Toa wondered about the creature she'd left in the tide pool of tears --was it grown? Had it left? She remembered being curious, but there was no direction, suddenly, no pull on her, so she decided to head back to her camp.
Toa remembered being curious about something else, too, though she couldn't remember what. She --there was something, a nit on the back of her head, the base of her skull, and its teeth were a dream of a duty.
Toa shrugged. The sun was bright and the forest verdant. The air was crisp, and clear, and warm.
Toa had been gone a long, long time. She should return to the tide pool and check on the creature; she should return to her village, summon her grandparents and ask them how things were, how things had been, how things might soon become.
The trip back took her more days than the trip to the tree, but Toa did not wonder why.
When she reached the tide pool of tears there was a note delicately drawn in the sand:
Gone fishing. Back at sundown.
There was a corner of the pool where leaves floated, woven together, in a mat, and there was a trail of sand leading into the forest.
The river was cooler here, deeper by the edge of the water fall as it was, and so Toa sat and waited for her friend to return.
At sunset, as the orb dipped below the tree line, she heard a rustling in the foliage. Toa turned and broke into a grin: three bright red tentacles rolled up and out from under leaves, striking in their color, but smaller than she remembered.
The Octopus smiled at her: three wavy limbs in U shapes with mustaches. It pounced on her and hugged her tightly, before sliding off and quickly signing a welcome back message.
They grinned in the twilight and The Octopus, killed, skinned, and de-boned a fish so pink and succulent Toa cried with joy as she ate. The Octopus wiped away her tears with an arm and smiled.
The Octopus asked her if, when she went back to her village, he could go with her and Toa laughed and agreed and laughed some more. "You can live with me!" She said.
Okay. Good! Came The Octopus's reply.
At dawn they set out, The Octopus gently nudging Toa here and there among the thickets.
It lead her around a particularly fragrant patch of flowers and
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
The Crone Choose Todd's Life Carefully
The crone's fingers snarled and alien honey trickled maliciously toward her caul as she tried, tiredly, to slow her fall.
The bottom was coming, despite what the howling wind shrieked into her ear holes, and there were threads that needs to be twined, and more yet to be split and rewound. There was work to do.
The honey burned many of The crone's limbs as she slowed her fall.
The crone's bones occasionally snapped, if they caught in a particularly thick wall. If an un-suspecting alien moved to the edge it got cut, or sundered, or lost a limb of its own.
The honeycomb went on as far as the crone could see, and it was doing a good job of slowing her. The crone wondered if she could swing into one of the larger honeycombs and rest, but shook her head: The aliens had noticed the destructive swathe, were now in council to determine how best to commence her annihilation. The crone smiled, her teeth cracking into a million tiny smiles at the news and devoted more limbs to falling slower.
Once the howling air sounded a familiar pitch of scream the crone turned and slid thicker limbs into the void, buffeted, bruised, the crone groped in the darkness until a tingling came to her body. Delicately she traced the tingle with finger-thick limbs prodding gently up herself and out along the bridge of a limb --fractured bones grinding in the gale-- to the origin of the tingle.
There was ash, the crone saw: solid raindrops that coiled like limbs from a lack of heat. The crone marveled at their intricacy and, on realizing their fate cried; wanted to destroy such an uncaring universe. But couldn't. She and it were too interwoven, and the crone had knots to tie, not rope to chew.
The crone took the string and, whispering the end of a lullaby, hop-pushed herself away from the honeycomb, climbing instead the tingling string it had found, winding, wounding it around the parent body-strand.
There was another thread, very early, that the crone fingered, winding the string into itself as she fell. The string was short, a few hundred turns, and then: severed from its host spool. The crone sighed, spinnerets working fast: nothing to be done with already severed strings.
