Random Advisement #5,631:
No. No, do not use the internets to make your own sushi.
Witty Observation #12:
A hostess who offers both apple and sweet potato pies to her guests is pie-partisan.
*Thanks, L, for the pie idea!
One Black woman's mad-feroz fantasy fiction world of talking horses, cheeky damsels, lesbian assassins, cat cities and bedtime stories...
Monday, December 27, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sanur 1, OO is for Stoolpigeon
Liyane Harcourt relaxed hold on the trigger when she saw what Timothy had already done to himself. She relaxed hold of her sense, while molten spray offended the safety, and the shade-blade whirled round her wrist. The pink-and-black bow limbs revolved fast to catch every stray projectile. Liyane took shivering hand to curl fingers against warm collarbone. And the stitches there, smooth as silt. Like tasting her ribbons in a worry, as a girl. Weapon above knobbed wrist joint passed through her, generous.
Congratulations, you have marked a no-point buck! Better luck next time, spaghetti legs.
Only natural, to slam the bright pink plastic torc against the wall and shut it up. Rapport of firebomb outside. Quake. Now, Emperor Z'jai Chen was standing directly over her, and he said:
'The loving Emperor will feast on all dissidents.'
And Timothy still had the horns of the Ungulati though she'd shot his printed face full of holes.
A breath to listen, then Liyane got the whirling pastel device out in front of her again and ran for up the chill corridor.
The place was still clean from the night crew, and even smelled so crisp, like the snow outside. No. That is ash, burning, ending. Ungulates always made places smell like this. Liyane readied, then slammed her shoulder into a stuck door a few times, then slipped against it and fell backward. The door drifted open a beat later, when she tried the knob.
Wak, wak, waaaaaak!
This time, Liyane grimaced dry lips. She faced a two-way mirror beyond her old interrogation table. Yes, this time a dramatic heroine was needed, to smash through it. Liyane took a chair, raised it over her head, fantastic tailored breasts heaving and all, and then the wooden legs rebounded against the dark glass so that they both fell over.
A mirror is not an acceptable target, smartypants. Try Free Me's pretty princess game. In the land of Happy Sunshine Foreverland, Princess Angelica must stop the evil witch from using a flock of black geese--
"MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL, WHO'S THE UGLIEST OF THEM ALL?" Liyane stacked fists, moved them around in a circle, then shouted over the damned game.
A triumphant, You are the ugliest, Queen Evilmeana! Congratulations, you have freed your heart, the poor black geese, and saved the land of Happy Sunshine Foreverland!
One day, one beautiful day, Free Me would get dumped into a real bubbling cauldron. Then, grammar-checked with hot iron rods.
Free Me emitted a ray of black energy that caused the golden glass wall to gain racing silver hairlines, which deepened. Liyane clicked Free Mee back to the shade-blade, raised it, let it whirr and shield her from the sudden burst apart of glass shards. When it all stopped screaming, raining and cutting down, Liyane stepped through the shattered wall and found the station's XPS7-41 server in the next room.
A crouch, a reach at the solid box and several more artful clicks of Cheery-Cherry-Pink Free Me, Girls Only Edition. Liyane focused beyond that tight bracelet when layers of life’s colors and cold peeled away. The light woman stopped needing to see the spreadsheets and their windows, became entranced by dazzling calculation and linking to here, to here, to here, and deeper, so much deeper, seduced by the thrill knowing everything at heart’s first search. It began to feel as if she were truly reaching her arm deep into the machine, following the pomegranate seed sparks of near-sentience. She would find what could make her laugh and cry. Smart thing, to take technology in a more sensual direction. That was what sold bionic circuits, in the end:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Sustainable IS Sexy.” Was how the voiced used to throb in those commercials. It sifted back to Liyane now. Pressed gently at the corneas of her eyes during the lull of search. We need a result now. No, no. Here comes start of a newsreel of cerulean advertisements. You want to get away from the snow and travel to Bermuda, don’t you? No deer, in Bermuda, dear. Shh, machine. Stop talking to me…
The palm of Liyane’s hand had the double 'oo' of stoolpigeon, it was that near to firing synapses, cruel milisecond, before her rigged-up efforts were forced to reveal their worth.
