skonen_blades: (hamused)
What if God had a daughter?

What if Jesus had been Jessica?

Think of the crucifix in every church with a woman on it.

Think of the bible with all of its Jesus stories but with a woman as the main character.

Think of society and how it all would be different if that were the case.

Or would it be different?

Or would Christianity even exist?

Would Jessica Christ have been ignored and forgotten or even killed before she got started with her revolution? Would her return from death even be noticed?

If she had been dismissed and ignored, would we even have a Christian church?

And I’ve been wondering if God DID have a few daughters before he had a son.

I’d have no way of knowing.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

skonen_blades: (dark)
April 30/30


She is a rich, deep, pile of emotion. Her inner world feels like a post-apocalyptic Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

She knows that Dark Days are always ahead. And all she keeps thinking is die later. Die later. Die later.

Relax, he says. It’s only a finger of speech. Even a broken record is right twice a day.

If she is a product of her environment then call her the broken windows in a greenhouse. She stinks of fertility and she can’t run away from it.

She feels like a speed bump in everyone else’s life.

She is a Dragon with a girl tattoo.

Her mood isn’t grey. It’s light black. Which is an improvement.

skonen_blades: (Default)
My morals are wearing a short skirt and doing shots of espresso vodka in a college bar. My morals have red hair and a fantastic body and they’re too old to be here. My morals have a beautiful swoop of a nose and cheekbones designed in a wind tunnel. My morals have eyes that are small but piercing. They sparkle. My morals are looking for a good time but no one is hitting on her.

skonen_blades: (Default)
This is my penis. There are many like it but this one is mine.
It is the creator of missiles, abandoned children, conquested countries, needless wars, rape culture, ravaged women, economic crises, and savage beatings.
If women ran the world, it would be peaceful. But they don’t. So it’s not.
That is what I was raised to believe.
I still believe it to be true.

skonen_blades: (Default)
She’s a plane ticket day-job earthquake wearing a fire engine and calling herself a beer bottle. I’m no judge of paper mache but as the future goes, she etches smoke onto mirrors with her brilliance. She’s the severed arm of justice hanging lopsided in the senate’s butchered house. Every upside-down umbrella knows just how she feels. A satellite dish for candy from German parades. She’s the new hopeful contestant wrapped in electric baby blankets, guessing the prices of future paths for prizes and punishments. Rip through the electrician’s tape that guards the soul of your guardian angel and make a pudding out of our plans.

Go ahead. Bake me in an oven. I won’t tell. I’ll tell your mother you stayed over at a friend’s house. Tonight, I’ll be gardener and you be the hedge that needs taming. Lick the bars on my zoo. Be my too-tight scarf. Test out the brakes that I cut the lines to in the bath fifteen years ago. I’ll show you how to handle broken glass without cutting yourself. You’ll find out that scar tissue is more tender than the skin you were born with.

My head’s like a camera. Every memory’s a negative. I have to become it’s opposite to see it as a happy day. I’m happy when things are bad because I know that means that good things are on the way. I’m happy when things are good because I know bad things are on the way and I like the feelings that they bring. I’m an exhibit with no more feeling that evidence used in a courtroom. The ice-blown eyes of a dead girl found during the March thaw. The least-used strings in a piano. My nose bleeds into your morning cereal. I am the news.

This smile is a skeleton key that’s unlocked too many hotel rooms. The tennis-player logo scoffing at my hopes manages to keep the success stories down in the basement. I laugh at my confidence whenever it surfaces. I’ll tell you the story of inner world wars conducted over summer vacations.

Come close. I’ll whisper so you can hear me this time. I’ll pour whatever truth I have left into your seashell ears.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
I like you.

With everyone else, you are a mahogany headboard. A diving platform sleeping sickness. A fainting goat. When you speak to other people, nothing but sequins and birthday presents come out. A princess of misdirection, a comedienne in wolf’s clothing, an artist hiding her deformity, a radio station for old cars, a lightning rod for kittens, a Christmas tree embarrassed at all the attention.

Around you, the oceans go still. You don’t think I’m weird or fucked up or perhaps it’s just that you acknowledge that we all are. You hoard maps and let me read them with you under the covers with a flashlight after dark. You pass me notes in class. You’re lost in this place but thrilled to be here.

You glitter on pages and leave paw prints, hoof prints, Rorschach fairy wings of lust on the backs of menus. I’m in the hot sun of your affection and for once, it’s not making me feel like a cockroach caught by a midnight kitchen light on a linoleum floor, far from the safety of the dark dust under the fridge.