There was a novice thread --only eight limbs-- chasing a ghost, she saw. They were in a strange topography --moony nights and poisonous beasts of burden. There were trees like green mushrooms, tall and ancient and the novice's pet was strangely adorned. The crone sighed. Another string, it found, had slid into this one, from somewhere else, out in the dark. This invasive string was looping, taut, ran further than the crone's limbs could reach, longer than she could reel in.
Gently, carefully, the crone looped the invasive string around the parent thread. As she looped the string, the crone also sliced through the body of strands, thinning the connection until the trees disappeared, the frozen rain fell away and
and the crone was in true free fall now, only sure of the way up from the relative numbness of her body and the rush of wind flattening her caul; the crone curled in on herself, only the first tingle of thread from the darkness pulsing for her to follow.
Follow she did. The crone, after a minute of respite twisted and pointed her limbs like reaching shadows into the rushing void, ignoring for now the growing cacophony of alien wings. Her limbs stretched and grew thin from the strain, a few snapped off, burst open like ladybugs about to fly or ants caught in a fire, and were lost in the roar of the descent.
Three of the crone's limbs tingled at once, a triangle knot of threads: A trough, a boarding house. A nexus, a knotted ball, a twine cyst in the strings, a dozen threads melted, nettled together like abused candles.
The crone began picking at the ball. Many of her limbs stretched and flexed. Limbs that had stiffened together began to spread, to part. Her back ached. Still the crone grinned her million grins.
She hit the ground with the twine-cyst between all seven rows of teeth, chomping down and shattered like blackened church windows, made thin in their ancient frames.
Still the crone grinned, cyst gristle sticking to a million fragments in the sea of shattered crone chitin and bone.
The pieces began to hiss and smoke, melting through the ground, pock marks of depth. The shards that hid the walls, however, did not hiss as they burrowed. There was quiet work to do, too.
.
The bottom was coming, despite what the howling wind shrieked into her ear holes, and there were threads that needs to be twined, and more yet to be split and rewound. There was work to do.
The honey burned many of The crone's limbs as she slowed her fall.
The crone's bones occasionally snapped, if they caught in a particularly thick wall. If an un-suspecting alien moved to the edge it got cut, or sundered, or lost a limb of its own.
The honeycomb went on as far as the crone could see, and it was doing a good job of slowing her. The crone wondered if she could swing into one of the larger honeycombs and rest, but shook her head: The aliens had noticed the destructive swathe, were now in council to determine how best to commence her annihilation. The crone smiled, her teeth cracking into a million tiny smiles at the news and devoted more limbs to falling slower.
Once the howling air sounded a familiar pitch of scream the crone turned and slid thicker limbs into the void, buffeted, bruised, the crone groped in the darkness until a tingling came to her body. Delicately she traced the tingle with finger-thick limbs prodding gently up herself and out along the bridge of a limb --fractured bones grinding in the gale-- to the origin of the tingle.
There was ash, the crone saw: solid raindrops that coiled like limbs from a lack of heat. The crone marveled at their intricacy and, on realizing their fate cried; wanted to destroy such an uncaring universe. But couldn't. She and it were too interwoven, and the crone had knots to tie, not rope to chew.
The crone took the string and, whispering the end of a lullaby, hop-pushed herself away from the honeycomb, climbing instead the tingling string it had found, winding, wounding it around the parent body-strand.
There was another thread, very early, that the crone fingered, winding the string into itself as she fell. The string was short, a few hundred turns, and then: severed from its host spool. The crone sighed, spinnerets working fast: nothing to be done with already severed strings.
There was a novice thread --only eight limbs-- chasing a ghost, she saw. They were in a strange topography --moony nights and poisonous beasts of burden. There were trees like green mushrooms, tall and ancient and the novice's pet was strangely adorned. The crone sighed. Another string, it found, had slid into this one, from somewhere else, out in the dark. This invasive string was looping, taut, ran further than the crone's limbs could reach, longer than she could reel in.