"Prisoner Numeral 47-G, Golga Rothschild, alias Liyane Harcourt. You are hereby under arrest, for crimes against the Milky Way Galactic Empire..." the nasal narration of life returned.
Liyane scrambled away from the crimson server and its smooth vapor. She aimed again through the broken frame of glass, this time, pretending to see. Lasers from enemy sights moved down from her forehead to settle in every place that mattered. One point of red light indicated the woman’s heart, the second wanted a kidney through her bones, and the last pointed ready to render any species sterile.
"Please..." Liyane begged, as she looked desperately for their hooves or antlers. Liyane clicked through all the different cycles of the Free Me: a tennis racket and ball, a guitar, frying pan, skis, until the limbs of the bow flipped up and deadly on either side of her forearm and she reset the game. "It was a long time ago, and I was afraid... How was I supposed to know a stupid smoke-and-skip group would ever manage to overthrow the fucking government?!” One last snorted behest from the soldiers, for her to desist.
Liyane fired several jubilant shots in defiant stead. The shade-colored bolts soared into the air, danced their trajectory and finally spelled out 'YOU LOSE' before white flickered everywhere, pain burst and her mind went stark as a page.
Free Me was a tool for punishing ignorance, and these weren't deer at all, but bipedal Ungulates. The machine had already warned her. No posters of deer. No half-deer. Only deer. The crossbow game was for animal-hunting only. Innocents learned so much faster that way, under the old regime.
These three armored Ungulates loped over to the Human woman, licking cold snub-noses. They knelt on springy haunches, flicked white tails with at the thought of reward.
That didn’t last long. Firebomb again, rifle plumes and bullets--real ones--burst their tall antlers at the joints. When the Ungulates turned to face the Rebels, the half-animals landed on faces and in triplicate. Chests, dead center. Everyone a kill shot.
A man in a wild orange jacket got down on one of his knees. “Golga. Mother-foyer…”
“Jeremie? Did you see that Tim… how did he get…”
“Him! How did you get—?”
“…San’ur Crush, he knows that we weren’t sleeping. And those yellow eyes… quite… wide awake.”
Real Jeremie, so him after all these years, he held on and helped her to sing the rest. Rich, bloodied hands stained Free Me.
The XPS7-41 server still rose in its whirr, as the real woman bled. It breathed scented light through its fans, at every off. There never was a more self-invested moan, in creation. Which was probably why man had been moved to make it. A her. Who would stand time, weather, and blood pooling over the floor, through revolution and revolution.
One sad swipe of the satin stitch across Liyane’s breast. These pretty, and evil things. What had they all come to? People had decided this? Don’t ever, never make me choose again.
And so a machine’s callous preening swallowed Liyane's last, reddest reminiscing.
. . .
Next: Would an evil San'ur Crush really come to your town? Or, would you have a one-way ticket blazoned onto your intergalactic, falsified criminal record somewheres?
(Randitty-O-Meter: 8, It's science fiction and it's all over the place. Yum.)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
JBB, Fate and Basketball
Jawbreak Blue
by J. Ingram
It was hard not to pass the Thanksgiving holiday struggling back across the Anacostia River after Gyra and Dansel got a chance to see what was on the other side of it. Most of the makeshift town along those silvery shores was leaned up against the biggest Red-and-Gold-Reserve either of them had ever been presented with. And, taking care to use his lesser known alias, Bartel Barrons guided his good woman-friend inside those crimson-colored glass doors. Stinson the Boatman proudly read all the gilded gold signs for them once they all got inside.
"George-Ton and Tourism Co: for your realest DC experience, Target Presents: Columbia Heights Generalist's Store, and The Side Hustle Intranet Lounge--for all your real-world needs when you aren't hangin' out and having a life's-time." the old man grinned gray stubble, and leaned on his boat's oar that he used as a walking-stick. "Beyond this resort, my friends, are all points north-west. This is the grand gate to it. Now you two kids are glad you paid all this money to take me here, aren't you?" Then, their only ride departed for the Uno tables, without explanation. Gyra turned round again and flinched at where he now wasn't, wondering why the old man's voice seemed disembodied.
