Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
The Sovereign District of Noël
Thursday, December 24th, 2009
Marisa knew a high-profile case when she saw one. This one was going to take her career into orbit, and that was worth even a certain amount of public hatred.
An ancient elf showed her in silently, and a moment later Santa entered, trailed by a suave-looking elf with a briefcase.
“Please, sit down,” said the suave elf. “Can I get you a cocoa? Schnitzel, get the lady a cocoa.” The ancient elf bowed and left.
“Let’s make this very, very simple,” said the suave elf. “You’re alleging violations of trademarks, patents, and copyrights in the toys we make and deliver to children around the world. And you’re absolutely right that we violate those laws. When we make a knockoff of a Nintendo Wii or burn a few thousand copies of the latest Harry Potter movie, we’re imitating the original product right down to the shrink wrap. The thing you’re missing is that we here in the Sovereign District of Noël have no obligation whatsoever to honor the laws that you mundanes spend your time fussing over.”
“Damn right,” said Santa.
Marisa had expected this tactic. “By conducting activities within U.S. borders–”
The suave elf laughed. “Oh, please. We don’t recognize your borders. We don’t recognize your nation, your government, your corporations, or the legitimacy of your laws. Your governments are completely powerless to stop Santa or constrain the movement of the Sleigh, and you know it. I think it’s time you gave up this farce and went home.”
Marisa had expected this, too. “You’re forcing my hand,” she said. “I didn’t want to have to resort to this.” She slid a stack of glossy 8×10 photos out of her attaché case and tossed them onto the table. They featured Santa in a variety of situations not usually associated with jolly old saints.
“Santa’s personal life is his own business,” the elf said, unperturbed.
“God, was I drunk that weekend,” said Santa.
“Santa’s a public figure,” said Marisa. “If Angelina Jolie and Tom Cruise have to pay the price for that, why shouldn’t he?”
The elf smiled. “Because Santa is magic.”
Abruptly, Marisa found herself sitting in her own office back in Newark. Ignoring the impossibility of this and her own disorientation, she ran to the safe and opened it. The photo CD and the spare prints of the Santa pictures were gone.
In their place was a lump of coal.
The City Stirs
Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009
In its sleep, the city stirred. Beneath its streets, muscles rippled. Flagstones were cracked. Buildings trembled. Lives were endangered. “These are events outside the record of history,” the citizens told their crown-prince. “Something must be done.”
The prince’s advisors, the chymick Airtran, and the physick Elben, consulted. Never had the two seen eye to eye, but it was Elben that answered first.
“Our city wants,” he said. “It yearns. It struggles to approach its desires.”
“What does it desire?” the prince asked.
“That we must ascertain,” he replied.
Children were brought up to the city’s great ear. They stood upon the plateau of its pinna and sang into the pit there—sweet nothings to lull the city back to slumber.
The city stirred and a dozen lives were lost—spilled into the abyss.
Adventurous souls with little to lose clambered down the great crags of the city’s face. Barrels of liquor were roped down. The whole city seemed to sweat and groan at the heave of their descent. Finally the liquid was introduced to the lips of the city, and was heard to gurgle deep in the city’s bowels.
The city stirred and the citizens found they had no way to drown their sorrows.
A madwoman went south, to the city’s nethers, with lecherous claims for a solution. She never returned. Still the city stirred.
Then Airtran loosed his tongue, saying, “Too much time and too many lives have been lost. There is a simpler solution. If the city desires, then we simply remove the organ of desire.”
Elben spoke against such words, but the weight of the people was with Airtran. And so men dug. With picks, and spades, and blades they dug. Blood filled the hole but they pumped it away and dug on. The city twitched. Lives were crushed. They dug on. A thunder came from the pit. A crashing sound that deafened those who worked in the meaty depths of the hole. Still they dug,
Then at last they came to it. The great crashing, pulsating organ: the city’s heart. And Airtran, the chymick, descended and plied his trade, even against the horror of it all. And the heart blackened, and the heart slackened, and the heart died.
The city lay still.
The people cheered. Weeks passed. And slowly the scent of rot filled the air.