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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.

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It's hard to maintain focus today.

The rainbow spears come with such a feeling of presence, like each line of color is an angel of itself, dancing on a lethal solar gibbet with the abandon of the nominally immortal. I feel I could strum the infrared tethers above and the ultraviolet anchors to the ground below. It's a toss-up whether I'd hear the chord of a celestial harp or be pounced by the weaver who spun the strands, poisoned with a sudden jab and wrapped and hung in the sky for later feasting.

I try to focus. I squint and blink and watch the colors blur. Nearsighted as I am and accustomed to blur, the blurs do not make sense.

When I drive late at night and the taillights of the cars in front of me smear away and float off to the sides of the road, I open my eyes wider and relax them, and the red lights warble and chirp back to pinpoints. This is like that. But the sense of presences does not go away.

Thank God there are other people in the garden today, ignoring the hell out of this. I don't know what I'd do without them as an anchor for the reality I should be responding to. My tuner has been broken for years. I stay on their station by circuit resonance alone. I should follow them when they leave.

The medicines distilled from green blood -- mescaline, cocaine, ahayuasca, datura, psilocybin, lysergin -- are the food and drink of the fey. The red blood drugs that would counteract this -- fermented bloods of various animals, preserved meats and tissues and pastes made from various exudations -- are arts lost to science.

I am tempted to try the bloods of demons and angels - slime from between the legs of a succubus, spunk of a cherub, nymph lymph, cerebrospinal fire from a djinn, cytoplasm of the interstellar krill that are the softshelled spawn of the oldest gods -- but that would be jumping off the cliff at the edge of the world.

But then these strands would be shed, dripping with the various glues of interstitial foam, from my own spinnerets, gleaming with the promise of my own venom.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

8th Feb 2009, 22:06   | tags:


crickson says:

Beautiful colours

9th Feb 2009, 00:10

Thanks! Apparently I can get a lot of mileage out of a flawed lens on a camphone... :)


9th Feb 2009, 00:13

Dhamaka NLI says:

beautiful words and imagery - one of my faves

9th Feb 2009, 08:22

Thank you! I feel I'm getting closer to a concept I've been trying to express in different ways for ages now...

10th Feb 2009, 16:08