Gyra said, "I don't understand, Dansel. We aren't even in Northwest yet?"
Dansel wriggled flat fingers imbetween the buttons of his tan vest. He was watching something in particular and chewed lips on the far side of his mouth at wanting it. "That's just it, Gyra. Folks can come here, spend a lot less, and marvel that they've--kind of--been."
"Is that because it's so dangerous to go all the way out there on your own the way things are?" but Gyra found herself speaking to another ghost. The next time she spied her friend Dansel, the back of his head was turned to a Redskins game blaring on the bar's flat screen, and he was flipping through some of his bluest dollar bills faster than ever. Other men at the table smoked cigars and talked the talk. Gyra wondered at how some people slipped into their old moods so fast.
Then, "Ohmigosh! It's a real life fortune teller--please, Miss Mystic, can you tell me whether or not I'll finish college or at least grow up to be a DC Rollergirl?"
This merriment went on for days. The three travelers rarely saw one another, but that they shared a suite helped--at least at the bottom of the night, they kept the same sleeping hours. Later, that turned into two rooms done in faded bars-and-stars when Stinson lost his share of what Dansel had ultimately paid him for. This dwindled to just one bed with them sleeping in shifts, once Dansel finally lost what was left of his money. He gave them a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings but it turned out to be his last good streak of luck at fantasy football. "I'm down to my Fenty Greens. Nobody'll want those." he frowned. "I just can't understand these guys--they know about Redskins games I've never seen before. And then I tried to bet on the Caps or DC United, but I hadn't a sense of those teams either. Damn and more damn."
Gyra rubbed Dansel's shoulder. She'd written to the Cannoneer of course, but he hadn't sent any money back or substantial correspondence other than to ask whether she and Dansel could stay away a little longer. This made Gyra screw up her face now and again, imagining what foolishness her father had fallen into.
Old Stinson kicked his boots off and went from the breakfast table where their coins and scraggly bills were pooled together, then and lay down on the bed. "Oh well, guess we'll have to just stay here forever, earnin' what we earn and lovin' what we love. And never having to see another snot-nosed, 'can I have some money grandad' relatives, ever.'"
It was uncomfortable, learning the spooky Boatman's scheme all this time was to supplant his grandchildren.
"If it makes you feel better, Dansel, I've been going to a fortune teller this last month and she says we're on the verge of a breakthrough. Just one more payment--and there's enough here for my last session."
"Why does it sound like you finally up and took yourself to therapy, Gyra?"
Gyra chose not to answer. "Can I take what's here on the table and go? I've spent the least money out of all of us, and I promise to bring back dinner later. I bet this old bracelet will go for something at El Pollo Sabroso..."
"But I don't like peruvian chicken." Stinson complained absently.
"No, Gyra, we need the last of this money." Dansel rested chin in palm, then found a smile for her. "Though I am glad you're getting help. What is this Mystic woman telling you, by the way?"
"I have a case of urban despair, like we already talked about. But she's also about to tell me what I have to do, to fix it. I don't want to end up like my Momma did, Dansel."
"You won't end up like her. But we don't have the money to entertain you either, nor myself, nor Stinson anymore. And someone like that Mystic woman is probably no help anyway if she's so money-grubby. Next thing you know, she'll want to introduce you to her friend the acupuncturist, or... I don't know. Let's all just breathe a moment and think about what we might do to get back home."
"Miss Mystic knows a real-life wizard, Dansel! That's who I'm on the verge of meeting--I didn't want to say it, because look at you, you're already looking it, but I've almost earned the right to see him, a true wizard with the power to change everything. Please don't deprive me of that, dear Sir!"
Stinson complained about their way of speaking, again. Gyra became so incredulous that eventually she had to remove herself from the room, claiming that she would find the money for therapy and wizardry somewhere, somehow.
When her voice was done echoing down the hallway, Stinson raised up a little on his elbows. "Her Miss Mystic does know a real Wizard. Dansel--how can you be so into fantasy sports and not catch it?"