Danger is your first name. You don’t pass the time so much as strangle it. You have bright eyes, sharp and clever, that see death coming from miles away. Your laugh is a mating call for those who want to shed their fear. You are a race track. You are a solar-powered omnivore bent on burning, wings still on fire from re-entry. You are a wolf with a talent for math.

I have a paintbrush, a bucket of paint, and a world full of corners that turn into trapped-animal slingshots, making life into a series of surging chapters, breathing messages into bottles. I have an etch-a-sketch, two dice, a pair of dentures, and a riding crop. Let’s take the centaurs to the steeplechase.

You’re already better than the rest. It’s all gravy from here on out.

I like you.

skonen_blades: (cocky)
“Cowardice. God damned cowardice!” yelled Commander Breheny.

She’d been in charge of this hunter-seeker for over two months and hadn’t even confirmed one kill yet. She’d trained her whole life for her own command. She’d slain over two hundred enemy Taal-ships, first as a cadet and then as a helmsperson and then as a lieutenant, sending countless Taals to Hell.

She was tall and strong. She couldn’t be called pretty but she definitely had an undeniable air of authority that partnered well with her angry streak. Hard but fair. That was Commander Breheny.

Until recently, that is. The lack of kills was causing her to unravel. A Taal-shuttle would appear in her quadrant but as soon as she pursued it, it would warp away to a safe distance. Still on the scanners but out of firing range. It would not engage and it would always remain one step ahead.

The Taal-shuttle was taunting her and it was working. She couldn’t figure out the angle.

Her bridge crew was starting to become afraid of her. It was the kind of fear that could become rebellion if left unchecked.

Her military overlords were staring to sigh when she reported back every day that she had yet to kill the one tiny shuttle she’d been assigned to terminate.

What she didn’t know was that this was the first test of her command. The Taal-shuttle was being piloted by a human who was interfacing with Commander Breheny’s onboard nav-computer, enabling the Taal-shuttle to always stay out of reach.

It was a snipe hunt. A wild goose chase designed to test the patience of new commanders. The military overlords would act more and more disappointed with the new commander’s performance and the Taal-shuttle would remain out of reach.

All of the new commanders broke. It was how they broke that interested the overlords. How a commander dealt with failure was the last lesson, the most important and final test of command. It was the hardest lesson they had to deal with.

Commander Breheny glowered in her chair, smoldering at the viewscreen. Her crew gave each other nervous sidelong glances.

skonen_blades: (dark)
She grew up in an abandoned orphanage filled with broken mirrors and black cats. All she knew was defense. She reminded me that even blind people are scared of the dark. She was a black wave rising up from the depths of the ocean in the form of a woman. She swelled to maturity in a way that made men want her.

She used to tie tin cans to the wings of angels and the tails of dogs and laugh at their panicked attempts to get away from the jangling noise.

She set fire to dolls. She bent canes. She snuggled up to cruelty.

I was jealous of her in the same way that stop signs are jealous of green lights, the same way that molars are jealous of fangs.

She excited me like she excited every man. She kicked the darkness awake in all of us. Black, dusty wolves shook themselves to standing in our hearts. Our inner hyenas padded back and forth with whispered, wheezy murder. Our eyes caught the moonlight.

She chose me. I’m still convinced that it was a random, impulsive decision. I longed to be interesting to her but I was only an outlet for her brutality.

She was a deity gathering minions.

When she moved away without telling any of us, we shook ourselves awake for the second time. Our clouded minds experienced a sunrise of rational thought, broken hearts, furrowed brows, and surly binges. We felt betrayed but still somehow privileged.

She moved to Tuscon. We knew that because of the news reports that came in later. We weren’t surprised at the body count or the circumstances surrounding the violence. Her grainy, snarling mug shot stared out at us from big-screen televisions in store windows.

Even with the death that still clung to us like a nursing child, we counted ourselves lucky to have known her.

Such was her power.

skonen_blades: (cocky)
In her teens, Paula was a gymnast.

All of that practicing stunted her growth. The protein that should have gone towards her height went to the production of muscle. Her body was compact and sleek. Her sisters were all much taller than her.

Paula didn’t get her first period until she was eighteen.

In her twenties, she competed less, coached more, and drifted from man to man without much fervor or drama. The high points of emotion that washed over her friends eluded her. She couldn’t get worked up over almost anything other than the thrill of competing.

Her father died in fighting the Viet Cong when she was twenty-six. Her mother committed suicide one year later. One sister took up heroin and died not long after her mother. The other sister washed her hands of the family and moved to Akron and never looked back.

The year after that, while aimlessly looking for solace in the sudden drought of the only close emotional contacts she had ever had, one of Paula’s boyfriends tried to kill her, leaving a tidy scar across the front of her neck.

He went to jail. She was never the same after that.

