if nothing else.
My mother heard how much time he was spending around the shop and told me not to let him in after hours. The next night, however, he did not appear. I assumed he had incurred no more damage to his finery, and perhaps would no longer need my services, which for some reason made me sad. We had gotten to talking late at night, as I sewed and he waited impatiently, about the mysterious and miraculous adventures he was so fortunate to embark upon in his line of work. What that work was, he didn't say, but he did tell of the most interesting people. 'You don't have much chance to meet new people working all day in the back of a shop,' he said. 'If you want to taste life you have to really go out there, to see people for yourself, not just collect the stories that their clothes tell you.' I almost believed his words, and yet there was something sorrowful in his voice as he left each night, that barred me from following...
But one night he came back, just as I was about to close the shop. My mother, who had taken sick, was upstairs in bed already. He burst through the door with a big gust of wind behind him, and, trembling, locked it and barred it with a stool. He began dragging the heavy sewing table over to the door as well, and it was then I noticed how truly out of shape his attire was. The cuffs of his suit were torn, the collar dirty and ragged, and his pantleg shorn with one long tear, coloured on either side with the menacing dark hue of dried blood.
'Sir?' I asked, hesitating but wanting to come closer. 'Are you all right?' He glanced over with hunted eyes, drawing the window curtains closed.
'I'm sorry, Costume Lady. I had nowhere else to go. They'll find me soon, but I had to see you before I go on the run once more. I- I wondered if you could keep something for me.' He reached around and unclasped the watch from his waist, fingering the silver chain with a touch somewhere between love and fear. 'I need to borrow some clothing, some womens' clothing, and I am unfortunately out of money due to-- circumstances, and was hoping perhaps you might accept this in exchange?'
'But--' I gasped, 'That watch is probably worth more than this house! I cannot take it from you!'
'It would just be temporary, until I can return the clothing to you. In exchange for my disguise, I would ask you to keep the watch clean and undamaged, and to turn it three times every morning. Never let the watch run out of time. It is very important that you do that. Can you keep this promise for me?'
'I-- I suppose. But when will you return?' I asked, as I helped the man out of his ragged clothes, dressed the wound poorly but quickly, and helped him into one of my mother's dresses that was due for a patching and wouldn't be missed. I threw a warm wool shawl around his shoulders, and drew my own bonnet around his head.
'As soon as I can, I shall return. There are figures from my past who wish to haunt me, but once I have thrown them off the chase for good, I will come back here to rest my bones. For too long I have traveled. And-- I like this town. I would like to settle here... perhaps even marry.'
He looked at me and my heart leaped in its cage. I knew in that moment that this man I had met only weeks ago was someone I could spend the rest of my life with.
'I will wait for you.' I said. 'I will keep your watch.'
Then, he unbarred the door, peeked out, crept off into the night, and was gone.' "
~~~
"So...that's it?" I ask. "End of the story?"
The old woman rustles around on her cushion.
"Not quite... You see, the man didn't return for many months. I kept the watch faithfully for a long time, polishing it with a special cloth and winding it dutifully every morning. But I grew impatient waiting for my dapper stranger to return, and angry with him-- for, never in all the time we knew each other had he told me his name. All I had to go on were the initials on the back of this watch. They could be his, or they could be anyone's. He could have stolen it from someone. Much as I had been enthralled by his character, I really didn't know anything about him. He could be a thief, or a vagabond, or a wanted murderer...
"And the months turned into years and I grew tired of staying in the shop, tired of getting up every morning to wind the clock and mend things for my mother, whose eyesight was beginning to fail, when I could be out with other young folk my age, dancing and laughing and seeing the world. I felt like I was in a prison, a slowly constricting cage. So, one morning, I left my younger cousin, whom I had been training, with the customers, packed my bags, slipped the watch onto a chain and hung it about my neck, and set out to see the world. I left a note with my cousin, should the stranger return, saying that I was still upholding my side of the bargain, but that if he wanted his watch returned he would have to come and find me.
"And, my, did I travel! I could tell you such stories of the world, and the things I've seen... But soon I met a young man my own age, who worked for the railroad, and we fell in love. We were practically destitute, but desperately wanted to start off a life together, and so I sold the watch, and all my past hopes and dreams, to pay for a little cottage by a lake. There we made our new home, far away from the bustling cities and the hectic new world outside our windows. But one night soon after, when my husband was out with his lantern gathering wood for the winter, a strange figure came to the door...
He walked with a limp, and labored breath, and I could hear the tap of his cane all the way along the stone path to the door. As he reached up to knock, I yanked open the door, fear getting the better of me, and whispered fiercely, 'What do you want? I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it. Speak up!'
The man's hand dropped. He spoke in a slow, weary voice: 'I've come to repay old debts.'
I knew it was the distinguished gentleman, but I was afraid, because I had not kept my side of the promise. I ushered him inside and pretended to be curious of all that had passed, asking of his travels and how he had enjoyed the spring. But after a time, he sighed and, leaning forward, took off his battered straw hat. His clothes were that of a poor farmhand, his motions ancient, and yet I swear the man's face had not changed from the day I met him as a little girl. Now I was a woman, and we were nearly matched in appearance, yet I knew that he must have aged somehow. He still carried the gold-tipped cane, which he tapped on the floor as he told me:
'You don't have it, do you, Costume Lady?'
Not a question, but a sad statement of what he already knew.
'You gave it away long ago. You had no faith in me.'
'No! I did wait! I did trust you, but I waited so long, and you did not come! I only recently gave your watch away to pay for a new life for myself. I had to-- I had nothing else!'
'Nor did I,' the man replied, and the sorrow in his voice tore at my heart. A single tear spilled down his cheek as he rose and gathered up his battered coat and hat. 'I had hoped-- but it does not matter now. I have nothing left. The watch is lost. Someone some morning will forget to wind it, or already has, and it will slowly and inexorably wind down until it stops, and that will be the end of it all...Still, I suppose that is a fitting end, for a traitor...' Then he left.
"I wished I could have said something to cure his pain, wish he could have told me more so I could help in some way, but he did not. His trust in me had already been broken, and though we were yet strangers, I felt like a very valuable connection had been lost...
I went on to have many more adventures. Though my husband and I never had children, we traveled a great deal, and told our stories to relatives' children when we had time. Then, one day I was in a small antique shop, and I came upon the watch. Old, battered as you see it now, but the same watch, to be sure. I snatched it up and bought it. For a very meager price, considering what it had once been worth; for the surface was scratched and, as you see, the inner workings have stopped functioning.
I tried to wind it once, but it is hard-fastened inside, and will not heed my touch. I am an old woman now, alone but for my work. I have lived long, and been full. Yet, now I think on it, I wish I could go back and reverse my decision. I would take all the life I've lived, back to that moment, just to see him once more, to learn more about him...I wonder if his life was truly bound up in that watch. I've seen stranger things. But-- it hurts to think I might have unknowingly killed that strange and lovely man."
I look down at the watch, which I have been fingering and turning over in my hands ever since the story began. The outline of the Phoenix has such very vivid eyes...
"Madame Costume Lady...what if...the watch could be mended? What do you think would happen then?"
"Well, I--" she pauses, hand to her lips. "I must admit I hadn't thought of that. If it starts ticking once more...But I must say, I've no idea what would happen. Do you-- do you know someone who might fix it?"
"I think I could do it myself," I respond, prying gently at the catch and gazing intently at the watch-face. "I have always been a bit of a tinkerer, and I have certain...abilities which could help me remove any unseen obstructions to the mechanisms, though I must admit I've never worked on so small a scale before...Would you mind if I gave it a try?"
"Couldn't hurt, I suppose." the trading woman says slowly, trying to keep the hope out of her voice. "At the very least, you'd get a working watch instead of a broken one."
I stand up, and go into the back pavilion where no one outside can see me. The old woman follows, drawing the curtain closed. I lay the watch down on the dressing-room bench, and crouch before it, my arm outstretched in the air above it. I close my eyes and try to find the inner workings with my mind-- which is no easy feat, even for the friend of a very powerful psychic. I'd ask Amanda for her help, but I want to do this one on my own-- and also, she's at school right now. I feel there is something very big, and dark, lodged in the gears and mechanisms of the tiny clock. If I can just dislodge and remove it, without snapping or bending any of the tiny little pieces...then...maybe...
Slowly, and painstakingly, I remove the substance, beckoning it outward ever so gently outward with my fingers and mind. I feel the gears straining against it, the freer they get, and as I pull out the last of the darkness, my mind resounds with the swish of motion and the THUD of one great Tick. I open my eyes, and pull my arm away from the watch. It has started working again.
The old woman is gazing fervently at the watch. Almost as if she is willing herself to see the inside as well, to see some sign of the man she still dreams of in the dark of rainy Oregon nights...
And then a finger taps her on the shoulder. A glowing man in a silver dragon waistcoat stands in the doorway of the dressing room, a worn silk tophat in the crook of his arm.
The trader gives a cry of delight and shock, and rushes forward to the man. He takes her hands. She looks up onto his eyes and stammers, "H-Have you come for your watch? I have it here, if that is what you want." She totters over to the bench and gently lifts the watch, and proffers it to the glowing gentleman- but he denies it.
"No, Costume Lady. It is yours to keep, for you have freed me from its curse at last. I was doomed by a man long ago to live my life in tandem with its gears, forever, guarding it and my secret from those around me, cursed to live forever but surrounded by enemies. But now my soul is free, and I may give up this life and this prison. I am forever indebted to you, and hold no grievance for what has passed long ago." He takes his hat, and places it on the Costume Lady's head. "I have it in my power to grant you one wish, as it might be called, before I go. What would you desire?"
The Costume Lady clutches the collar of her dress in a dizzy haze of happiness and tears. She looks up at the man. "Don't go. Stay with me, at least until the end of my life. I have searched and longed for you all my youth. Do not part from me in my age, now that I have found you."
He smiles, and brushes her cheek gently. "It shall be as you wish."
The man's glow brightens to a flash, and standing next to the old trader is a handsome grey-haired man. He traded his watch-energy for a last few years in mortality, to spend with the one he loved. As they move to embrace, I sneak out the back of the tent and wander through the rest of the mall, to finish uneventfully a wonderful shopping experience.
I love walking inside a thriftstore and running my hands over velvet and satin and tulle, and dreaming of what new persona could be born from them. So it comes as no surprise that when I see a small booth labeled "Costumes and Capers" inside the mall, I have to investigate. It is no more than a small shop front laden with clothing, piled in heaps and hung over strings on the ceiling, and a small covered pavilion in back, sectioned into dressing room and storage space. A wisened old woman sits on the cushion in front of the booth, calling for her wares with a rich, dark voice like the mysterious traveling trader that she is.
I enter excitedly and begin to paw through her wares. The clothes smell of musty air and musk, mothballs and lavender perfume, far away countries and grass after a rainstorm. They whisper to me tales of lovers' unions and bloody wars and working 9-5 at the airport as a janitor...
How much for this vest?" I ask, lifting a purple satin thing that dreams of palaces.
"Five dollars." The woman replies without looking.
"This embroidered pirate jacket?"
"Twenty-five."
"And this watch?" I lift up a golden pocket watch on a long silver chain, emblazoned with the image of the phoenix on its cover and inlaid with mother of pearl. On the back is the phrase, "May we meet again in Heaven or Hell. Only Time will tell..."and the initials: "J.M."
The woman freezes as she hears the clink of the chain. "Ah," she replies. "I almost forgot that was back there. I put it out on a whim so long ago, about two weeks ago, and no one has asked about it since. It was almost priceless, once...but now the memories clinging to it bring only pain. Here," and the old woman pushes it toward me with a gnarled hand. "May it bring you some measure of happiness. I do not esteem it worth paying for." Aghast but happy, I thank the woman and turn to leave-- but pause, midstep, feeling the pain in her eyes. There is a story here, waiting to be told.