Dansel wondered aloud between fingers folded before his mouth, "Who invited you to dip into my savings in the first place, or tag along with me and Gyra anyways?"
"You stupid boy--I'm talkin' about there being real celebrities downstairs, who play basketball! What if you chat one of them up, then they go back to Downtown-civilization and throw a game or two... that could be our way out. What if one of them even knows Michael Jordan?"
"Anybody could just call themselves a magician or whatever, especially out here. And, that whole Michael Jordan owning the Wizards, and then playing on the team and then fleeing DC... we already did that and suffered from that. Why would any professional athlete ever listen to me anyways?"
"Well, Dansel, if it can't be something so big, then it is about there bein' real people from behind the Beltway Wall way out here, in this part of the city. Somebody's bound to have a tip on what's really going on out there--stuff that not even those friends of yours downstairs could know. There must be scores and rosters nobody in this city has seen since the Near Revolution of 2010--if you don't get up right now, then I'm going to, and I don't know that I'll be so fast convinced about sharing my wealth when you're being so danged stubborn about a free lunch!"
And so, the two men went off to find Gyra, her Mystic, or the Mystic's Wizard, himself.
It took a whole night of sneaking around, asking questions without letting on that real people from beyond the Beltway Wall were someplace in the Red-and-Gold resort. Dansel and Stinson schemed their way backstage of a live junkyard band concert, they shuffled at bachata to navigate around a discotec dance floor unnoticed, while peering in people's faces for any celebrity they recognized. Stinson chatted up an old woman in broken Vietnamese that Dansel didn't think him capable of, and then later came Stinson's turn to cringe while Dansel attempted to pass off elementary French as Haitian Creole to a woman who put hands on her hips and left when she realized that, no, he wasn't flirting with her and not even selling anything. This polished off young man was going crazy after some kind of Wizard.
"I just realized, I don't know what in the world this guy looks like, and we can't even call him by name since we haven't seen a new anything-kind-of-game in two years. It really is pointless."
"But he'd be tall, and he'd have on sneakers, right?"
Dansel broke down and laughed. Or, was he crying? Something about Stinson was as sweet as an old man could get, but also tragic. If that was all his cohort had aimed for, then they'd surely wasted all these hours of search.
This latest miserable ruminating was about when a tall man in sneakers and wearing a bathrobe covered in gold stars stopped in front of them and waved a large hand across their faces. Dansel and Stinson frightened up straight, thinking some spell was cast. But, no, that was just the difference in height. The robed stranger had been waving hello. They also noticed his costume was really some standard-issue team gear the Wizards probably gave their players to use in the locker rooms. And, well, the Red-and-Gold-Reserve was a hotel and resort, wasn't it?
"I hear that you two are looking for a Wizard." Dansel tried to speak up, but he was snapped at. "I already know what you men seek. I have here, in the palm of this great hand, something that will grant you access to all of your dreams, anything you would have desired in life, I can make it, I can shoot it from all over the court, but only for those fans who are worthy. If you can answer my riddle, what is in my very hand, right now, can be yours--"
"No, I don't think so. You've got as many holes in your shoes as I did before I painted over them." Dansel said. "We just want an inside take on any of the sports teams out there in downtown DC right now. I've got guys down at the bar forecasting a season ahead of me, and it's not like anybody can look it up on the intranet."
"Ah yes, the intranet. So different from our... internet. I really miss being able to check my Facebook." said the Wizard. "I'm Howard Lanier, by the way. They had me at point guard before I decided to protest the latest section of wall and got banished from Downtown. Out here in the real city, though, nobody knows who I am--I wasn't on the team in 2010. So, I ended up speaking out for people who not only couldn't have asked for it, maybe they don't even deserve it."
Dansel wasn't or chose not to be offended. "Did you help the Wizards win anything, while you played with them?"
Howard shrugged, and the toll of dealing with more disinterested people seemed to wear in his voice. "My girlfriend Shandrea once did, but she won't speak about it. And, I never see her because she's lost her mind pretending to be a real mystic. Shandrea only tells fortunes these days. We got banished together."
