Archive for the ‘Series’ Category
THE GHOST OF ZOLI HAUSENHIEM, JAY LAKE, AND HOW THE CABAL UNCOVERED THE SECRET TO EVERYTHING
Tuesday, April 8th, 2008
To celebrate our first anniversary, each of us here at the Cabal has come up with a story beginning with a line provided to us by the illustrious Jay Lake. Click the link at the bottom of the page to see how Alex Dally MacFarlane started us off yesterday, and tune in tomorrow to see what David Kopaska-Merkel comes up with…
Zoli liked to hang around psychiatrists’ waiting rooms to hit on the low self-esteem chicks. That’s what the case file said. Who the hell still said “chicks” and thought psychiatric help meant low self-esteem? Someone was gonna get smacked.
Patients reported feeling cold spots and someone pull their hair, when no one was there. So we knew we’d find Zoli there. We brought the EMP detector and FLIR heat sensor and the rest of our gear. I had a good idea we’d be able to contain him once we found him, but I couldn’t be sure. It hadn’t been written yet…
#
Jay Lake made me write this.
Three years ago I was stopped for a lay over at O’Hare waiting for a flight into Wisconsin when I saw his distinctive long hair and bright shirt, at the gate across from me.
I approached thinking of how to introduce myself and found him muttering.
“Luc, Sara, Kat,” he said.
“Huh,” I said.
“You know,” he said. “Cabalistas. Zoli. Zoli, Zoli…”
I stared blankly not wanting to offend.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re not going to meet Kat for another twelve hours and thirty six minutes.”
“Right, uh congratulations on Lake-Wu,” I said, and walked away looking at my boarding pass.
I didn’t know it then but I know it now. It was all part of Jay’s plan. Everything is.
#
The pattern is quite elegant, at least the parts I can get my mind around. It’s a matter of syncing up the 3rd letter of every word in the lettered edition of Lake-Wu, with the prime numbered pages of the Jacob’s Ladder screenplay, and then using that cipher to read Gibson’s rejected screenplay for Alien 3.
Its all here. I can show you. All roads lead to Jay Lake. The spaces in between the words, The implications they hint at. I’ll show you. I’m typing the cipher but its not showing up on my screen. Why are these words coming out on the screen? I’m not writing this…
#
Zoli liked to hang around Psychiatrists’ waiting rooms to hit on the low self-esteem chicks,” Zoli thought. Simultaneously, Jay Lake’s hands typed the words into an e mail.
Why did I write that, Jay thought. He hit send anyway, thinking those crazy Cabalistas would get a kick out of it.
Zoli tried to materialize the waiting room. A woman waiting there felt an odd tug on her hair. In the lobby, Dan Braum, with a back pack full of high-end electronics, was about to push through the door.
– END –
In Oranges
Monday, April 7th, 2008
To celebrate our first anniversary, each of us here at the Cabal has come up with a story beginning with a line provided to us by the illustrious Jay Lake. Alex Dally MacFarlane starts us off with the tale below, and tomorrow Daniel Braum will take us somewhere else entirely…
“Zoli liked to hang around psychiatrists’ waiting rooms to hit on the low self-esteem chicks.”
The altered citrus sinensis’ comment barely made Roland pause. Even when it waggled a branch heavy with oranges near her face, she refused to look at it.
“He also liked to kick puppies.”
“Now you’re lying.” She planted a final passiflora edulis seedling in the flower bed, which was covered by a knee-high glass structure to protect the plants inside from the chilly nights. Hopefully these seedlings would not be as troublesome as the last batch. I hope the brothel-boys keep their windows closed at night, she thought, and couldn’t prevent a smirk. Passion fruits are passionate when allowed to express themselves. Why am I surprised?
Brushing soil from her fingers, Roland turned to the orange tree that grew in a nearby bed. Its flower-mouths moved in a way that looked rude, even if she couldn’t quite tell why.
“My brother was an opportunist. You act as if I didn’t know this. But I do know that he didn’t kick puppies. Or kittens, before you suggest that.”
“You act as if you knew him better than I did,” the citrus sinensis retorted, trying to mimic her voice.
Its words stung, a little.
“Then tell me why he went, if you knew him so well.” When the plant offered no reply, she shuffled along the wooden walkway between beds to another batch of seedlings that needed planting out. “You enjoy being smug. You don’t actually know anything, at least not anything important.”
“I’ll know when he dies,” it said curtly.
She wanted to ignore its games, its cruel streak–which had made her brother so fond of the plant, she knew. But this was new. “Oh?”
“He let me bite him,” the citrus sinensis said, smug-toned. “And now I have a part of him inside me. It will tell me when he dies.”
Glancing at it sideways, Roland murmured, “I didn’t know you could do that.”
And she lunged up, running and jumping for one of its branches before it could swing them away. It thrashed at her, shouting rage-filled nonsense. She plucked an orange and dropped to the ground. “An orange every now and then,” she told it, “and if you’re telling the truth, I will also know when the war kills Zolinder.”
“I won’t let you,” all the flower-mouths said, loud and shaking.
Laughing unpleasantly, Roland peeled aside the orange skin. “Even you sleep.”
She tasted bitterness, soil, sweat, pain. Life.
Tasting, also, anger at the tree for withholding this, she said, “You’ll grow more. And you’re a fool if you think I don’t care about my brother enough to hurt you.”