I turn and sink down to the floor of the shop amid flurries of colorful dresses and scarves.
"Madame? Would you mind terribly much if I asked you the tale of this watch?"
A sigh older and heavier than mountains escapes her lips. She adjusts her head scarf and sits down beside me, hidden from shoppers by the front counter. "It is not a terribly long tale, but a sad one, I'm afraid. I haven't ever been asked for it, so it'll take me some time to find where to begin. Usually I'm much better at telling stories, so you'll have to forgive me. But-- no, I don't mind. perhaps it would be good to let it out at last...."
"You see, in my youth, the people of my town all called me the Costume Lady. Mostly I just worked in my mother's shop as her assistant, tailoring old coats and mending shoes and sewing little flowers onto hats. On occasion, I would attempt more daring projects with the little tidbits of exotic things friends and family gave me when they had opportunity. But one day, a stranger blew into town. He had on him the most beautiful clothes...breeches of silk, and a waistcoat of satin, and boots that went nigh up his thighs and were the most exquisite ebony black, like polished stone...he had on these soft, white kidskin gloves, a coat embroidered with silver dragons, and a cane tipped with gold...
"And draped round his waist was this gold watch, fastened with a silver chain. He almost glowed with elegance. He came into my mother's shop to mend a small tear in the inner lining of his tophat. I told him that my mother would be back shortly, fearing to try my hand with the cloth of such a distinguished gentleman, but he insisted that it must be fixed right away, that he had a very important meeting soon and did not want the tear to spread. I wondered what sort of meeting could possibly be so violent as to spread the tear, but said nothing. I acceded to his wishes and mended the hat, and thanking me hastily, the man flew out of the shop and down the street.
"The next day, he was in the shop again, this time for a stain on his collar, which I removed carefully with an assortment of different chemicals. The gentleman again sped out as if he had wings on his heels, but returned the very next day, and the next, with other small complaints, which he cheerfully declared could be fixed by my 'tailor's magic,' if nothing else.
My mother heard how much time he was spending around the shop and told me not to let him in after hours. The next night, however, he did not appear. I assumed he had incurred no more damage to his finery, and perhaps would no longer need my services, which for some reason made me sad. We had gotten to talking late at night, as I sewed and he waited impatiently, about the mysterious and miraculous adventures he was so fortunate to embark upon in his line of work. What that work was, he didn't say, but he did tell of the most interesting people. 'You don't have much chance to meet new people working all day in the back of a shop,' he said. 'If you want to taste life you have to really go out there, to see people for yourself, not just collect the stories that their clothes tell you.' I almost believed his words, and yet there was something sorrowful in his voice as he left each night, that barred me from following...
But one night he came back, just as I was about to close the shop. My mother, who had taken sick, was upstairs in bed already. He burst through the door with a big gust of wind behind him, and, trembling, locked it and barred it with a stool. He began dragging the heavy sewing table over to the door as well, and it was then I noticed how truly out of shape his attire was. The cuffs of his suit were torn, the collar dirty and ragged, and his pantleg shorn with one long tear, coloured on either side with the menacing dark hue of dried blood.
'Sir?' I asked, hesitating but wanting to come closer. 'Are you all right?' He glanced over with hunted eyes, drawing the window curtains closed.
'I'm sorry, Costume Lady. I had nowhere else to go. They'll find me soon, but I had to see you before I go on the run once more. I- I wondered if you could keep something for me.' He reached around and unclasped the watch from his waist, fingering the silver chain with a touch somewhere between love and fear. 'I need to borrow some clothing, some womens' clothing, and I am unfortunately out of money due to-- circumstances, and was hoping perhaps you might accept this in exchange?'
'But--' I gasped, 'That watch is probably worth more than this house! I cannot take it from you!'
'It would just be temporary, until I can return the clothing to you. In exchange for my disguise, I would ask you to keep the watch clean and undamaged, and to turn it three times every morning. Never let the watch run out of time. It is very important that you do that. Can you keep this promise for me?'
'I-- I suppose. But when will you return?' I asked, as I helped the man out of his ragged clothes, dressed the wound poorly but quickly, and helped him into one of my mother's dresses that was due for a patching and wouldn't be missed. I threw a warm wool shawl around his shoulders, and drew my own bonnet around his head.
'As soon as I can, I shall return. There are figures from my past who wish to haunt me, but once I have thrown them off the chase for good, I will come back here to rest my bones. For too long I have traveled. And-- I like this town. I would like to settle here... perhaps even marry.'
He looked at me and my heart leaped in its cage. I knew in that moment that this man I had met only weeks ago was someone I could spend the rest of my life with.
'I will wait for you.' I said. 'I will keep your watch.'
Then, he unbarred the door, peeked out, crept off into the night, and was gone.' "
~~~
"So...that's it?" I ask. "End of the story?"
The old woman rustles around on her cushion.
"Not quite... You see, the man didn't return for many months. I kept the watch faithfully for a long time, polishing it with a special cloth and winding it dutifully every morning. But I grew impatient waiting for my dapper stranger to return, and angry with him-- for, never in all the time we knew each other had he told me his name. All I had to go on were the initials on the back of this watch. They could be his, or they could be anyone's. He could have stolen it from someone. Much as I had been enthralled by his character, I really didn't know anything about him. He could be a thief, or a vagabond, or a wanted murderer...
"And the months turned into years and I grew tired of staying in the shop, tired of getting up every morning to wind the clock and mend things for my mother, whose eyesight was beginning to fail, when I could be out with other young folk my age, dancing and laughing and seeing the world. I felt like I was in a prison, a slowly constricting cage. So, one morning, I left my younger cousin, whom I had been training, with the customers, packed my bags, slipped the watch onto a chain and hung it about my neck, and set out to see the world. I left a note with my cousin, should the stranger return, saying that I was still upholding my side of the bargain, but that if he wanted his watch returned he would have to come and find me.
"And, my, did I travel! I could tell you such stories of the world, and the things I've seen... But soon I met a young man my own age, who worked for the railroad, and we fell in love. We were practically destitute, but desperately wanted to start off a life together, and so I sold the watch, and all my past hopes and dreams, to pay for a little cottage by a lake. There we made our new home, far away from the bustling cities and the hectic new world outside our windows. But one night soon after, when my husband was out with his lantern gathering wood for the winter, a strange figure came to the door...
He walked with a limp, and labored breath, and I could hear the tap of his cane all the way along the stone path to the door. As he reached up to knock, I yanked open the door, fear getting the better of me, and whispered fiercely, 'What do you want? I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it. Speak up!'
The man's hand dropped. He spoke in a slow, weary voice: 'I've come to repay old debts.'
I knew it was the distinguished gentleman, but I was afraid, because I had not kept my side of the promise. I ushered him inside and pretended to be curious of all that had passed, asking of his travels and how he had enjoyed the spring. But after a time, he sighed and, leaning forward, took off his battered straw hat. His clothes were that of a poor farmhand, his motions ancient, and yet I swear the man's face had not changed from the day I met him as a little girl. Now I was a woman, and we were nearly matched in appearance, yet I knew that he must have aged somehow. He still carried the gold-tipped cane, which he tapped on the floor as he told me:
'You don't have it, do you, Costume Lady?'
Not a question, but a sad statement of what he already knew.
'You gave it away long ago. You had no faith in me.'
'No! I did wait! I did trust you, but I waited so long, and you did not come! I only recently gave your watch away to pay for a new life for myself. I had to-- I had nothing else!'
'Nor did I,' the man replied, and the sorrow in his voice tore at my heart. A single tear spilled down his cheek as he rose and gathered up his battered coat and hat. 'I had hoped-- but it does not matter now. I have nothing left. The watch is lost. Someone some morning will forget to wind it, or already has, and it will slowly and inexorably wind down until it stops, and that will be the end of it all...Still, I suppose that is a fitting end, for a traitor...' Then he left.
"I wished I could have said something to cure his pain, wish he could have told me more so I could help in some way, but he did not. His trust in me had already been broken, and though we were yet strangers, I felt like a very valuable connection had been lost...
I went on to have many more adventures. Though my husband and I never had children, we traveled a great deal, and told our stories to relatives' children when we had time. Then, one day I was in a small antique shop, and I came upon the watch. Old, battered as you see it now, but the same watch, to be sure. I snatched it up and bought it. For a very meager price, considering what it had once been worth; for the surface was scratched and, as you see, the inner workings have stopped functioning.
I tried to wind it once, but it is hard-fastened inside, and will not heed my touch. I am an old woman now, alone but for my work. I have lived long, and been full. Yet, now I think on it, I wish I could go back and reverse my decision. I would take all the life I've lived, back to that moment, just to see him once more, to learn more about him...I wonder if his life was truly bound up in that watch. I've seen stranger things. But-- it hurts to think I might have unknowingly killed that strange and lovely man."
I look down at the watch, which I have been fingering and turning over in my hands ever since the story began. The outline of the Phoenix has such very vivid eyes...
"Madame Costume Lady...what if...the watch could be mended? What do you think would happen then?"
"Well, I--" she pauses, hand to her lips. "I must admit I hadn't thought of that. If it starts ticking once more...But I must say, I've no idea what would happen. Do you-- do you know someone who might fix it?"
"I think I could do it myself," I respond, prying gently at the catch and gazing intently at the watch-face. "I have always been a bit of a tinkerer, and I have certain...abilities which could help me remove any unseen obstructions to the mechanisms, though I must admit I've never worked on so small a scale before...Would you mind if I gave it a try?"
"Couldn't hurt, I suppose." the trading woman says slowly, trying to keep the hope out of her voice. "At the very least, you'd get a working watch instead of a broken one."
I stand up, and go into the back pavilion where no one outside can see me. The old woman follows, drawing the curtain closed. I lay the watch down on the dressing-room bench, and crouch before it, my arm outstretched in the air above it. I close my eyes and try to find the inner workings with my mind-- which is no easy feat, even for the friend of a very powerful psychic. I'd ask Amanda for her help, but I want to do this one on my own-- and also, she's at school right now. I feel there is something very big, and dark, lodged in the gears and mechanisms of the tiny clock. If I can just dislodge and remove it, without snapping or bending any of the tiny little pieces...then...maybe...
Slowly, and painstakingly, I remove the substance, beckoning it outward ever so gently outward with my fingers and mind. I feel the gears straining against it, the freer they get, and as I pull out the last of the darkness, my mind resounds with the swish of motion and the THUD of one great Tick. I open my eyes, and pull my arm away from the watch. It has started working again.
The old woman is gazing fervently at the watch. Almost as if she is willing herself to see the inside as well, to see some sign of the man she still dreams of in the dark of rainy Oregon nights...
And then a finger taps her on the shoulder. A glowing man in a silver dragon waistcoat stands in the doorway of the dressing room, a worn silk tophat in the crook of his arm.
The trader gives a cry of delight and shock, and rushes forward to the man. He takes her hands. She looks up onto his eyes and stammers, "H-Have you come for your watch? I have it here, if that is what you want." She totters over to the bench and gently lifts the watch, and proffers it to the glowing gentleman- but he denies it.
"No, Costume Lady. It is yours to keep, for you have freed me from its curse at last. I was doomed by a man long ago to live my life in tandem with its gears, forever, guarding it and my secret from those around me, cursed to live forever but surrounded by enemies. But now my soul is free, and I may give up this life and this prison. I am forever indebted to you, and hold no grievance for what has passed long ago." He takes his hat, and places it on the Costume Lady's head. "I have it in my power to grant you one wish, as it might be called, before I go. What would you desire?"
The Costume Lady clutches the collar of her dress in a dizzy haze of happiness and tears. She looks up at the man. "Don't go. Stay with me, at least until the end of my life. I have searched and longed for you all my youth. Do not part from me in my age, now that I have found you."
He smiles, and brushes her cheek gently. "It shall be as you wish."