So, they all were going to be stuck in paradise with no way to enjoy it. Dansel was also secretly horrified at the Cannoneer leaving Gyra entirely to him without any paternal restriction in his letters--the romantic hope and reason for their delay being so obvious in that sense, though it couldn't have been written. And then, Stinson having adopted he and Gyra so fast was still more frightening. Now that they three were broke together, perhaps he and Gyra even owed Stinson as much money as his real relatives, wherever they were.
When Dansel looked so dismayed, the Wizard Howard seized upon it. "Now then, I know you guys want to guess, what it is that I have in my hand?"
"That's not a riddle by the way."
"Fine, I'll just show it to you." and Howard uncurled long, strong fingers to reveal a rubber banded set of thin paper slips. The power latent in those small cards was suggested by the strange writing embossed everyhere--or was it an enchanted code, blacker than night itself? And then also, a soapsud metallic gleam smiled back at Dansel when he recognized it. "So, can I sell you guys some superbowl tickets?"
"How much?" Stinson srutinized.
"WHO'S PLAYING?" Dansel covered his mouth. He was shouting, anyone might hear and rush over... when he'd already seen, he already sensed it.
"Well the Redskins are, of course. Didn't I just explain to you guys that I got fired for protesting them moving the Beltway Wall, in order to build a stadium down on the National Mall? That's what Superbowl 2012 is--a sham. And the city practically bought the game. Meanwhile, so many of its residents are being disenfranchised. The people can't leave the city, most of them don't even have access to proper schools or even the internet..."
"...and they have no idea that the Redskins are back in the Superbowl." Dansel was amazed.
"Yep, and their chance of winning is pretty damned good too. You know, because so much money got thrown at the team these last two years."
Dansel clamped fingers down over the Wizard's palm, smiled hard while he possibly crushed the man's hand. "I will sell you, the clothes off of my back and go crawling through the city naked for these. How much?"
How much?
How much?
How much?
To trudge penitent through the streets of DC,
To smuggle across the Beltway Wall to see,
Something right,
Something just,
How much?
But Dansel didn't have any money.
"Well," said Howard the Wizard, "I'm finding that these aren't really worth anything to folks here, you know, if you think about how impossible it is to get past any of the stilt-bridges or beyond the Beltway Wall. But if you two guys want them so bad that you'd actually take them off my hands and rid of me these stale memories in exchange for something... you can have this set of ten for a song if you just get your crazed friend Gyro-whatever away from my Shandrea so I can finally have an evening alone with her. I don't care if God himself comes to DC and sets up his throne on the National Mall, you couldn't pay me to go back Downtown again."
And so, when not even the Wizard would, Dansel was going to find a way.
Next: San'ur Crush is almost in town, kids! Hope you're nice and ready with your riot gear on...
by J. Ingram
Six: Fate and Basketball
It was hard not to pass the Thanksgiving holiday struggling back across the Anacostia River after Gyra and Dansel got a chance to see what was on the other side of it. Most of the makeshift town along those silvery shores was leaned up against the biggest Red-and-Gold-Reserve either of them had ever been presented with. And, taking care to use his lesser known alias, Bartel Barrons guided his good woman-friend inside those crimson-colored glass doors. Stinson the Boatman proudly read all the gilded gold signs for them once they all got inside.
"George-Ton and Tourism Co: for your realest DC experience, Target Presents: Columbia Heights Generalist's Store, and The Side Hustle Intranet Lounge--for all your real-world needs when you aren't hangin' out and having a life's-time." the old man grinned gray stubble, and leaned on his boat's oar that he used as a walking-stick. "Beyond this resort, my friends, are all points north-west. This is the grand gate to it. Now you two kids are glad you paid all this money to take me here, aren't you?" Then, their only ride departed for the Uno tables, without explanation. Gyra turned round again and flinched at where he now wasn't, wondering why the old man's voice seemed disembodied.
Gyra said, "I don't understand, Dansel. We aren't even in Northwest yet?"
Dansel wriggled flat fingers imbetween the buttons of his tan vest. He was watching something in particular and chewed lips on the far side of his mouth at wanting it. "That's just it, Gyra. Folks can come here, spend a lot less, and marvel that they've--kind of--been."