Gently, carefully, the crone looped the invasive string around the parent thread. As she looped the string, the crone also sliced through the body of strands, thinning the connection until the trees disappeared, the frozen rain fell away and
and the crone was in true free fall now, only sure of the way up from the relative numbness of her body and the rush of wind flattening her caul; the crone curled in on herself, only the first tingle of thread from the darkness pulsing for her to follow.
Follow she did. The crone, after a minute of respite twisted and pointed her limbs like reaching shadows into the rushing void, ignoring for now the growing cacophony of alien wings. Her limbs stretched and grew thin from the strain, a few snapped off, burst open like ladybugs about to fly or ants caught in a fire, and were lost in the roar of the descent.
Three of the crone's limbs tingled at once, a triangle knot of threads: A trough, a boarding house. A nexus, a knotted ball, a twine cyst in the strings, a dozen threads melted, nettled together like abused candles.
The crone began picking at the ball. Many of her limbs stretched and flexed. Limbs that had stiffened together began to spread, to part. Her back ached. Still the crone grinned her million grins.
She hit the ground with the twine-cyst between all seven rows of teeth, chomping down and shattered like blackened church windows, made thin in their ancient frames.
Still the crone grinned, cyst gristle sticking to a million fragments in the sea of shattered crone chitin and bone.
The pieces began to hiss and smoke, melting through the ground, pock marks of depth. The shards that hid the walls, however, did not hiss as they burrowed. There was quiet work to do, too.
.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Ends of
The motel room was clean, and easy to get to from the cracked window of the clerk's office.
Todd took a scalding shower.
He sat on the bed, stared at the pharmacy bag.
"This is it." he said to himself.
He took out the packet of pens and the five black and white marble notepads. He stared at them for a while. Part of him wanted to turn the television on, but the waitress's words caught it off guard, pushed it into a corner.
He wrote about Toa climbing the side of the crater, the huge blast of mud and crystal. He wrote how she traded the spear to a snake, who filled one of her empty water bags with spit and venom.
It was dark and starless when Toa reached the top of the crater. She was thirsty, but the marks were worn off her last two flasks.
Mind dry, Toa choose one and drank it down, and sat, staring into the crater.
Toa could not see the bottom of the crater. The side furthest from her was pocketed like an abandoned bee hive, the density of honeycombing lessened, the cells becoming larger, as they descended and spread.
Toa thought, once, that she saw a light dance from one edge of the cavern to another, but it was so brief and her thirst so heavy she wasn't sure.
She stood. "I think here is a good place to die." she said.
"No." Came a voice from behind her.
Toa turned. It was the crone, again. Toa asked, "No?"
"Now is a bad time to die, and you won't anyway. You can't die, as it turns out." Replied the crone. "You see, if you jump, you'll eventually fall into a honeycomb and befriend the alien living in it. It will try to fly you to safety, but you'll betray it, it will die, somehow --I don't know how-- and you will live. And you will think fondly of your brave friend the fallen alien."
Toa's eyes stung, remained dry. Her cheeks twitched.
The crone only stared, ocean luminescence leaking slowly from the depths of her cloak. "Listen, child." The crone talked for a while and Toa sat. The crone talked a while more and toa laid. The crone whispered and Toa's eyes closed.
And when she was asleep, the crone ate Toa. The hushed army of shadows, an infinite blanket of cauls and bone-limbs, behind the crone, spilling from a sink hole like a geyser -- the army vanished.
and
When she was asleep, the crone sucked the poison from Toa's body and leapt into the infinite crater herself --soundless as a drooping cloud.
and
When Toa fell asleep, the crone stared at her for a long time. The crone sat, too, and slowly, with weizening creaks she spread and uncurled her seventy-seven limbs, wrapped them around Toa and, singing the oldest of lullabies, scurried her back to the tree where her curiosity had first touched her. Mixed with the oldest of lullabies, the crone whispered three of her secrets to Toa.
When Toa woke, she was more hungry than she could remember being in her whole life. She ate plants and found a slaughtered monkey --its head and right arm missing. She cleaned it carefully with a knife and washed the blood from her teeth with water in the stream that flowed next to her tree.