The man's glow brightens to a flash, and standing next to the old trader is a handsome grey-haired man. He traded his watch-energy for a last few years in mortality, to spend with the one he loved. As they move to embrace, I sneak out the back of the tent and wander through the rest of the mall, to finish uneventfully a wonderful shopping experience.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
When a Brain Gets Bored...
Years ago, in the past, my brain was very bored and decided to invent a series of bizarre and meaningless events in one of my dreams. Over the years, this particular dream has recurred, adding to itself even more random and meaningless (to me, at least) sequences of the tale, until it has reached the form I just read in my journal today. This particular version is over two years old, but I have no doubt it will come again with even more additions in the future-- at which point I will realize I haven't been doing enough interesting things and will go out for a hike. In the meantime, to persevere with my record-keeping, here is a string of meaningless words. :)
A voice from the dark growls, "Find out what's happening out there and be heroic about it!" I put on my feet and go grocery shopping for yogurt and salad. I decided not to brush my teeth before watching Star Trek in the ice cream isle, in which the reflection of the glass doors creates a portal into the alternate universe where Star Trek actually exists...As a result, my teeth disappear. Not to worry, though-- I know where the Dentist lives. I've been stalking him for quite some time.
His steps are crowded with refuse from all the patients who have come before me, from old hamburger wrappers to broken guitars. Inside the waiting room, magazine pictures come to life, and fill the air with the musical sound of advertisements:
"Fat myelin sheaths encoding your axons? Get Brain Liposuction, with a 20% discount through Thursday!"
"Trouble at work? Buy the Silencer 3000 to keep your employees productively subjugated!"
"The New, The Revolutionary, The Only: Triumph Toilet Paper. Dispose of your waste with pride."
There are advertisements for everything you could ever dream of, but after awhile their voices seem to blend together into one long stream of white noise. I tune them out and focus on the moving pictures on the walls. They are rearranging themselves so as to look most aesthetically pleasing to the patients.
A holographic dental assistant opens the thrice-locked steel door leading to the operating room, and calls my name. I enter, nervously taking a torch from the side of the wall, and proceed down a dungeon passageway to the appropriate white room. I sit on a shining dental chair. Finally, a side door squeaks open, and the Dentist himself peers in at me. His eyes are hidden behind aviator sunglasses and his hair is shaped like toothpaste in a thick comb-over, dyed to match the minty flavor given out in treat bags.
He takes one look at my mouth, digs around in his pocket for a moment, and tosses me a set of wooden teeth. "Take these." He orders. "They were George Washington's."
I put the teeth in, and they set to work digging into my gums and making themselves one with the nerve endings in my jaw. I look in the mirror, and they are white and straight. Perfect.
So I leave the office and go hunting for flying bluebells, a very clever species of inter-ecologically-niched fish.
I find one sitting in a tree and strumming a ukelele. I ask him what he thinks of my teeth.
"Well, they look very sea-worthy. You should go on an adventure with them before your old ones come back."
"Come back?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well, your real teeth were only temporarily transdimensionally teleported. They could return at any minute, at which point you would loose the magical strength and purity of the Washington Set. You'd better hurry."
I thank the fish for his advice and leap into the air, soaring toward the nearest bay, where I commandeer a small sailing boat for no other reason than to see if I can climb the rigging with my teeth.
I can. I climb to the top of the lone mast and survey my kingdom, balancing on my two front teeth in a vertical stream of serenity.
Then the sun goes down, and I am forced to abscond, teeth in hand, for my real ones have returned and claimed their rightful place.
A voice from the dark growls, "Find out what's happening out there and be heroic about it!" I put on my feet and go grocery shopping for yogurt and salad. I decided not to brush my teeth before watching Star Trek in the ice cream isle, in which the reflection of the glass doors creates a portal into the alternate universe where Star Trek actually exists...As a result, my teeth disappear. Not to worry, though-- I know where the Dentist lives. I've been stalking him for quite some time.
His steps are crowded with refuse from all the patients who have come before me, from old hamburger wrappers to broken guitars. Inside the waiting room, magazine pictures come to life, and fill the air with the musical sound of advertisements:
"Fat myelin sheaths encoding your axons? Get Brain Liposuction, with a 20% discount through Thursday!"
"Trouble at work? Buy the Silencer 3000 to keep your employees productively subjugated!"
"The New, The Revolutionary, The Only: Triumph Toilet Paper. Dispose of your waste with pride."
There are advertisements for everything you could ever dream of, but after awhile their voices seem to blend together into one long stream of white noise. I tune them out and focus on the moving pictures on the walls. They are rearranging themselves so as to look most aesthetically pleasing to the patients.
A holographic dental assistant opens the thrice-locked steel door leading to the operating room, and calls my name. I enter, nervously taking a torch from the side of the wall, and proceed down a dungeon passageway to the appropriate white room. I sit on a shining dental chair. Finally, a side door squeaks open, and the Dentist himself peers in at me. His eyes are hidden behind aviator sunglasses and his hair is shaped like toothpaste in a thick comb-over, dyed to match the minty flavor given out in treat bags.
He takes one look at my mouth, digs around in his pocket for a moment, and tosses me a set of wooden teeth. "Take these." He orders. "They were George Washington's."
I put the teeth in, and they set to work digging into my gums and making themselves one with the nerve endings in my jaw. I look in the mirror, and they are white and straight. Perfect.
So I leave the office and go hunting for flying bluebells, a very clever species of inter-ecologically-niched fish.
I find one sitting in a tree and strumming a ukelele. I ask him what he thinks of my teeth.
"Well, they look very sea-worthy. You should go on an adventure with them before your old ones come back."
"Come back?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well, your real teeth were only temporarily transdimensionally teleported. They could return at any minute, at which point you would loose the magical strength and purity of the Washington Set. You'd better hurry."
I thank the fish for his advice and leap into the air, soaring toward the nearest bay, where I commandeer a small sailing boat for no other reason than to see if I can climb the rigging with my teeth.
I can. I climb to the top of the lone mast and survey my kingdom, balancing on my two front teeth in a vertical stream of serenity.
Then the sun goes down, and I am forced to abscond, teeth in hand, for my real ones have returned and claimed their rightful place.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Strike of an Overworked Idea
I break into the secret villainous headquarters of Count Chaos, ready to stop all his henchmen and foil his nefarious plot of world eradication, when to my utter obfuscation-- all of my powers stop working.
I stand there, hopping slightly, trying to propel myself into the air, flailing my arms uselessly because my fire invocation is null, squinting at the floor in an effort to at least make myself invisible, but none of the techniques I have learned over the years are working.
My powers appear to be on strike.
The villain for once does not need to cue his henchmen to laugh on time: they burst out with raucous guffaws, holding their sides because I am obviously the most pitiful excuse for a hero they have ever seen. I stop flailing in an effort lessen the impression.
"You are here to try and stop me, aren't you, little thing?" the Count asks, wiping a tear from his eye. "Your costume looks like that of those puny superhero creatures. Is that the best you can do, or are you just a lost child that wandered in here by mistake? Either way, I would offer you the chance to leave while you can, as you obviously would not even be a challenge in battle."
I stand defiantly, legs apart, hands on hips, like a sailor manning the wheel against an unassailable storm. "Never! I may be experiencing a momentary loss in my abilities, but I shall stop you nonetheless! You are a monster, Count Chaos, and I cannot let you destroy our planet simply because you are bored!"
"But why ever not? It's such a tedious place. You could just watch from here while I make it blossom. I like you, little creature. You are feisty and irrational, to challenge me so confidently with nothing to support your cause. I think I would like to keep you as a pet."
I cannot even describe the degree to which I am offended. Count Chaos is a giant, due to (what most heroes who have ever faced him speculate) a random mutation. But I am still his fellow human, not an insect far below to be inspected.
I run to the console and place my hands protectively over the glass lid covering what appears to be the giant explosion-signalling button. "You're not going to touch this!" I shout.
"Oh, please," Count Chaos sighs, "Did you really think I would be so stupid as to actually design my plans in such an archaic and traditional manner? Far from it," and he tips over a string of dominoes on his desk. They lead off the table and down between the legs of the chairs around it, setting off a complicated series of reactions which I become almost completely distracted by-- which is the point. I now have to choose what to focus on-- the string of reactions, or the button.
"Your choice," the Count smiles, "Which do you stop? The marble is rolling and you have little time to catch it. But perhaps it is not so important after all. If you leave your post, I will press the button. But it may be only the dinner bell. There is no telling what shall trigger the bombs. It is complete Chaos," he grins evilly, delighted to actually use his name for its designed purpose, albeit against a decidedly less epic opponent than he had imagined.
I curse my imagination for not coming through when I need it most. If I could just borrow Syca's sense for a moment, and divine which was the true signal...but, even if I did, the Count could easily force me away at just the right moment for his plan to continue. I glance over-- he looks impatient, almost as if he wants me to figure it out, wants me to stop him from destroying the world and is upset that the truth hasn't dawned on me already-- and then I see it. There is a green apple on the console across the room.
Something about this apple comforts me. I feel like I must have it, and take at least one bite, and then everything will be all right. As the Count reaches triumphantly toward the button behind me, I dash over and yank the apple from its place-- but it turns out the apple was a lever in disguise. The lever drops a metal cage around the button case, and Chaos retracts his gloved fingers in surprise.
"Y-you actually d-did it!" he stammers. "A superhero capable of noticing the potential of the utterly mundane! And I didn't think they existed anymore..." He sighs, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. Then, he sits down in the command chair, and takes off-- his leg extensions. His arm extensions. His wig.
"Count Chaos! You're-- you're not a giant!"
"No...nor am I a supervillain. Merely a psychologist. I wanted to study the heroic brain, to see if it recognized patterns and interpreted the world differently than normal. If it perhaps noticed more, and assimilated information at a faster speed. Until now, while I have seen great fighting responses, I have never seen a hero surpass my trials with analytical powers alone. You are quite remarkable."
"Thanks, yeah, no problem," I shrug, knowing that I actually had no real reason to grab at the lever, but that I was stressed and hungry.
I stand there, hopping slightly, trying to propel myself into the air, flailing my arms uselessly because my fire invocation is null, squinting at the floor in an effort to at least make myself invisible, but none of the techniques I have learned over the years are working.
My powers appear to be on strike.
The villain for once does not need to cue his henchmen to laugh on time: they burst out with raucous guffaws, holding their sides because I am obviously the most pitiful excuse for a hero they have ever seen. I stop flailing in an effort lessen the impression.
"You are here to try and stop me, aren't you, little thing?" the Count asks, wiping a tear from his eye. "Your costume looks like that of those puny superhero creatures. Is that the best you can do, or are you just a lost child that wandered in here by mistake? Either way, I would offer you the chance to leave while you can, as you obviously would not even be a challenge in battle."
I stand defiantly, legs apart, hands on hips, like a sailor manning the wheel against an unassailable storm. "Never! I may be experiencing a momentary loss in my abilities, but I shall stop you nonetheless! You are a monster, Count Chaos, and I cannot let you destroy our planet simply because you are bored!"
"But why ever not? It's such a tedious place. You could just watch from here while I make it blossom. I like you, little creature. You are feisty and irrational, to challenge me so confidently with nothing to support your cause. I think I would like to keep you as a pet."
I cannot even describe the degree to which I am offended. Count Chaos is a giant, due to (what most heroes who have ever faced him speculate) a random mutation. But I am still his fellow human, not an insect far below to be inspected.
I run to the console and place my hands protectively over the glass lid covering what appears to be the giant explosion-signalling button. "You're not going to touch this!" I shout.
"Oh, please," Count Chaos sighs, "Did you really think I would be so stupid as to actually design my plans in such an archaic and traditional manner? Far from it," and he tips over a string of dominoes on his desk. They lead off the table and down between the legs of the chairs around it, setting off a complicated series of reactions which I become almost completely distracted by-- which is the point. I now have to choose what to focus on-- the string of reactions, or the button.