"Is that because it's so dangerous to go all the way out there on your own the way things are?" but Gyra found herself speaking to another ghost. The next time she spied her friend Dansel, the back of his head was turned to a Redskins game blaring on the bar's flat screen, and he was flipping through some of his bluest dollar bills faster than ever. Other men at the table smoked cigars and talked the talk. Gyra wondered at how some people slipped into their old moods so fast.
Then, "Ohmigosh! It's a real life fortune teller--please, Miss Mystic, can you tell me whether or not I'll finish college or at least grow up to be a DC Rollergirl?"
This merriment went on for days. The three travelers rarely saw one another, but that they shared a suite helped--at least at the bottom of the night, they kept the same sleeping hours. Later, that turned into two rooms done in faded bars-and-stars when Stinson lost his share of what Dansel had ultimately paid him for. This dwindled to just one bed with them sleeping in shifts, once Dansel finally lost what was left of his money. He gave them a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings but it turned out to be his last good streak of luck at fantasy football. "I'm down to my Fenty Greens. Nobody'll want those." he frowned. "I just can't understand these guys--they know about Redskins games I've never seen before. And then I tried to bet on the Caps or DC United, but I hadn't a sense of those teams either. Damn and more damn."
Gyra rubbed Dansel's shoulder. She'd written to the Cannoneer of course, but he hadn't sent any money back or substantial correspondence other than to ask whether she and Dansel could stay away a little longer. This made Gyra screw up her face now and again, imagining what foolishness her father had fallen into.
Old Stinson kicked his boots off and went from the breakfast table where their coins and scraggly bills were pooled together, then and lay down on the bed. "Oh well, guess we'll have to just stay here forever, earnin' what we earn and lovin' what we love. And never having to see another snot-nosed, 'can I have some money grandad' relatives, ever.'"
It was uncomfortable, learning the spooky Boatman's scheme all this time was to supplant his grandchildren.
"If it makes you feel better, Dansel, I've been going to a fortune teller this last month and she says we're on the verge of a breakthrough. Just one more payment--and there's enough here for my last session."
"Why does it sound like you finally up and took yourself to therapy, Gyra?"
Gyra chose not to answer. "Can I take what's here on the table and go? I've spent the least money out of all of us, and I promise to bring back dinner later. I bet this old bracelet will go for something at El Pollo Sabroso..."
"But I don't like peruvian chicken." Stinson complained absently.
"No, Gyra, we need the last of this money." Dansel rested chin in palm, then found a smile for her. "Though I am glad you're getting help. What is this Mystic woman telling you, by the way?"
"I have a case of urban despair, like we already talked about. But she's also about to tell me what I have to do, to fix it. I don't want to end up like my Momma did, Dansel."
"You won't end up like her. But we don't have the money to entertain you either, nor myself, nor Stinson anymore. And someone like that Mystic woman is probably no help anyway if she's so money-grubby. Next thing you know, she'll want to introduce you to her friend the acupuncturist, or... I don't know. Let's all just breathe a moment and think about what we might do to get back home."
"Miss Mystic knows a real-life wizard, Dansel! That's who I'm on the verge of meeting--I didn't want to say it, because look at you, you're already looking it, but I've almost earned the right to see him, a true wizard with the power to change everything. Please don't deprive me of that, dear Sir!"
Stinson complained about their way of speaking, again. Gyra became so incredulous that eventually she had to remove herself from the room, claiming that she would find the money for therapy and wizardry somewhere, somehow.
When her voice was done echoing down the hallway, Stinson raised up a little on his elbows. "Her Miss Mystic does know a real Wizard. Dansel--how can you be so into fantasy sports and not catch it?"
Dansel wondered aloud between fingers folded before his mouth, "Who invited you to dip into my savings in the first place, or tag along with me and Gyra anyways?"
"You stupid boy--I'm talkin' about there being real celebrities downstairs, who play basketball! What if you chat one of them up, then they go back to Downtown-civilization and throw a game or two... that could be our way out. What if one of them even knows Michael Jordan?"
