Archive for January, 2009

A Conversation

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on January 30, 2009 by jeereg

“You’re late.”

“No I’m not!  What time is it?”

“Six.”

“We said six.”

“Thirty.  Six thirty, is the time now.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad.”

“Six thirty is the time now, today.  Thursday.”

“I’m aware of the day.”

“Are you?  That’s good.  Because we were supposed to meet at six.  On Monday.”

“…”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.  Ok.  So, um, I’m late.”

“Very.”

“Where the fuck was I for three days?”

“The last I heard, you were tripping on fairy oil and dancing naked in the hills.”

“There are hills?”

“Evidently.”

“… Wait, have you been waiting here this whole time?”

“…”

“Wow.”

“Shut up.”

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No, Seriously

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on January 29, 2009 by jeereg

“What’s it called?”

“Fairy Oil.”

There’s a cloud of smoke in the room, and the lights are all low, in a dozen colours, like the inside of a fogged kaleidoscope.

“How do we do it?” asks Remy.

Stomper hands each of them a vial of thin green liquid.  It flouresces in the miasma.  “Ok,” he says, sitting on the couch.  “This is gonna sound weird.”

They all wait.

“You have to pour it on your feet.”

There is a brief argument, and then Remy tries it, ’cause why the fuck not?  It doesn’t work.

And then he sees some shit.

Aadi

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on January 28, 2009 by jeereg

Aadi is, depending on the day, too tall, short, smart, dumb, or not blonde enough.  There’s also a problem with her teeth, but she hasn’t decided what yet.

She starts skipping class in the winter semester, drifting through the halls, trying to figure a fix.  Sometimes she thinks she has it, like when she was anorexic for a week.  Most days, she ends up drawing in her notebook.

Ray the Janitor who sells her pot leaves the door to the roof open most afternoons, and there’s always a few people around.  That’s where she meets Craig, and finds her fix.

Glider

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on January 27, 2009 by jeereg

Wren rubs uselessly at the soot caked on his goggles.  His scarf is completely black; he can taste the ash every time he breathes.  The glider creaks.

Navigating the Black Dunes is always slow, and often fatal.  The elementals that scour the hills burst in odd places, dancing orange and white and red, burning whatever little fuel they’ve found in the ashen wastes.  Wren walks a tightrope, getting close enough to catch the hot air and gain a few hundred feet without dropping within scorching distance.

From there it’s a long, slow descent, praying that he’ll make the next platform.

A Flower’s Petal

Posted in Hives on January 26, 2009 by jeereg

Ryold dreams of the day he got his lance, his instructor’s smile, the hum of his bird’s wings.

He comes to with a jolt, on his back on a flower’s petal, feet from the ground.  His bird, unridered by the swarm, is nowhere to be seen.  Above him the battle rages, his fighters stabbing at an ever-thickening cloud of wasps.  They’re going to lose.  Below him, the broken bodies of bird and bug and man litter the ground.

His flower sways, and he scrambles for a hold.  He looks for the disturbance; his heart swells.

The Squirrel Rangers have arrived.

Cardine

Posted in Things Break Down on January 23, 2009 by jeereg

Keith’s message glowed on the screen, an image dug out of a Flickr account at the end of a long chase.  It hissed through Cardine’s head, seemed to undulate and grow.  She felt dizzy.

When the knock came, like bones clacking, she almost thought she’d dreamed it.

Through the peephole Steph’s head looked distended, her forehead huge, her eyes too far apart.  There was something else, but Cardine’s mind swam.  She opened the door.

“Steph.  Hey.  What time is it?”  She blinked, squinted.  “You ok?  What’s with your eyes?”

Steph rose, her feet leaving the ground, and the air crackled.

Wendy

Posted in Jeremy on January 22, 2009 by jeereg

Her name is Wendy, and she is (or was, or whatever) in HR at a bank.  Her kid grew up and left home, her husband having done the same long before, and she’s worried that she’s going to turn into her grandmother, who died alone in a condo in Miami.  She refuses to play bridge.

She tells Jeremy this (after she coaxes him out from behind a bus shelter) over cigarettes and cappucinos that they make themselves in a Starbucks.

The guy sitting at the table with them doesn’t move, but his eyes flick like he’s trying to say something.