"Your choice," the Count smiles, "Which do you stop? The marble is rolling and you have little time to catch it. But perhaps it is not so important after all. If you leave your post, I will press the button. But it may be only the dinner bell. There is no telling what shall trigger the bombs. It is complete Chaos," he grins evilly, delighted to actually use his name for its designed purpose, albeit against a decidedly less epic opponent than he had imagined.
I curse my imagination for not coming through when I need it most. If I could just borrow Syca's sense for a moment, and divine which was the true signal...but, even if I did, the Count could easily force me away at just the right moment for his plan to continue. I glance over-- he looks impatient, almost as if he wants me to figure it out, wants me to stop him from destroying the world and is upset that the truth hasn't dawned on me already-- and then I see it. There is a green apple on the console across the room.
Something about this apple comforts me. I feel like I must have it, and take at least one bite, and then everything will be all right. As the Count reaches triumphantly toward the button behind me, I dash over and yank the apple from its place-- but it turns out the apple was a lever in disguise. The lever drops a metal cage around the button case, and Chaos retracts his gloved fingers in surprise.
"Y-you actually d-did it!" he stammers. "A superhero capable of noticing the potential of the utterly mundane! And I didn't think they existed anymore..." He sighs, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. Then, he sits down in the command chair, and takes off-- his leg extensions. His arm extensions. His wig.
"Count Chaos! You're-- you're not a giant!"
"No...nor am I a supervillain. Merely a psychologist. I wanted to study the heroic brain, to see if it recognized patterns and interpreted the world differently than normal. If it perhaps noticed more, and assimilated information at a faster speed. Until now, while I have seen great fighting responses, I have never seen a hero surpass my trials with analytical powers alone. You are quite remarkable."
"Thanks, yeah, no problem," I shrug, knowing that I actually had no real reason to grab at the lever, but that I was stressed and hungry.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
An Architectural Mid-life Crisis
I step out of the base this morning to go on a run, when I realize quite to my chagrin, that time and space have folded in on each other.
Like a crumpled ball of paper, a piece of a banister from a 19th Century Opera House here overlaps with the escalator of a 21st century shopping mall there, and the smell of burnt rubber hangs over the whole street.
I look at the strange conglomeration of places and times with a sigh. No telling what's out there, but I DO have to go running, and I need to pick up sugar because the base is running out and we're planning on making cupcakes tomorrow...
I go back inside and change into my supersuit for a modicum of reassuring safety, then traverse the wavering stairs into the melee. I have hardly gone two feet when out of a garbage-can portal climb Sasha and Morgan, two of my fellow highschool students. It appears than they are looking for the center of the Earth, which is now somewhere on the outside, to put it back and right all this mess. They inform me also that all the continents have been forced back together again into one big Pancontinent, with the exception of Great Britain, which somehow managed to escape the great and mysterious migration. It seems that time and space are changing themselves, rather than some human design. It is so random, I am left to wonder if it has any cause at all...
Still. It must be returned to normal, lest Chaos become the new Order and rule over all. Balance is a much better way of doing things.
I run up the side of a building that looks like an Escher painting, following my two comrades, and when we reach the Center of the Outside, Morgan takes out this giant apparatus thingy that I really wish I had created so I would know what it does, and places it directly on the innermost Out, and of course presses the giant red button. "It didn't work that way, originally," he says as he keeps his finger on the button, which is sucking away all the fallacies in the universe, "But I reconfigured it just so that all the systems inside would link to this one button. Because that's how life should be done." When the clean-up is almost through, one of the chickens in Morgan's head crows loudly to warn him, and he shuts off the apparatus by merely letting go of the red button. "Can't have all the weirdnonsensicallness sucked out of the world, now can we?" he remarks as they leave again through a regular stairway and out the stout double-doors. "Then who would want to live here?"
The world seems to agree with this statement, because as they depart, a single leaf falls from a tree and starts lazily trailing them.
There is, of course, no wind.
Like a crumpled ball of paper, a piece of a banister from a 19th Century Opera House here overlaps with the escalator of a 21st century shopping mall there, and the smell of burnt rubber hangs over the whole street.
I look at the strange conglomeration of places and times with a sigh. No telling what's out there, but I DO have to go running, and I need to pick up sugar because the base is running out and we're planning on making cupcakes tomorrow...
I go back inside and change into my supersuit for a modicum of reassuring safety, then traverse the wavering stairs into the melee. I have hardly gone two feet when out of a garbage-can portal climb Sasha and Morgan, two of my fellow highschool students. It appears than they are looking for the center of the Earth, which is now somewhere on the outside, to put it back and right all this mess. They inform me also that all the continents have been forced back together again into one big Pancontinent, with the exception of Great Britain, which somehow managed to escape the great and mysterious migration. It seems that time and space are changing themselves, rather than some human design. It is so random, I am left to wonder if it has any cause at all...
Still. It must be returned to normal, lest Chaos become the new Order and rule over all. Balance is a much better way of doing things.
I run up the side of a building that looks like an Escher painting, following my two comrades, and when we reach the Center of the Outside, Morgan takes out this giant apparatus thingy that I really wish I had created so I would know what it does, and places it directly on the innermost Out, and of course presses the giant red button. "It didn't work that way, originally," he says as he keeps his finger on the button, which is sucking away all the fallacies in the universe, "But I reconfigured it just so that all the systems inside would link to this one button. Because that's how life should be done." When the clean-up is almost through, one of the chickens in Morgan's head crows loudly to warn him, and he shuts off the apparatus by merely letting go of the red button. "Can't have all the weirdnonsensicallness sucked out of the world, now can we?" he remarks as they leave again through a regular stairway and out the stout double-doors. "Then who would want to live here?"
The world seems to agree with this statement, because as they depart, a single leaf falls from a tree and starts lazily trailing them.
There is, of course, no wind.
Zombie Counseling
"Ever have one of those days when you just can't seem to get some creeper's arm off of your waist?" Amanda jokes from across the street, prying the rigid digits of the last zombie she killed from their death-clench on her jacket.
I laugh, but then am nearly trampled by a hoard of angry zombies galloping in my direction.
"Yeah, I, uh...it can be a real killer!" I counter while smashing someone's face. Grimace. That really wasn't terribly good, but it can't be helped. I've been feeling a little...off lately. Like, maybe I'm getting sick or something. Super heroes can't get sick, can they? I mean, you'd think with all the extra powers you'd at least get a good immune system, like a free upgrade with the package. Right? I mean, how can you fight crime with a congested brain?
I suddenly realize that throughout the passage of this train of thought, Amanda has been standing there motionless, mouth agape. Staring at me.
"Hey!" Laila says, running up to Amanda. "What's with the face?" and, following her gaze, Laila comes to look at me too-- and freezes.
"Um... Hannah? Are you feeling okay?" she asks tentatively.
"Yeah, I feel fine, other than a little sniffle in the brain. Why?"
"You kind of look you've turned into a zombie."
"What?!?" I run out of the street. There are a number of shops along the sides, but unfortunately due to the recent zombie uprising, most of the windows are broken. I keep running frantically, until finally I find an old vintage clothing store with the glint of an intact mirror coming from the one standing dressing room. I step inside and stare at myself. "Huh...my face appears to be half-missing. I wonder when that happened."
Amanda and Laila rush in behind me, hands posed for fighting, peering over cautiously.
"Hannah?" Laila calls. "Are you all right?"
"I thought I was." I reply. "How long have I had my skin torn off like this? I can't feel a thing, but it's kinda freaking me out." Amanda edges closer, and touches my face.
"Freaky. I have no idea, I could swear it wasn't there a second ago, but I thought these things took longer. Maybe I just didn't notice."
"We've been fighting these guys on the same street right across from each other since this morning! How could you possibly not have noticed?!" I am flustered now, peering at my face, my hands, my clothes, looking for any other signs of zombification. Everything else appears to be fine...my circulation's great, and there's no smell of decay or blood coming from the face wound, the flesh is just missing...
"Now, Hannah," Laila says softly, coming over to placate me in my distress.
"You know we've all been quite busy lately, it's understandable if Amanda hasn't noticed. It looks like that wound is the only problem, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation, but for the meantime, let's get you to the safehouse and to bed. I'm sure you must not be feeling terribly well." She lays her arm on my shoulder, but I shrug it off and back away, out of the dressing room.
"Stay away!" I cry. "I don't want you to get infected! And anyways, shouldn't I be getting a taste for brains and violence any minute now? I don't want to start chomping unexpectedly on your cerebellum!"
"Now, Hannah, I KNOW you wouldn't do that. Something is obviously keeping you from changing all the way, so I think we can assume you are safe for the time being. What you need is care."
"Pah!" I reply bitterly. "You should lock me up, if you're not going to kill me. We've all seen the damage these things have done over a few short hours. I signed up to prevent horror in the world, not become it!"
"It could just mean you're getting tired," Amanda offers hopefully. "Maybe you need to wake up and take a rest from all this crime-fighting. You're always getting bruises on your legs and arms from hitting the sides of the bed when you sleep, remember. Perhaps you just need to take a break..."
"Never!" I cry defiantly, pushing them both away, soaring upward to the ceiling and clutching the hanging lamp for comfort. "This isn't just my night job, it's my life! You two don't understand what it's like, having this to come back to every night when Reality is so boring! Here I can actually accomplish things! Colors are more vivid! People are more valiant! I can friggin' FLY!! Why would I want to go back and endure all that ordinary dayness when I could be finishing a successful night of dreaming? NO. I'll just...get over this stupid zombie thing."
I fly out the door before I can hear their responses, because I am hurt and angry and afraid that everything will be taken away from me...that, somehow, they will remember this conversation when we next meet, and will keep me from going to sleep on the basis that it has become too overwhelming of a factor in my life. I know sometimes I can be a bit domineering to Laila about my eight-hour minimum, but...I can't experience all of this Realm, this Universe, fully if I don't...
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. After all, it is only a fabrication of my mind. What little girl am I really saving, here? Whose rotten torso am I kicking? It's just a few neural impulses running around an empty brain late at night...
I decide to go to sleep a little later the next night, and not complain about Laila's leaving the light on to study. I may be addicted to R.E.M., but that's no excuse for neglecting my real relationships.
I laugh, but then am nearly trampled by a hoard of angry zombies galloping in my direction.
"Yeah, I, uh...it can be a real killer!" I counter while smashing someone's face. Grimace. That really wasn't terribly good, but it can't be helped. I've been feeling a little...off lately. Like, maybe I'm getting sick or something. Super heroes can't get sick, can they? I mean, you'd think with all the extra powers you'd at least get a good immune system, like a free upgrade with the package. Right? I mean, how can you fight crime with a congested brain?
I suddenly realize that throughout the passage of this train of thought, Amanda has been standing there motionless, mouth agape. Staring at me.
"Hey!" Laila says, running up to Amanda. "What's with the face?" and, following her gaze, Laila comes to look at me too-- and freezes.
"Um... Hannah? Are you feeling okay?" she asks tentatively.
"Yeah, I feel fine, other than a little sniffle in the brain. Why?"
"You kind of look you've turned into a zombie."
"What?!?" I run out of the street. There are a number of shops along the sides, but unfortunately due to the recent zombie uprising, most of the windows are broken. I keep running frantically, until finally I find an old vintage clothing store with the glint of an intact mirror coming from the one standing dressing room. I step inside and stare at myself. "Huh...my face appears to be half-missing. I wonder when that happened."
Amanda and Laila rush in behind me, hands posed for fighting, peering over cautiously.
"Hannah?" Laila calls. "Are you all right?"
"I thought I was." I reply. "How long have I had my skin torn off like this? I can't feel a thing, but it's kinda freaking me out." Amanda edges closer, and touches my face.
"Freaky. I have no idea, I could swear it wasn't there a second ago, but I thought these things took longer. Maybe I just didn't notice."
"We've been fighting these guys on the same street right across from each other since this morning! How could you possibly not have noticed?!" I am flustered now, peering at my face, my hands, my clothes, looking for any other signs of zombification. Everything else appears to be fine...my circulation's great, and there's no smell of decay or blood coming from the face wound, the flesh is just missing...