"Anybody could just call themselves a magician or whatever, especially out here. And, that whole Michael Jordan owning the Wizards, and then playing on the team and then fleeing DC... we already did that and suffered from that. Why would any professional athlete ever listen to me anyways?"
"Well, Dansel, if it can't be something so big, then it is about there bein' real people from behind the Beltway Wall way out here, in this part of the city. Somebody's bound to have a tip on what's really going on out there--stuff that not even those friends of yours downstairs could know. There must be scores and rosters nobody in this city has seen since the Near Revolution of 2010--if you don't get up right now, then I'm going to, and I don't know that I'll be so fast convinced about sharing my wealth when you're being so danged stubborn about a free lunch!"
And so, the two men went off to find Gyra, her Mystic, or the Mystic's Wizard, himself.
It took a whole night of sneaking around, asking questions without letting on that real people from beyond the Beltway Wall were someplace in the Red-and-Gold resort. Dansel and Stinson schemed their way backstage of a live junkyard band concert, they shuffled at bachata to navigate around a discotec dance floor unnoticed, while peering in people's faces for any celebrity they recognized. Stinson chatted up an old woman in broken Vietnamese that Dansel didn't think him capable of, and then later came Stinson's turn to cringe while Dansel attempted to pass off elementary French as Haitian Creole to a woman who put hands on her hips and left when she realized that, no, he wasn't flirting with her and not even selling anything. This polished off young man was going crazy after some kind of Wizard.
"I just realized, I don't know what in the world this guy looks like, and we can't even call him by name since we haven't seen a new anything-kind-of-game in two years. It really is pointless."
"But he'd be tall, and he'd have on sneakers, right?"
Dansel broke down and laughed. Or, was he crying? Something about Stinson was as sweet as an old man could get, but also tragic. If that was all his cohort had aimed for, then they'd surely wasted all these hours of search.
This latest miserable ruminating was about when a tall man in sneakers and wearing a bathrobe covered in gold stars stopped in front of them and waved a large hand across their faces. Dansel and Stinson frightened up straight, thinking some spell was cast. But, no, that was just the difference in height. The robed stranger had been waving hello. They also noticed his costume was really some standard-issue team gear the Wizards probably gave their players to use in the locker rooms. And, well, the Red-and-Gold-Reserve was a hotel and resort, wasn't it?
"I hear that you two are looking for a Wizard." Dansel tried to speak up, but he was snapped at. "I already know what you men seek. I have here, in the palm of this great hand, something that will grant you access to all of your dreams, anything you would have desired in life, I can make it, I can shoot it from all over the court, but only for those fans who are worthy. If you can answer my riddle, what is in my very hand, right now, can be yours--"
"No, I don't think so. You've got as many holes in your shoes as I did before I painted over them." Dansel said. "We just want an inside take on any of the sports teams out there in downtown DC right now. I've got guys down at the bar forecasting a season ahead of me, and it's not like anybody can look it up on the intranet."
"Ah yes, the intranet. So different from our... internet. I really miss being able to check my Facebook." said the Wizard. "I'm Howard Lanier, by the way. They had me at point guard before I decided to protest the latest section of wall and got banished from Downtown. Out here in the real city, though, nobody knows who I am--I wasn't on the team in 2010. So, I ended up speaking out for people who not only couldn't have asked for it, maybe they don't even deserve it."
Dansel wasn't or chose not to be offended. "Did you help the Wizards win anything, while you played with them?"
Howard shrugged, and the toll of dealing with more disinterested people seemed to wear in his voice. "My girlfriend Shandrea once did, but she won't speak about it. And, I never see her because she's lost her mind pretending to be a real mystic. Shandrea only tells fortunes these days. We got banished together."
So, they all were going to be stuck in paradise with no way to enjoy it. Dansel was also secretly horrified at the Cannoneer leaving Gyra entirely to him without any paternal restriction in his letters--the romantic hope and reason for their delay being so obvious in that sense, though it couldn't have been written. And then, Stinson having adopted he and Gyra so fast was still more frightening. Now that they three were broke together, perhaps he and Gyra even owed Stinson as much money as his real relatives, wherever they were.