Toa wondered about the creature she'd left in the tide pool of tears --was it grown? Had it left? She remembered being curious, but there was no direction, suddenly, no pull on her, so she decided to head back to her camp.
and
When Toa fell asleep the crone pulled back her hood, cleared the
from its eyes and looked once, unhindered, on Toa before softly nudging her over the edge of the crater.
Todd stood up and stretched. At some point the power had flickered: the ancient alarm clock on the night stand between the two useless beds flickered 12:00 over and over. It had been 2:13 AM when he last looked at the clock.
Todd stretched, thought momentarily about the last cup of coffee he drank in the diner, and passed into oblivion.
Todd took a scalding shower.
He sat on the bed, stared at the pharmacy bag.
"This is it." he said to himself.
He took out the packet of pens and the five black and white marble notepads. He stared at them for a while. Part of him wanted to turn the television on, but the waitress's words caught it off guard, pushed it into a corner.
He wrote about Toa climbing the side of the crater, the huge blast of mud and crystal. He wrote how she traded the spear to a snake, who filled one of her empty water bags with spit and venom.
It was dark and starless when Toa reached the top of the crater. She was thirsty, but the marks were worn off her last two flasks.
Mind dry, Toa choose one and drank it down, and sat, staring into the crater.
Toa could not see the bottom of the crater. The side furthest from her was pocketed like an abandoned bee hive, the density of honeycombing lessened, the cells becoming larger, as they descended and spread.
Toa thought, once, that she saw a light dance from one edge of the cavern to another, but it was so brief and her thirst so heavy she wasn't sure.
She stood. "I think here is a good place to die." she said.
"No." Came a voice from behind her.
Toa turned. It was the crone, again. Toa asked, "No?"
"Now is a bad time to die, and you won't anyway. You can't die, as it turns out." Replied the crone. "You see, if you jump, you'll eventually fall into a honeycomb and befriend the alien living in it. It will try to fly you to safety, but you'll betray it, it will die, somehow --I don't know how-- and you will live. And you will think fondly of your brave friend the fallen alien."
Toa's eyes stung, remained dry. Her cheeks twitched.
The crone only stared, ocean luminescence leaking slowly from the depths of her cloak. "Listen, child." The crone talked for a while and Toa sat. The crone talked a while more and toa laid. The crone whispered and Toa's eyes closed.
And when she was asleep, the crone ate Toa. The hushed army of shadows, an infinite blanket of cauls and bone-limbs, behind the crone, spilling from a sink hole like a geyser -- the army vanished.
and
When she was asleep, the crone sucked the poison from Toa's body and leapt into the infinite crater herself --soundless as a drooping cloud.
and
When Toa fell asleep, the crone stared at her for a long time. The crone sat, too, and slowly, with weizening creaks she spread and uncurled her seventy-seven limbs, wrapped them around Toa and, singing the oldest of lullabies, scurried her back to the tree where her curiosity had first touched her. Mixed with the oldest of lullabies, the crone whispered three of her secrets to Toa.
When Toa woke, she was more hungry than she could remember being in her whole life. She ate plants and found a slaughtered monkey --its head and right arm missing. She cleaned it carefully with a knife and washed the blood from her teeth with water in the stream that flowed next to her tree.
Toa wondered about the creature she'd left in the tide pool of tears --was it grown? Had it left? She remembered being curious, but there was no direction, suddenly, no pull on her, so she decided to head back to her camp.
and
When Toa fell asleep the crone pulled back her hood, cleared the
from its eyes and looked once, unhindered, on Toa before softly nudging her over the edge of the crater.
Todd stood up and stretched. At some point the power had flickered: the ancient alarm clock on the night stand between the two useless beds flickered 12:00 over and over. It had been 2:13 AM when he last looked at the clock.