"Now, Hannah," Laila says softly, coming over to placate me in my distress.
"You know we've all been quite busy lately, it's understandable if Amanda hasn't noticed. It looks like that wound is the only problem, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation, but for the meantime, let's get you to the safehouse and to bed. I'm sure you must not be feeling terribly well." She lays her arm on my shoulder, but I shrug it off and back away, out of the dressing room.
"Stay away!" I cry. "I don't want you to get infected! And anyways, shouldn't I be getting a taste for brains and violence any minute now? I don't want to start chomping unexpectedly on your cerebellum!"
"Now, Hannah, I KNOW you wouldn't do that. Something is obviously keeping you from changing all the way, so I think we can assume you are safe for the time being. What you need is care."
"Pah!" I reply bitterly. "You should lock me up, if you're not going to kill me. We've all seen the damage these things have done over a few short hours. I signed up to prevent horror in the world, not become it!"
"It could just mean you're getting tired," Amanda offers hopefully. "Maybe you need to wake up and take a rest from all this crime-fighting. You're always getting bruises on your legs and arms from hitting the sides of the bed when you sleep, remember. Perhaps you just need to take a break..."
"Never!" I cry defiantly, pushing them both away, soaring upward to the ceiling and clutching the hanging lamp for comfort. "This isn't just my night job, it's my life! You two don't understand what it's like, having this to come back to every night when Reality is so boring! Here I can actually accomplish things! Colors are more vivid! People are more valiant! I can friggin' FLY!! Why would I want to go back and endure all that ordinary dayness when I could be finishing a successful night of dreaming? NO. I'll just...get over this stupid zombie thing."
I fly out the door before I can hear their responses, because I am hurt and angry and afraid that everything will be taken away from me...that, somehow, they will remember this conversation when we next meet, and will keep me from going to sleep on the basis that it has become too overwhelming of a factor in my life. I know sometimes I can be a bit domineering to Laila about my eight-hour minimum, but...I can't experience all of this Realm, this Universe, fully if I don't...
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. After all, it is only a fabrication of my mind. What little girl am I really saving, here? Whose rotten torso am I kicking? It's just a few neural impulses running around an empty brain late at night...
I decide to go to sleep a little later the next night, and not complain about Laila's leaving the light on to study. I may be addicted to R.E.M., but that's no excuse for neglecting my real relationships.
The Storm
(This event happened at a time when Amanda, Laila and I were still learning the effects and reaches of our powers, and did not yet know that Becca, Mary, and Willa had accrued some strange abilities as well. We were all studying in Amanda's living room, in front of the fireplace, because even though it was almost summer and there was no fire, the comfort of the sentiment remained.)
Amanda's house has a really long driveway that goes over a creek at one point, surrounded by lots of very tall trees. The water is usually almost nonexistent by this point, and the little fish that spawn and grow in the creek have to ford their way to bigger streams to develop.
Anyways.
Amanda is working on her math homework, and getting very frustrated with a particular problem, which is of course the last one preventing her from finishing so we can commence with our planned Indiana Jones movie marathon. She begins doodling a large and furious cloud looming over the half-written equation.
Laila comes over to check on her, and, fascinated by the drawing, runs her finger over the swirling yet violent lines practically carved into the paper.
'This would be a really pretty storm," she remarks-- and at that moment a crack of thunder shakes the room, knocking us all off our feet.
Caspian starts cawing and shrieking loudly in his cage, as bolts of energy fizz and pop throughout the room.
We all stare, aghast, as a sheer mountain of water rises from the creek and crashes toward the house. Toward the three big, beautiful windows on the second story, which we happen to be standing behind.
"Run!" I yell, trying to offer a useful course of action, but at this point all we can do is leap out of the way as a pine tree, uprooted by the maelstrom, crashes straight into the room and through the brick fireplace, poking into the kitchen on the other side. We, however, are too busy to think about this particular development, as we are currently being swept out to sea...
Later, sopping wet and wrapped in towels on the Coast Guard boat which rescued us, we ponder the reason for our predicament. It was obviously Laila's touching of the drawing which made the storm come to life, as she has shown minor control of weather in earlier instances. However, it is the drawing which created such a powerful storm in the first place, embedding in itself in Amanda's residual frustration against the math problem...and so, the finest word of wisdom we learn from this escapade is:
Don't doodle on your homework.
Amanda's house has a really long driveway that goes over a creek at one point, surrounded by lots of very tall trees. The water is usually almost nonexistent by this point, and the little fish that spawn and grow in the creek have to ford their way to bigger streams to develop.
Anyways.
Amanda is working on her math homework, and getting very frustrated with a particular problem, which is of course the last one preventing her from finishing so we can commence with our planned Indiana Jones movie marathon. She begins doodling a large and furious cloud looming over the half-written equation.
Laila comes over to check on her, and, fascinated by the drawing, runs her finger over the swirling yet violent lines practically carved into the paper.
'This would be a really pretty storm," she remarks-- and at that moment a crack of thunder shakes the room, knocking us all off our feet.
Caspian starts cawing and shrieking loudly in his cage, as bolts of energy fizz and pop throughout the room.
We all stare, aghast, as a sheer mountain of water rises from the creek and crashes toward the house. Toward the three big, beautiful windows on the second story, which we happen to be standing behind.
"Run!" I yell, trying to offer a useful course of action, but at this point all we can do is leap out of the way as a pine tree, uprooted by the maelstrom, crashes straight into the room and through the brick fireplace, poking into the kitchen on the other side. We, however, are too busy to think about this particular development, as we are currently being swept out to sea...
Later, sopping wet and wrapped in towels on the Coast Guard boat which rescued us, we ponder the reason for our predicament. It was obviously Laila's touching of the drawing which made the storm come to life, as she has shown minor control of weather in earlier instances. However, it is the drawing which created such a powerful storm in the first place, embedding in itself in Amanda's residual frustration against the math problem...and so, the finest word of wisdom we learn from this escapade is:
Don't doodle on your homework.
Spaceship Stealing
We decide to go on what is commonly termed a "Joy Ride" in the cruiser of the space pirates we just captured, on the way to deliver them to the police of their home planet.
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
In the Event of a Crash, Please Put on Your Seatbelts...
I am going somewhere because I feel like it is necessary.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
Appreciation...
"Dedication to the cause must be renewed."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
The Superstore Apprentice
I am a vigilante in the city, fighting demons and vampires and politicians, when one day, on an anonymous tip that there is a gigantic underground ring of black market dealing going on---I move to Suburbia.
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
Monday, October 24, 2011
I was a bird.
Free, but caged...
Pulling with my talons, I save an old man who escaped from the dinner party but got caught by his borrowed handkerchief in an invisible net of thorns in the trees behind my house. He was almost forced to distill life in a tricky waterfall, almost shot many times while he ran from the tea and crumpets, ran from doilies and nice summer tablecloths and the fizzy neon drinks that accompany Dinner Parties at rest homes. "Once you attend one 'o them doozies," he informs me gravely, "Ya know yer done fer. That's why I'm shovin' off. Gonna take to the forest again, like when I was young..." He shoulders his ragged pack, following his swooping Mentor through the deep ferns, off to learn the ways of an obscure falcon clan. I follow him there in the forest, pursuing though I know I cannot truly break free of my societal bonds, and ask his falcon mentor to guide me as well. I come back changed.
I wander the streets, telling hungry children the secret of humanity, of its many different shapes, their value and significance. "We are like any other species," I whisper sagely as I watch a beetle climb up a tree. "We just want love and a home. That is all we need- not progress- not glory or splendor either. The world around us already progresses in its natural way. It is already beautiful. We need not bustle endlessly to and fro to change it. Life would be so simple... if we just stopped to enjoy things the way they are."
I create in the middle of the town square a towering chocolate cake, for all to eat and enjoy, because there is no reason why I should not, and every reason why I should.
I realize there is NO reason why I have to have a concrete shape and personality throughout my entire existence, and flee, leaving my body below to disintegrate into tiny pebbles, rolling their way to the seashore, thousands of miles away.
Pulling with my talons, I save an old man who escaped from the dinner party but got caught by his borrowed handkerchief in an invisible net of thorns in the trees behind my house. He was almost forced to distill life in a tricky waterfall, almost shot many times while he ran from the tea and crumpets, ran from doilies and nice summer tablecloths and the fizzy neon drinks that accompany Dinner Parties at rest homes. "Once you attend one 'o them doozies," he informs me gravely, "Ya know yer done fer. That's why I'm shovin' off. Gonna take to the forest again, like when I was young..." He shoulders his ragged pack, following his swooping Mentor through the deep ferns, off to learn the ways of an obscure falcon clan. I follow him there in the forest, pursuing though I know I cannot truly break free of my societal bonds, and ask his falcon mentor to guide me as well. I come back changed.
I wander the streets, telling hungry children the secret of humanity, of its many different shapes, their value and significance. "We are like any other species," I whisper sagely as I watch a beetle climb up a tree. "We just want love and a home. That is all we need- not progress- not glory or splendor either. The world around us already progresses in its natural way. It is already beautiful. We need not bustle endlessly to and fro to change it. Life would be so simple... if we just stopped to enjoy things the way they are."
I create in the middle of the town square a towering chocolate cake, for all to eat and enjoy, because there is no reason why I should not, and every reason why I should.
I realize there is NO reason why I have to have a concrete shape and personality throughout my entire existence, and flee, leaving my body below to disintegrate into tiny pebbles, rolling their way to the seashore, thousands of miles away.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Nose
I'm in the library, studying various graphic novel and manga art styles, when out of the blue a boy sits down next to me, leans over, and kisses my nose.
Naturally-- I freak out.
I dash backwards up the bookshelf, cowering at the top with full force-field threat-repulsion engaged, which knocks off some of the sculptures on display, but I reach out and catch them with the back of my heel, before realizing what a stupid position I'm in...
"Interesting," remarks the bespectacled boy, who makes some scratch marks on a yellow legal pad. "Even more of a reaction than I expected."
"Who are you?" I whisper angrily, coming slowly down off of the top shelf, trying to ignore the dragonness incarnate in the nearest librarian which has woken from slumber. "Why would you invade my personal space like that?!"
"I'm doing a research project," the boy sniffs. "On the instinctual reactions of fifth-level dejenerated primate derivative species. Wouldn't expect you to understand. You've only got four dimensions here, poor dear."
You can see why I am in a huff. I realize, though, as you may have, that huffiness merely confirms this know-it-all's suspicions that my species is a coarse, dejenerate lot who is far too easily riled. I shall attempt to prove him wrong...
"You can see, sir, that my initial shock at your actions has subsided, and I am feeling much better and more able to answer any questions you might have about my race or home planet in a...suitable...manner. But first, would you care for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?" I gesture to the table, and it floats closer, setting itself down between us. The librarian has gotten bored watching and goes to reorganize romantic novels.
"Ah, some perception of class still lingers, I see," the thing I call a boy notes, inclining his head sagely. "Perhaps you aren't all as primitive as I first assumed. Though your traffic courtesies are absolutely atrocious." I glance outside the window at the piles of dead small animals littering the sides of the road. Well, the speed limit is only 150 mph around here. I don't really see much to complain about, it's a small and peaceful town, but...
"The Mayor says that when teleports are invented, then we won't need to use streetcars anymore, and the world will become a whole lot safer."
He laughs outright.
"Do you really think that will stop your people from being violent? Far from it, dear human. Your kind will invent any reason to slaughter more of itself or any other thing that moves and breathes. If it's not traffic, it'll be coffee...a terrible invention, yet it shows up consistently in all lower-level planetary systems."
Drat! He must have heard about the Coffee Wars...not the best part in human history, I'll admit, but far in the past...We've done so much good since then...