When Dansel looked so dismayed, the Wizard Howard seized upon it. "Now then, I know you guys want to guess, what it is that I have in my hand?"
"That's not a riddle by the way."
"Fine, I'll just show it to you." and Howard uncurled long, strong fingers to reveal a rubber banded set of thin paper slips. The power latent in those small cards was suggested by the strange writing embossed everyhere--or was it an enchanted code, blacker than night itself? And then also, a soapsud metallic gleam smiled back at Dansel when he recognized it. "So, can I sell you guys some superbowl tickets?"
"How much?" Stinson srutinized.
"WHO'S PLAYING?" Dansel covered his mouth. He was shouting, anyone might hear and rush over... when he'd already seen, he already sensed it.
"Well the Redskins are, of course. Didn't I just explain to you guys that I got fired for protesting them moving the Beltway Wall, in order to build a stadium down on the National Mall? That's what Superbowl 2012 is--a sham. And the city practically bought the game. Meanwhile, so many of its residents are being disenfranchised. The people can't leave the city, most of them don't even have access to proper schools or even the internet..."
"...and they have no idea that the Redskins are back in the Superbowl." Dansel was amazed.
"Yep, and their chance of winning is pretty damned good too. You know, because so much money got thrown at the team these last two years."
Dansel clamped fingers down over the Wizard's palm, smiled hard while he possibly crushed the man's hand. "I will sell you, the clothes off of my back and go crawling through the city naked for these. How much?"
How much?
How much?
How much?
To trudge penitent through the streets of DC,
To smuggle across the Beltway Wall to see,
Something right,
Something just,
How much?
But Dansel didn't have any money.
"Well," said Howard the Wizard, "I'm finding that these aren't really worth anything to folks here, you know, if you think about how impossible it is to get past any of the stilt-bridges or beyond the Beltway Wall. But if you two guys want them so bad that you'd actually take them off my hands and rid of me these stale memories in exchange for something... you can have this set of ten for a song if you just get your crazed friend Gyro-whatever away from my Shandrea so I can finally have an evening alone with her. I don't care if God himself comes to DC and sets up his throne on the National Mall, you couldn't pay me to go back Downtown again."
And so, when not even the Wizard would, Dansel was going to find a way.
...
To Be Continued, in 2011...
To Be Continued, in 2011...
Next: San'ur Crush is almost in town, kids! Hope you're nice and ready with your riot gear on...
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Balm for Writers' Blues #1
Whenever you feel down because it seems you'll never finish that story... or you've been waiting on that offer letter forever, please consider this striking mockumentary:
Remember, one day you will get there... in a court room with silver cuffs on. And when you do, tell the judge that Eddie Murphy sent you.
:)
Remember, one day you will get there... in a court room with silver cuffs on. And when you do, tell the judge that Eddie Murphy sent you.
:)
Saturday, December 4, 2010
It's been a good year for story art, more to come
Before we get to the finale story for this year, let's take a moment and reflect on the madness which is Randitty's ever-changing blog art:
Each feature story on this blog is planned with a corresponding page design. The banner, backgrounds, and even positioning of the sidebar and main wrapper change for every flight of fiction, since I think it's far more fun for the entire reading experience to be thought of as a work of art. At present, I'm working on code that will unite blog posts with their monthly templates, so that it will possible to enjoy feature stories in their shiny, natural habitats. In the meantime, you can always view all the blog designs for previous feature stories on the new Story Artseses page.
And why all the strange slang? I'm not amused with anything that doesn't sound DC-street-fabulous, on this blog.
Next: Jawbreak Blue takes a great big, dramatic breath (when the Redskins do something unthinkable), and then holds it for... I have no idea how long it will take, honestly. So, please don't try holding your breath for the duration of fictional plot-tension at home, folks.
And why all the strange slang? I'm not amused with anything that doesn't sound DC-street-fabulous, on this blog.
...
Next: Jawbreak Blue takes a great big, dramatic breath (when the Redskins do something unthinkable), and then holds it for... I have no idea how long it will take, honestly. So, please don't try holding your breath for the duration of fictional plot-tension at home, folks.
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