Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Disco Zombie
Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009
Barry woke up feeling claustrophobic and irritable in a pitch black, stuffy place where something stank. Above him, something hard was in his way, and in annoyance Barry punched it. He was surprised and pleased when his hand smashed through easily, and surprised and pissed when dirt poured through the hole onto him. Aggravated, Barry bashed and clawed his way up through what was left of the hard thing and through the dirt above it until he broke through into an open space. It felt like forcing himself out of a birth canal.
He found himself outside in a misting rain and some hazy moonlight, and now that he was calming down, he began to notice strange things–like the fact that he had just clawed his way up from underground when the last thing he’d been aware of was passing out after doing too much coke at the disco, and that his gold pantsuit was rotted nearly to rags, and that he had forgotten to breathe and it didn’t seem to be bothering him.
“Good morning, disco zombie!” someone called out, and Barry turned to see a skinny woman standing nearby, the ground around her scattered with heavy books and with candles that flickered under the protective shadow of a beach umbrella.
Barry took a step toward her, a strange, salty smell drawing him forward. Brains.
She stood up, snicking out a knife. “Hold on there,” she said. “I need you to do me a favor.” She held up a little baggie, and even through the bag he could smell that it was coke–which was funny, because when he was alive, coke hadn’t smelled like anything.
“You knew I’d care more about the coke than the brains,” Barry croaked.
“I made a point of using a legendary addict,” she said. “It’s how I’m going to control you. You play nice, or no coke.”
He thought about it for a moment, stepped forward, and cracked open her skull with his fingers. The knife jerked into his chest and probably damaged something, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be something he needed.
The brains were perfect: warm and savory. Afterward, Barry did the coke and wondered what the favor would have been. Then he went out to look for a disco.
Running on Aether
Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
Once it was fun to courier packages through Orphir’s confluxes of alien architecture. This was a city of shadows and politics. But things are changing—now the knives emerge from the shadows, and tonight they point at me.
The assassins emerge from an Aethergate. A hole in reality opens and they dash forward from another where, another plane. The slash at me, my package. I see a keyhole tattooed on one palm. The Order of the Silver Key. A few hours ago I would have called them the most enlightened of the cabals skulking around the back halls of power. But things are changing in Orphir.
I make for the roofs, climbing something that may be a drain pipe or a feeding tube for a piece of sentient stonework. My feet pound over slate and silica.
My lead narrows and I descend to the streets, crashing down fire escape stairs. One assassin has flanked me. He slashes with his knife as I dance backwards. His blade catches the package, unseals it.
It goes without saying that I do not know what I carry. You do not open the package. That is the rule. But now the package is opened, and a blue-bladed aether knife falls free, spilling from its scabbard. It spits and crackles in the night.
I catch it before it hits the floor, slash the assassin’s knees. He screams and falls.
I run, they pursue and corner me in Flex Plaza. Five aethergates–one on each side of the space. I eye them, expecting fresh assailants. The assassins close. I lash out, and my blade severs theirs. Steel hits the floor. I slash again, hands join the blades. Three drop. One—holding back—remains. He run for a gate and vanishes. I smile.
Then the gate behind me opens and the assassin steps through. He has navigated the space between realities in a blinking. He is Aetherblessed, and I am screwed.
I run, but he’s always before me, stepping out of one gate, then another, outstripping all the speed of my feet. Eventually I am exhausted, cannot run from his approach, only wheeze.
The blow doesn’t come.
“This is not death,” he says. “This is rebirth. This is recruitment.” He holds out a hand, a silver keyhole tattooed there.
I pause then accept the hand. It feels right. Feels smart. After all, things are changing in Oriphir.