We discuss politics and reality TV and hiking for awhile, then I show the alien boy a few "magic tricks," which entice him because he is from a very logical dimension and cannot understand how I contrived them (I do not waste my time letting him know they are actually real), then he says goodbye to go write his paper, jumps into a computer screen, and disappears.
Naturally-- I freak out.
I dash backwards up the bookshelf, cowering at the top with full force-field threat-repulsion engaged, which knocks off some of the sculptures on display, but I reach out and catch them with the back of my heel, before realizing what a stupid position I'm in...
"Interesting," remarks the bespectacled boy, who makes some scratch marks on a yellow legal pad. "Even more of a reaction than I expected."
"Who are you?" I whisper angrily, coming slowly down off of the top shelf, trying to ignore the dragonness incarnate in the nearest librarian which has woken from slumber. "Why would you invade my personal space like that?!"
"I'm doing a research project," the boy sniffs. "On the instinctual reactions of fifth-level dejenerated primate derivative species. Wouldn't expect you to understand. You've only got four dimensions here, poor dear."
You can see why I am in a huff. I realize, though, as you may have, that huffiness merely confirms this know-it-all's suspicions that my species is a coarse, dejenerate lot who is far too easily riled. I shall attempt to prove him wrong...
"You can see, sir, that my initial shock at your actions has subsided, and I am feeling much better and more able to answer any questions you might have about my race or home planet in a...suitable...manner. But first, would you care for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?" I gesture to the table, and it floats closer, setting itself down between us. The librarian has gotten bored watching and goes to reorganize romantic novels.
"Ah, some perception of class still lingers, I see," the thing I call a boy notes, inclining his head sagely. "Perhaps you aren't all as primitive as I first assumed. Though your traffic courtesies are absolutely atrocious." I glance outside the window at the piles of dead small animals littering the sides of the road. Well, the speed limit is only 150 mph around here. I don't really see much to complain about, it's a small and peaceful town, but...
"The Mayor says that when teleports are invented, then we won't need to use streetcars anymore, and the world will become a whole lot safer."
He laughs outright.
"Do you really think that will stop your people from being violent? Far from it, dear human. Your kind will invent any reason to slaughter more of itself or any other thing that moves and breathes. If it's not traffic, it'll be coffee...a terrible invention, yet it shows up consistently in all lower-level planetary systems."
Drat! He must have heard about the Coffee Wars...not the best part in human history, I'll admit, but far in the past...We've done so much good since then...
We discuss politics and reality TV and hiking for awhile, then I show the alien boy a few "magic tricks," which entice him because he is from a very logical dimension and cannot understand how I contrived them (I do not waste my time letting him know they are actually real), then he says goodbye to go write his paper, jumps into a computer screen, and disappears.
The Virtual Museum
There's a new exhibit in town- a sort of traveling, carnival-esque museum.
For a price, you can go back into history to experience events as recorded in the memories scavenged from corpses discovered in recent archaeological digs...
Becca and Laila and Amanda and I decide to explore it. When we pay our entrance fee, the Gatemaster hands us our brown ticket, and gives us all a long, somber look. "Make sure you don't lose it. It is your minds' passage in, and out, of the Past..."
We get into a Time-Jeep with our proscribed "tour guide," and off we drive into a rickety metal chamber. The doors close, and darkness reigns: then, the attendant flips a glowing switch on the Jeep's dashboard, and we careen backwards into the path of a prehistoric rainforest.
Prehistoric in the sense that it ISN'T from Earth- it's from an older, far more dangerous world. Turns out we've just entered the scavenged memory of an alien who crash-landed on Earth after a somewhat...turbulent adventure on a jungle planet.
And, yes- the moment we leave the jeep, flying octopi land on our heads.
The tour guide cowers behind his car door, crying frenzied phrases such as, "This wasn't in the contract! They told us we would see harmless Neanderthals! This isn't the history I signed up for..."
Amanda, grabbing the spare crowbar from the Jeep's aid kit for protection against the octopi, replies: "Yeah, well, that wasn't how the Earth was created anyway! Besides, you're here now, so you may as well get used to it." She tosses him a lose tree limb. "Defend yourself."
We forge deeper into nowhere, thwacking at brambles thicker than mustaches, and generally having a good time. Becca starts up a rambling shanty of her own invention, and we sing along to the tune the way we made up songs for Mary when she couldn't come to Lost Lake that one year...
Man. Who'd miss the chance to experience an alien planet through the memories of a deceased savage?
She does have theater practice, though...
Which, in dreams I've had of what can happen in it, is a story for a whole novel...
For a price, you can go back into history to experience events as recorded in the memories scavenged from corpses discovered in recent archaeological digs...
Becca and Laila and Amanda and I decide to explore it. When we pay our entrance fee, the Gatemaster hands us our brown ticket, and gives us all a long, somber look. "Make sure you don't lose it. It is your minds' passage in, and out, of the Past..."
We get into a Time-Jeep with our proscribed "tour guide," and off we drive into a rickety metal chamber. The doors close, and darkness reigns: then, the attendant flips a glowing switch on the Jeep's dashboard, and we careen backwards into the path of a prehistoric rainforest.
Prehistoric in the sense that it ISN'T from Earth- it's from an older, far more dangerous world. Turns out we've just entered the scavenged memory of an alien who crash-landed on Earth after a somewhat...turbulent adventure on a jungle planet.
And, yes- the moment we leave the jeep, flying octopi land on our heads.
The tour guide cowers behind his car door, crying frenzied phrases such as, "This wasn't in the contract! They told us we would see harmless Neanderthals! This isn't the history I signed up for..."
Amanda, grabbing the spare crowbar from the Jeep's aid kit for protection against the octopi, replies: "Yeah, well, that wasn't how the Earth was created anyway! Besides, you're here now, so you may as well get used to it." She tosses him a lose tree limb. "Defend yourself."
We forge deeper into nowhere, thwacking at brambles thicker than mustaches, and generally having a good time. Becca starts up a rambling shanty of her own invention, and we sing along to the tune the way we made up songs for Mary when she couldn't come to Lost Lake that one year...
Man. Who'd miss the chance to experience an alien planet through the memories of a deceased savage?
She does have theater practice, though...
Which, in dreams I've had of what can happen in it, is a story for a whole novel...
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Murder at the Horse Race
I am indulging tonight in a little mental musical theatre...
I find myself, at the beginning of the dream, sitting in the top stand of a stadium overlooking a freshly groomed racetrack, and beyond the starting gates stomp furious, excited horses, eager to break free of their confines and race the wind in their souls.
So naturally I think of My Fair Lady and, willing myself into a gloriously striped outfit, wiggle down through the crowds to the front of the stadium.
The starting gun is raised- anticipation is high, the crowds in a politely escalating rapture, waiting for that moment of defining:
BANG!
And just as the first shot is fired, horses speeding down the dusty fare, a man falls from the stands onto the ground below, his form laying there, limp- and before anyone can save him- the horses rush past, a fury of hooves...and he is trampled.
The crowds go silent.
The jockeys slow their mounts moments after they notice the fall, but it only takes seconds to do the sort of damage which now clutters the field....
Why would a man just fall into the track?
I rush down to the body, pushing through the circle of spectators which has gathered, and bend down to examine him. There are the typical signs of pulverization, but the body is not as warm as it should be, the blood not as plentiful, for such a recent wound. Why would someone kill a man, then go to such lengths to publicly disguise it in such a poor way? Perhaps for need of an alibi? Strange...
The police inspector shuffles his way through the crowd, edging out towards the body, and steps with a crunch on something I had missed-
There, near the hand of the outstretched body, lies a small silver locket.
As I converse with the inspector, looking for clues to solve this murder mystery, a high, lilting music starts up from somewhere in the stands. The crowd turns around, searching, for it seems to be coming from several places at once, the voice of a young boy-- but as we turn our attention back to the body- it is gone!
At first I assume sleight of hand, and look wildly for a paunchy person in an overcoat shuffling the body away from the scene of the crime- but no one could've escaped the circle without being noticed. It has to be magic...
I try to dig deeper into my mind to find out what exactly would be required to work this kind of trickery, when a shout clear as dawn distracts my attention:
"KILL ALL THE INFIDELS!!!"
And flying horsemen leap over the stadium and onto the crowd below. In the chaos, the story is changing...
People running in waistcoats and frocks melt into turbaned camel herders, as desert sands whip in fury around our heads. The attackers are wolves now, ravenous and wily, and as I edge into a more defensive position, I realize with chagrin- I am still wearing my Audrey Hepburn dress.
I am about to change when the inspector, knees shaking, comes up behind me, and putting a hand on my shoulder, quavers: "It's all changin', miss- I don't understand, what's going on? What foul demon brought us here? How are we to retain our sanity?"
"Well," I reply, hitching up my skirts and peering out into the violence-infested storm: "We can pray that our sanity looks after itself. Right now, we've got worse things to worry about. Let's try to find some shelter."
As it turns out, we were transported to the outskirts of a village near a river. As night falls and the wind gradually lessens, we sneak down to the water and wash off the crust of sand caked on our skin and clothes. I'm still buggered, though. I really wanted to solve that case.
"We were lucky that wind didn't take the flesh off our bones, my dear," the inspector pants, flopping on the bank of the river and mopping his brow with a relatively clean handkerchief.
I am about to respond, when the scene changes again, and we've barely had time to catch our breath when we are hurled into a maelstrom rising from the river, suddenly engulfed in a sea of swimming horses, saddles on their backs but no riders...
As we struggle to stay afloat, a staircase appears in the middle of the whirlpool, spiraling slowly upward into the darkening night sky. We swim towards it, latching onto the banister and pulling ourselves up out of the deadly sweep of the waves. My dress is really getting quite ruined. I glance upward to the top of the staircase, which grows ever distant- and catch a flash of light; something is dangling off the banister. I gather my heavy skirts and, wringing them out as I run, make my way to the top where I find:
The silver locket from the dead man's hand.
Perhaps this isn't a physical murder at all. Perhaps this is a part of someone else's mind- someone that enjoys watching horse races and knows the sea- someone that just recently received bad news that shocked them to the core...enough that they feel people should know they are dying inside, besieged by horrible thoughts- but no one can see the mark of their pain...
I lift the locket from the banister, running my fingers over it.
I find the catch, and open it.
I find myself, at the beginning of the dream, sitting in the top stand of a stadium overlooking a freshly groomed racetrack, and beyond the starting gates stomp furious, excited horses, eager to break free of their confines and race the wind in their souls.
So naturally I think of My Fair Lady and, willing myself into a gloriously striped outfit, wiggle down through the crowds to the front of the stadium.
The starting gun is raised- anticipation is high, the crowds in a politely escalating rapture, waiting for that moment of defining:
BANG!
And just as the first shot is fired, horses speeding down the dusty fare, a man falls from the stands onto the ground below, his form laying there, limp- and before anyone can save him- the horses rush past, a fury of hooves...and he is trampled.
The crowds go silent.
The jockeys slow their mounts moments after they notice the fall, but it only takes seconds to do the sort of damage which now clutters the field....
Why would a man just fall into the track?
I rush down to the body, pushing through the circle of spectators which has gathered, and bend down to examine him. There are the typical signs of pulverization, but the body is not as warm as it should be, the blood not as plentiful, for such a recent wound. Why would someone kill a man, then go to such lengths to publicly disguise it in such a poor way? Perhaps for need of an alibi? Strange...
The police inspector shuffles his way through the crowd, edging out towards the body, and steps with a crunch on something I had missed-
There, near the hand of the outstretched body, lies a small silver locket.
As I converse with the inspector, looking for clues to solve this murder mystery, a high, lilting music starts up from somewhere in the stands. The crowd turns around, searching, for it seems to be coming from several places at once, the voice of a young boy-- but as we turn our attention back to the body- it is gone!
At first I assume sleight of hand, and look wildly for a paunchy person in an overcoat shuffling the body away from the scene of the crime- but no one could've escaped the circle without being noticed. It has to be magic...