It was around then that the long walks home became harder. Danger seemed prevalent in the world and protection scarce. A lot of the friends that she had from school got married and disappeared. Her students grew up and lost contact.

She became a memory to old friends, she didn’t make new friends, and she became distant from herself.

In her thirties, she became an exotic dancer. Her false mask of ambivalence greased the rails. The nudge into prostitution happened easily. She passed for twenty-one with her athleticism but the hard times were started to show in the brackets around her mouth and the lines around her eyes that had nothing to do with laughing.

A close-call overdose plus the death of a friend caused her to take the money she had saved and put it towards a course in accounting. She moved to Chicago.

Now here she was. Forty-two. Fake boobs hardening, jutting forth like she was nailed to the prow of a ship. Fashionable and still able to take home men half her age with her seething indifference, smiling worldliness and compact frame.

She made enough to support herself in relative comfort if she cut corners and resorted to the occasional trick.

She didn’t want companionship but she felt the pang of loneliness every second that she was alive. There was no end in sight.

skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
She was barely there. Hair in her eyes, bare feet outdoors in the city, moving slower than everyone else.

She was almost invisible. She was a well-weathered hand of leather sticking out of a shallow grave in the desert. She was the ghost of an orphaned bicycle. She was a piece of wedding cake at the bottom of a long-forgotten lost-and-found purse.

Sometimes, she moved like a dog’s legs twitching in a dream. The quickness of the motion would turn heads towards her for moments. Quickly, the sea of people’s attention settled back to Not Her.

She had a routine. She traced the buildings with her fingertips. She was the hour hand of the 800 block. Never crossing a street, never losing touch. She circled like an outpatient with no visitors. She didn’t shuffle. She just walked slowly.

There was a muttering that dropped from her lips. Consonant pebbles spilling out over marbles and blood memory. An oil of verbs kept the sentences flowing through rapids into long dams of silence and then more rapids. The words themselves made no sense but somewhere in the pattern of silence and bursts of whispers, there was a morse code telegram being broadcast.

One can use silk to bend iron bars but it needs to be wet.

Close only counts in love and promotions.

One of kind never wins in poker.

She belonged in a bank safe. They buried her in a jewelry box underneath the library.

skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
She shot me a smile.

I caught it in my teeth.

It gave me a sweet tooth.

We’re living in a slow-motion global Jonestown.
One day, the commercials are going to tell all of us to drink the Kool Aid.
And we will.

That sweet tooth got a cavity. I had it taken out.

She shot me a look. I was wearing sunglasses

I have a gold tooth now.

The twins fell. It’s strange how in retrospect, that day just keeps gathering power, like that day is behind the stalled car of the present and it’s pushing. I know that one day, I will probably talk to teenagers who weren’t alive during 2001 and they’ll look at it the same way that I look at Pearl Harbour or the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Just a page in a textbook in history class. A bullet-point part of a summation.

She texted me a glance. I got it.

I have a blue tooth now.

It’s the money that I wade through. It’s the love that I protect myself against. It’s the time I’m trying to fill before death.

She’s here.

skonen_blades: (dark)
February 14th 2008

I had some candied salmon on the weekend. I imagine that this is what hearts that are in love must taste like. Swimming up the stream with a purpose that makes the effort seem worth it.

She was wearing pink velvet bell-bottoms and flip-flops. I noticed that because it was February and it was raining outside. She sat close to me on the Skytrain. The cuffs of her pants were damp. Her bare feet might as well have been carved from marble.

To no one, she said “I’m praying for a miracle that this family will work things out and come together.”

No one on the train could pinpoint who she was talking to. They made their judgments and went back to reading or staring out the windows.

Later, she said, “Well, I just hope he’s on the right track and that his life is going well.”

It sounded like she said this directly to me but I didn’t dare look at her. I’m the kind of person that likes to get involved but my stop was close. I didn’t want to form a connection with her only to break it less than a minute later.

With a sigh that broke my heart just before my stop, she said, “God, I sure miss that boy.”

My stop. I left.

Cupid's there, quiver reversed, bow broken,
Holding a burnt-out torch.
See how sadly he walks, poor child, wings drooping,
How he beats at his bared breast,
How the tears rain down on his hair, now lying all tangled
About his throat, and his mouth's a loud O of grief.
Thus he looked, they say, long ago, when he saw his
Brother Aeneas to the grave..."

- Ovid

skonen_blades: (dark)
Nanny Saline.

Her knobbled fingers had calcified into claws. She smoked like some sort of engine. The four-wheeled trawler with the IV bag went with her everywhere indoors. One of her eyes had been replaced with glass but she rarely wore it, choosing instead to tell us kids that our future was in the meat-coloured eye socket and to stare deep.