Todd stretched, thought momentarily about the last cup of coffee he drank in the diner, and passed into oblivion.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
The door chimed with a lilt, a lisp. The night clerk looked up, thick bone ridges instead of eyebrows and hollow cheeks that twitched: a smile.
"Hello." He said to The Octopus. "Haven't seen your kind around here in a while."
"My kind?"
"Sure."
"Sure what?"
"Sure, yes, your kind. Your other worldly, universe tromping kind." The man leaned back, head resting on hands, the knuckles of which: resting on nicotine color wall paper, peeling at the seams. "You're pretty good, most people either don't see you or pass you off as a person, eh?"
"Yes. Except Todd."
"He your driver?"
"Friend."
"Sure, sure." The man's teeth were like the wallpaper. "Friend, eh? How long you known him?"
The Octopus blinked.
They stared quietly at each other for a while. The Octopus moved up to the counter and stretched, slid its body onto the counter, assiduously avoiding the ornate attention bell. The Octopus signed, very slowly: No trouble, please.
The clerk laughed, a phlegmy, oily sound. "You gonna threaten me, boy?"
The Octopus laughed, its beak scratching against the counter's plastic top. "No." it signed. "No treats."
"You missed an "H" in there."
"No."
"Oh."
"Yes." The Octopus was on the night clerk, three arms wrapped around his wiry throat, another two arms each wrapped around the man's. The last arm poked the night clerk in the eye. "No struggling." The Octopus clumsily signed. It continued: No fighting. No tasting. No licking. No penetrating. No invasions. Nod if understood.
Very slowly, the night clerk nodded.
"Hello." He said to The Octopus. "Haven't seen your kind around here in a while."
"My kind?"
"Sure."
"Sure what?"
"Sure, yes, your kind. Your other worldly, universe tromping kind." The man leaned back, head resting on hands, the knuckles of which: resting on nicotine color wall paper, peeling at the seams. "You're pretty good, most people either don't see you or pass you off as a person, eh?"
"Yes. Except Todd."
"He your driver?"
"Friend."
"Sure, sure." The man's teeth were like the wallpaper. "Friend, eh? How long you known him?"
The Octopus blinked.
They stared quietly at each other for a while. The Octopus moved up to the counter and stretched, slid its body onto the counter, assiduously avoiding the ornate attention bell. The Octopus signed, very slowly: No trouble, please.
The clerk laughed, a phlegmy, oily sound. "You gonna threaten me, boy?"
The Octopus laughed, its beak scratching against the counter's plastic top. "No." it signed. "No treats."
"You missed an "H" in there."
"No."
"Oh."
"Yes." The Octopus was on the night clerk, three arms wrapped around his wiry throat, another two arms each wrapped around the man's. The last arm poked the night clerk in the eye. "No struggling." The Octopus clumsily signed. It continued: No fighting. No tasting. No licking. No penetrating. No invasions. Nod if understood.
Very slowly, the night clerk nodded.
And And And
In Todd's dreams he wakes in the mottled motel room and The Octopus is green, not red. It stares at him, and signs frantically, too fast for Todd to read. He begs for The Octopus to slow down, but it speeds up instead.
and
While Todd dreamed, the Octopus went and had a stern conversation with the night clerk.
and
Todd lost The Octopus in the unlit gas station, the silence deafening, the snow blinding, obliterating the world beyond the glass. He stumbled over the mauled body of the gas station attendant and a dead cat.
and
When they found the boar it was chomping noisily, face buried in a fallen bird's nest, feathers gusting frantic on some snow devil twister.
and
While Todd dreamed, the Octopus went and had a stern conversation with the night clerk.
and
Todd lost The Octopus in the unlit gas station, the silence deafening, the snow blinding, obliterating the world beyond the glass. He stumbled over the mauled body of the gas station attendant and a dead cat.
and
When they found the boar it was chomping noisily, face buried in a fallen bird's nest, feathers gusting frantic on some snow devil twister.
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