I try to dig deeper into my mind to find out what exactly would be required to work this kind of trickery, when a shout clear as dawn distracts my attention:
"KILL ALL THE INFIDELS!!!"
And flying horsemen leap over the stadium and onto the crowd below. In the chaos, the story is changing...
People running in waistcoats and frocks melt into turbaned camel herders, as desert sands whip in fury around our heads. The attackers are wolves now, ravenous and wily, and as I edge into a more defensive position, I realize with chagrin- I am still wearing my Audrey Hepburn dress.
I am about to change when the inspector, knees shaking, comes up behind me, and putting a hand on my shoulder, quavers: "It's all changin', miss- I don't understand, what's going on? What foul demon brought us here? How are we to retain our sanity?"
"Well," I reply, hitching up my skirts and peering out into the violence-infested storm: "We can pray that our sanity looks after itself. Right now, we've got worse things to worry about. Let's try to find some shelter."
As it turns out, we were transported to the outskirts of a village near a river. As night falls and the wind gradually lessens, we sneak down to the water and wash off the crust of sand caked on our skin and clothes. I'm still buggered, though. I really wanted to solve that case.
"We were lucky that wind didn't take the flesh off our bones, my dear," the inspector pants, flopping on the bank of the river and mopping his brow with a relatively clean handkerchief.
I am about to respond, when the scene changes again, and we've barely had time to catch our breath when we are hurled into a maelstrom rising from the river, suddenly engulfed in a sea of swimming horses, saddles on their backs but no riders...
As we struggle to stay afloat, a staircase appears in the middle of the whirlpool, spiraling slowly upward into the darkening night sky. We swim towards it, latching onto the banister and pulling ourselves up out of the deadly sweep of the waves. My dress is really getting quite ruined. I glance upward to the top of the staircase, which grows ever distant- and catch a flash of light; something is dangling off the banister. I gather my heavy skirts and, wringing them out as I run, make my way to the top where I find:
The silver locket from the dead man's hand.
Perhaps this isn't a physical murder at all. Perhaps this is a part of someone else's mind- someone that enjoys watching horse races and knows the sea- someone that just recently received bad news that shocked them to the core...enough that they feel people should know they are dying inside, besieged by horrible thoughts- but no one can see the mark of their pain...
I lift the locket from the banister, running my fingers over it.
I find the catch, and open it.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Bees on Beach Rocks
There is an island in the world where the dolphins don't come.
Among the rocks there are no tourists laden with fishy treats, nor nutrients or plants to attract fish so far out from the continental shelf to seek them.
There is only a cave, a boy, and the Bees.
Alone among the rocks, the boy tends to the hives, day in, day out, making sure they are perfectly structured, well stocked with glucose, warm and well-swept and safe from the dangers of the outside world--
And in return the bees, on their long seasonal journeys to the Lands where Flowers Grow, pluck for him every year a single lily that grows near to the Fountain of Life.
When I found him there, the boy with no name and a love for the sea, he begged me not to tell of the island and the work that he did.
"People would not understand. The bees have warned me that they would try to take me away, that they would lock me up or put me in a strange home, and that people would hurt each other trying to get to the Nectar of Life which keeps spirit and body joined. They do not know that it is only bees that have the power to attain that nectar and turn it to a palatable form, else it brings Death instead... It is best for them not to find it at all. Far better to live a normal life and not know such things even exist."
The bees on that island are the last hope for mankind.
The work that they do, the sugars they spin into hexagonal shapes, are a tangible part of the tapestry, the matrix, the coding of the inherent patterns of the universe....
If they were to be discovered, they would likely be destroyed.
Pests.
Then the universe would shift once more- diversity would be lost, in little ways- and the thread would slowly start to unravel...
There are many places like this in the world- mostly underground.
Some are frenzied dens of calculated chaos, others peaceful willow-reeds of continuity, some balanced hives of activity. Together, they keep the realm of imagination intact, so that when one's mind wanders off into ever-expanding territories of thought, it does fall of the edge and into the Abyss.
Among the rocks there are no tourists laden with fishy treats, nor nutrients or plants to attract fish so far out from the continental shelf to seek them.
There is only a cave, a boy, and the Bees.
Alone among the rocks, the boy tends to the hives, day in, day out, making sure they are perfectly structured, well stocked with glucose, warm and well-swept and safe from the dangers of the outside world--
And in return the bees, on their long seasonal journeys to the Lands where Flowers Grow, pluck for him every year a single lily that grows near to the Fountain of Life.
When I found him there, the boy with no name and a love for the sea, he begged me not to tell of the island and the work that he did.
"People would not understand. The bees have warned me that they would try to take me away, that they would lock me up or put me in a strange home, and that people would hurt each other trying to get to the Nectar of Life which keeps spirit and body joined. They do not know that it is only bees that have the power to attain that nectar and turn it to a palatable form, else it brings Death instead... It is best for them not to find it at all. Far better to live a normal life and not know such things even exist."
The bees on that island are the last hope for mankind.
The work that they do, the sugars they spin into hexagonal shapes, are a tangible part of the tapestry, the matrix, the coding of the inherent patterns of the universe....
If they were to be discovered, they would likely be destroyed.
Pests.
Then the universe would shift once more- diversity would be lost, in little ways- and the thread would slowly start to unravel...
There are many places like this in the world- mostly underground.
Some are frenzied dens of calculated chaos, others peaceful willow-reeds of continuity, some balanced hives of activity. Together, they keep the realm of imagination intact, so that when one's mind wanders off into ever-expanding territories of thought, it does fall of the edge and into the Abyss.
Circus Reasoning
Days are passing by like acrobats on time-traveling trapezes...
One morning, I wake up to brightness glancing off my eyelids: a circus spotlight.... murmured voices... announcing the next act.....
and open my eyes to find myself surrounded by surgeons on an operating table.
The surgeons in their long white coats and masks, their latex gloves and bizarre metal instruments...
They are clowns, of course. I can see them truly now, spinning round the ring on miniature BMWs, performing farce operations- and the fans, laughing as bloody paint splatters the stands...
I look down the table, fascinated by the sheer amount of red.
Isn't my blood supposed to be a different color?
This must not be mine, then.
A doctor hands me something, wrapped in gauzy cloth.
It squirms as I hold it tight in my arms, and I pull apart the covering to reveal: myself.
"A history of the world, my child..." a voice echoes somewhere overhead:
I peer into the brightness above me, and am transported.
Images flash before my neurons:
women in fire dancing heroes fighting agents listening prince hamlet's speech fairy trees running vertically over zebras escaped convict old man little boy friends searching water sword-stalking smiling cats batting through mouse holes a rich man enslaved a guest blowing on his hot dinner tears stained glass windows and a ballgown opera...
I snap awake.
My skin falls off in the department store, and beneath it they see that I am just a female human baby, and laugh with shuddering sound waves that bring me to my knees.
I try to make sense of the judgement, but there is no reason- so the Ring Master hands me a mask and I step onstage.
The crowds are cheering and clapping and I feel them inside of me, so many voices beating incessantly at the door.
I let them in, and begin to fly...
One morning, I wake up to brightness glancing off my eyelids: a circus spotlight.... murmured voices... announcing the next act.....
and open my eyes to find myself surrounded by surgeons on an operating table.
The surgeons in their long white coats and masks, their latex gloves and bizarre metal instruments...
They are clowns, of course. I can see them truly now, spinning round the ring on miniature BMWs, performing farce operations- and the fans, laughing as bloody paint splatters the stands...
I look down the table, fascinated by the sheer amount of red.
Isn't my blood supposed to be a different color?
This must not be mine, then.
A doctor hands me something, wrapped in gauzy cloth.
It squirms as I hold it tight in my arms, and I pull apart the covering to reveal: myself.
"A history of the world, my child..." a voice echoes somewhere overhead:
I peer into the brightness above me, and am transported.
Images flash before my neurons:
women in fire dancing heroes fighting agents listening prince hamlet's speech fairy trees running vertically over zebras escaped convict old man little boy friends searching water sword-stalking smiling cats batting through mouse holes a rich man enslaved a guest blowing on his hot dinner tears stained glass windows and a ballgown opera...
I snap awake.
My skin falls off in the department store, and beneath it they see that I am just a female human baby, and laugh with shuddering sound waves that bring me to my knees.
I try to make sense of the judgement, but there is no reason- so the Ring Master hands me a mask and I step onstage.
The crowds are cheering and clapping and I feel them inside of me, so many voices beating incessantly at the door.
I let them in, and begin to fly...
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunrise Songs and the Monster Man
I wake in the fading dark. Stretching and yawning, I head outside. Knees bend, tensing- I let go of the ground all at once, spiraling upward into the mystical depths of yet another beautifully unusual sunrise. Within the clouds, thousands of feet above the Earth, are rods of golden and flaming orange light- I’ve seen them before. They are hot, but I press one to me in a kind of dance, closing my eyes and forgetting gravity and all sense of direction. It makes a sort of electronic singing noise, and peering close, I see that it is some kind of message carrier. Curiosity aside, I know I have no legitimate reason to snoop in someone’s mail, so I let it go, and the rod zooms across the sky with the rest, keeping hidden from the unknowing populace in the thick morning clouds. After awhile, the chill repairs me to continue my journey, further down. Through bogs and swamps and hilly forests and somber valleys I race, till I come to a beautiful wooden bridge overlooking a glistening river- no cars, just people. Walking. I light like a fairy on the edge of the forest and watch the people strolling by, unheeding of life’s worries, if only for the moment. If I could read their minds like Syca, maybe I could truly share in their happiness. As it is, I am too busy preparing for today’s work. This beautiful venture is just a warm-up-- a flight to prepare me for another day of fighting crime. I walk over to the bridge and sit down, trailing my feet in the water. I wish I could just put down my job for a minute. Walk among these people as if I were one of them. The times I do that, though, bad stuff happens. More bad stuff than usual. It seems to be the curse of those who know the true dangers of the world- whether Reality or Imagination- to forever be fighting them. Once you see the fabric of the universe, you can’t very well waltz happily over it, knowing there are dangerously widening holes. You are forever fighting entropy….
Meh. This trail of logic is depressing. I think I’ll go get an ice cream.
I walk over to the musical cart set up in the park, and fish out my new debit card. “Now…how do I work this thing--” when a scream emits from the forest I just flew over. I rush back, dropping the card in my haste, and running through the trees, call out, “Is somebody here? Are you hurt?” I stop. Under my foot squishes a strange purple lily. I bend down and pick it up. Feeling stupid, and wishing I had some sort of tracking sense, I step forward hesitantly. “Hello?”Suddenly, a twig snaps behind me, and I whirl to find- a little girl.
“You found my flower!” she cries happily, reaching out.
“Oh,” I reply, handing her the slightly crumpled lily. “Were you the one that screamed?”
“Oh, no, no!” she replies hastily. “That was my- my cousin. We were playing hide-and-seek, and he thought he saw a bear. He’s a coward.” She smiles, and runs off toward the park, and I shake my head in bewilderment.
“Children...” I glance down at the forest floor, and then peer back for closer scrutiny- there do, indeed, appear to be some sort of large tracks here…but not bear tracks. Nothing like bear tracks. I follow them with my nose to the ground, humming a little, for it is a bright and sunny day now, and I don’t have to get back to the base until ten, by my own schedule. May as well sort out this mystery. The further I get into the forest, the darker and denser the foliage grows, until I am forced to fly yards above the dense clusters of brambles, peering intently for signs of the animal’s trail. As I go along, I start to here a faint whistling tune…
And, emerging upon a weedless field of wheat, I behold a little cabin built into the side of a tree, a giant redwood, in the center of an open space. “Hello?” I call, and immediately the singing ceases. “Is anyone at home? I don’t want to frighten you- I just had a question, I don’t mean to be a bother or anything, but if you’re here, I’d like to talk to you—” a shadow moves behind the house. I creep closer and peer around the side- on a small wooden bench lie a basket of herbs, a can of peas, half- shelled, and a long, intricately carved walking stick. And, there, along the wall of the cabin, are blooming a plot of the strange, purple flowers. I reach out to touch one, when a rough voice cries from behind me-
“PLEASE!” I turn to find a tall, grizzled old man wrapped in thin rags of fur glaring down at me. He is standing at the edge of a cleverly hidden platform, tied round the waist of a tree with vines. It appears to be a hunting stand. The man, with a knobby hand on the string of a worn bow, cries, “Step AWAY from the flowers, lass!”
“I-I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t going to pick them or anything, I was just curious--” Looking at the man, I see that his feet, below the rags, are almost like the hooves of a Faun. That explains the odd tracks. Turning back to the flowerbed, I ask, “What are they, exactly? They’re not from around here…”
“No,” sighs the old man, lowering the bow and climbing wearily down from the tree. “No, they’re not. I’m sorry to frighten you, lass. I couldn’t risk their safety, not when one of their sisters has already been killed.”
“Killed! Then- these aren’t just flowers? But, the little girl I met in the forest had one of them. Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I was out gathering herbs from the west fields. By the time I heard the Lileth screaming, it was too late. Their spirits are delicate, and cannot survive being moved from their place of origin while in that form. I couldn’t blame the girl- she is young, and innocent- and, what’s more, human beings have always been a clumsy and nosy race, blundering into other’s forests where they shouldn’t be looking…I should have moved the Lileth as soon as they started moving in.”
“Now, sir, I think you misjudge my race. Not all of us are so brash. Curiosity can be a good thing, too.”
“Oh, I meant you no insult, lady lass. But, I am a Protector, and it falls hard upon me when I fail in my duty. And- you must understand. Your aura- I can tell that you, too, guard. I watched you. The way you ran after that child when you thought she was hurt…”
“There is nothing else I could’ve done.” I protest, but he raises his hand.
“You could have run away.”
“Yes, I suppose, but- what if she had been hurt! I would have to live with the knowledge that I did nothing to save her, the rest of my life. Opportunities to help do not appear for no reason.”
The old Faun smiles, centuries of laughter crinkling up around his eyes.
“No, I don’t suppose they do. I also noticed that you have some flight ability. Are you by any chance descended from elves?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” I reply, “At least- not that I know of. But I have met and danced with a few of the Fairy Folk, and found them quite an agreeable sort.”
“Ah,” the man sighs. “Well, I had hoped that, perhaps, you might be able to help me. As you said, no opportunity appears without reason. You see,” he continues, tottering over to the bench, “The Lileth were once lithe and graceful fairies, the last of a wise and venerated race of near-immortals. As often happens, the jealousy of a mortal- a dark witch, whose death caused nothing more than the breath of an echo in history- cursed them into this form with a strong enchantment. Over the centuries, the spell has faded. The Lileth are now able to resume their true form at night. They cannot fly, though, and they long to see the moon beyond the thick boughs of the trees which shelter them from prying eyes. I hoped that the magic of another fairy might cure them, but since I took upon my role as protector, when my successor died, I have seen none of the Folk. Nor have I been able to reach them through others of the enchanted races. I am cut off from my kin, here at the edge of human lands.” His voice, like his body, is worn with the years of solitude he took on himself in his guard of silent, ancient beings. Still, I might lift it…
“But I do know magic, Sir Faun!” I cry. “Not perhaps the ancient rites of the elves, but I can heal wounds and lift many an enchantment with the flow of projective energy. I was taught by a friend.”
“Without knowing the true process of the Art? It sounds dangerous...” The Faun looks doubtful, but I can see hope beginning to light in his eyes, and I press on.
“Sir Faun, you are wise to doubt the words of a complete stranger, but if as you say my Aura labels me a protector, than you know my attempt to heal the Lileth, if it does no good, can at least mean them no harm. After all these centuries of hoping for a cure, you owe it to them to at least try…” The old faun sits down heavily and reaches an arm out to the flowers, stroking them gently.
“Very well.” He replies after a long silence. “They have been captive for so very long…”
“Good,” I smile, rubbing my hands together and crouching in front of the flowers. It is the greatest joy of my job. To heal, to bring good, when so much of my life is taken up with fighting and punishment of evil…it is a form of renewal.
I press the palms of my hands lightly on the ground, feeling the path of the roots below it, feeling the breath of the flowers as they photosynthesize, exhaling oxygen…
I sing a few bars of a Celtic chant a friend taught me long ago:
“Shi Ri Soiu Sha…” which means, Seek Ye The Light. The stems of the flowers stir: eyes grow from the petals, lips and teeth pushing their way out of an almost two-dimensional existence. When I am done with my makeshift medicine, seven tall elves stand before me, breathing in the sight of the wood, rubbing their velvet limbs into colour once more.
I exchange farewells with the Faun, and happily glide back into the park- where I discover an acne-covered teenage boy trying to pass my debit card off as his to the ice cream man.
A Case for Cuba
My old Spanish teacher, when out of a job, decided to become an investigative journalist. She went undercover to solve the Watergate Case. Turns out, it was aliens that broke into that office. Somehow trying to take over Cuba... Slitheen! Can’t tell the world that. I write the ignorant-human-friendly transcript of her discoveries into the biggest news agency of the time, under the assumed name of two men, Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. My issue is due tomorrow! (So is my essay)- so I get 4.5 hrs. sleep getting it flawless. I’m sooo tired, I pray for two days’ rest- and get it, when I contract a particularly virile sickness from licking spoons in jars. Careful what you wish for.
Acting Skills
The kids from the high school theater club killed someone and buried them atop the hill behind the school. It's part of a ritual-- an initiation into the theater program. If you are a good enough actor to lie to the bio-imprinted lie detectors, than you can join the crew- or so the drunken delinquents thought. They were puffed up with pride, foolish to a fault, and begging for disaster.
To mark the momentous occasion, Norland orders us all to bury our neon school ID jackets in a circle around the body, like a protective circle. Then we skitter away, the boys giggling at how sly they were. The dead man was a new teacher, Mr. Durey, who advocated the rule of the Globalzine Corporation. (As much as I disagree with sweatshop labor, this is NOT the way to deal with contrary opinion.) Just as we reach the bottom of the hill, a siren starts up. Someone in the area must have alerted our presence! We scatter across the lower hills, running home.
The next school day, the whole student body titters with the silent gossip of the eyes. I can feel it everywhere. As I sit down in history class, digging through my bag, I hear an unfamiliar voice. I look up, see a substitute teacher, and remember what happened the night before. The moment school gets out, I rush over to the other theater kids, and realize why everyone is staring: we’re not wearing our ID vests. Outside the Dean’s office, a deep red Police corvette lurks, empty. “They know!” Josiah cries. “They know we killed him! They’ll hang us for sure!”
“Calm down,” replies Norland, “They’re not gonna kill us if they can’t catch us. We’ll stay hidden. The Dean doesn’t have any concrete evidence. It’ll all blow over soon- you know how these things go. It’ll be blamed on the rising taxes for public schools. Angry citizens kill teachers all the time nowadays.”
“Yeah, but not those in with the head honchos at Globalzine!” says a kid who’d been reading some confidential papers he just nicked from the police car…bad news.
“Wait…Norland…if they know he’s missing, it’s only a short time before they go out with dogs and find the body…and if they find the body…” We run back up the hill, dig up our neon jackets, and flee. I fly home, get Mum and Gran and Lyle, and we hideout under fake names at an obscure little hotel. “Remember- you can’t leave the hotel premises in case someone recognizes you and informs the authorities.”
“Whatever,” replies Lyle, going to do homework in the Jacuzzi. A Jamaican dude starts hangin’ around her. Agent in disguise? I stalk him suspiciously. Turns out, he’s just a tourist.
But- wait: why was I part of a murder? I’m supposed to be a hero, to save people and right wrongs! Heroes don’t succumb to peer pressure! Or do they…
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The SAT...
I've always had a suspicion that the SAT was run by aliens.
Turns out I am right.
I wake up late, really afraid I am going to be late for the test, and am about to wake up mum, but decide instead that I should try out the teleportation device I've been working on...
And wind up on a cloaked spaceship hovering on the edge of the outer atmosphere.
Which Whoopie Goldberg is on, for some reason.
They are in league with the dolphins, these aliens, trying to devise a job system which will keep us all ignorant of the true meaning of life, keep us serving a greater unknown empire's desires-- which competitive standardized tests accomplish pretty well. They are measuring the results, and taking the best and brightest moments after they leave the testing facilities, cloning them, using the real kids for experimentation, to see if they can prevent the rest of the population from reaching their level of intelligence. Thankfully for me, I did quite poorly on the maths section of my test the first time--partly due to my forgetting my calculator- so they never even took notice of me.
Dozens of other humans are on the ship as drone slaves, their minds controlled by small "headlamps," their clothes marked with yellow clearance stripes, so I sneak in and (sorry! I had to!) knock one out and dress to match, following two others with refreshments into the main conference room.
"I just can't understand it!" one alien with a prestigious badge on his chest hollers, banging the table for emphasis. "They are still getting smarter, despite all our efforts. I was assured that humanity was a stupid race, easily capable of domination, when I bought the planet. These scientists are worthless, Pague!"
"Now, don't get all ruffled, General," a smaller form soothes, motioning us servants forward, taking a drink off my tray. "I'm sure that when the Steward gives his demonstration, it'll all be straightened out."
Just then, a holovid on the desk jumps to life, and a tall, spiky alien in a white labcoat greets the room, beginning a presentation. I sneak away with my empty tray and continue to explore.
The ship is huge, but luckily for me I wander straight into the engine room.
Because I really do have school tomorrow, and my subconscious is worried I won't get up in time, and to show-up all my previous doubts, I shut the whole system down with a flick of the wrist and free all the humans on board, then jettison the ship back out into space.
That's right.
We speak for ourselves, thank you very much.
Humans rock.
But I still haven't done any homework...
Turns out I am right.
I wake up late, really afraid I am going to be late for the test, and am about to wake up mum, but decide instead that I should try out the teleportation device I've been working on...
And wind up on a cloaked spaceship hovering on the edge of the outer atmosphere.
Which Whoopie Goldberg is on, for some reason.
They are in league with the dolphins, these aliens, trying to devise a job system which will keep us all ignorant of the true meaning of life, keep us serving a greater unknown empire's desires-- which competitive standardized tests accomplish pretty well. They are measuring the results, and taking the best and brightest moments after they leave the testing facilities, cloning them, using the real kids for experimentation, to see if they can prevent the rest of the population from reaching their level of intelligence. Thankfully for me, I did quite poorly on the maths section of my test the first time--partly due to my forgetting my calculator- so they never even took notice of me.
Dozens of other humans are on the ship as drone slaves, their minds controlled by small "headlamps," their clothes marked with yellow clearance stripes, so I sneak in and (sorry! I had to!) knock one out and dress to match, following two others with refreshments into the main conference room.
"I just can't understand it!" one alien with a prestigious badge on his chest hollers, banging the table for emphasis. "They are still getting smarter, despite all our efforts. I was assured that humanity was a stupid race, easily capable of domination, when I bought the planet. These scientists are worthless, Pague!"
"Now, don't get all ruffled, General," a smaller form soothes, motioning us servants forward, taking a drink off my tray. "I'm sure that when the Steward gives his demonstration, it'll all be straightened out."
Just then, a holovid on the desk jumps to life, and a tall, spiky alien in a white labcoat greets the room, beginning a presentation. I sneak away with my empty tray and continue to explore.
The ship is huge, but luckily for me I wander straight into the engine room.
Because I really do have school tomorrow, and my subconscious is worried I won't get up in time, and to show-up all my previous doubts, I shut the whole system down with a flick of the wrist and free all the humans on board, then jettison the ship back out into space.
That's right.
We speak for ourselves, thank you very much.
Humans rock.
But I still haven't done any homework...
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