She was darkly merry. As happy as crows on a battlefield or worms in a graveyard. Her yellowed dentures clattered like castanets as she cackled down the hallways of her huge mansion.

A battalion of nurses tried to stay out of her way.

She had a striated tendon in her neck that kept her looking stiffly to the right until the doctors threaded metal through it and tightened it back in the other direction.

That was the first of her tendons to go. Over the next ten years, one by one, sixteen other tendons on her body gave way and had to be wired. She was all borged up. It was a good thing she flew in her private jet. They never would have let her on a conventional plane with that much metal in her body.

She married into money young and had about a dozen ungrateful kids. She was a real dish back then.

She had a black soul. It was like she had the opposite of humour, only laughing at the bad stuff.

She was held together with a need to outlive everyone she knew.

And now here we are, standing at the side of her grave plot, watching her being lowered into the ground.

I’m surprised, looking at the headstone, to find out that her given name was Reindeer.

skonen_blades: (notdrunk)
It started, as these things always do, with a kiss.

Advice is useless to the young. That is their curse and their strength. They have no idea that some of the things that they attempt are impossible. That’s why an alarmingly high percentage of them succeed.

Like Jonas Brigand, sitting in a cheap metal chair in a prison cube waiting room, starting at his watch, currently waiting for his girlfriend to get out of prison.

“Times are tough in the colonies” goes the song. Young men and women were subject to the same set of laws as the adults. With the ability to breed came responsibility. It was too harsh a world to even consider doing it otherwise.

Once society had been set up, once the terraforming tents were a memory and the world was green, the new generations would be fat and slow on the world that the hardpack settlers like Jonas Brigand and his girlfriend had made for them.

The scars on his hands stared mutely back at him. He was fourteen. His girl, Jayley Cordsmith, was sixteen. Her body was just as strong and scarred as his.

She was pulling six days for drunk and disorderly. Six days of pay gone. She have to work a month of doubles to get that back. She’d do it, too.

Jonas had the beginnings of a manbeard. His flat nose was the result of beatings from the ones that reared him and a life of never backing down.

Jayley had the short dreads of a hullpatcher and was missing a pinky on her left hand. Jonas thought of her working with her hammer belt in the hot sun. She’d be seventeen in Quadrember but he’d be sixteen two months earlier. For two months, they’d be the same age.

For two months, their drinking, mating, and eating privileges would be equal. They’d both have one ‘drop the charges’ card each to use as they saw fit. They could do anything that didn’t result in a loss of life or the damage of company property.

Jonas usually punched a supervisor. It was a popular choice.

Now Jonas wasn’t sure there would be any more cards or privileges for Jayley at all.

Jayley had decided that she was unhappy with the system and stopped going to work. They’d thrown her in the clink almost immediately.

Strike was a forbidden action. It couldn’t be tolerated. There were always one or two people that started the talk once the project neared completion but that was a decade off. Besides, Jayley loved to work.

The door at the end of the hall clicked and hissed. The hatchratchet spun and the door creaked open.

Jayley ran through. Jonas stood up and caught her in his arms.

She was missing a tooth and she had a black eye but her eyes shimmered with the usual angry light.

“We have to take them down, Jonas. We have to make this place ours.” She said.

They hadn’t even come close to breaking her.

Then she kissed him.

skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
She’s all leg. It’s pretty sweet. The spots on her long neck entice me. She’s a half-jaffe. Her giant brown eyes are looking at me with unmistakable desire. Her stiff hair stands straight up in a broom-brush Mohawk all the way down her spine, bracketed by her backless evening gown.

Her fingernails are a dark brown and her skin is a luxurious orange-yellow. Her hexagonal skinspots remind me hot days on the Serengeti plains. And even hotter nights. The wine is getting to her.

She shakes her head to clear it and I see taut muscles down four feet of slender neck do their work. I’m entranced by her beauty. The bangles in her ears jingle and it’s music to me.

The two little balls that protrude from the top of her head peek out coquettishly from her coiffure. She’s dyed her bangs red.

Her long nose ends in wide nostrils. Her generous mouth twists at the edges in a wry smile. She knows how I want this dinner to end.

She’s wearing six necklaces in a ladder from her strong jaw down to the base of her neck. The last necklace dips towards her spotted cleavage.

Around the restaurant, there are men having dinner with where-bears, wylfen, whore-boars, even some bird-birds. They make me sick. Give me a half-jaffe anyday. They’re tall and worth the climb.

I can hear her tail start to swish behind her. She shoots me a look that says I should ask the waiter for the bill.

skonen_blades: (dark)
She was like a tuning fork for strange people. My life was a rock thrown through the stained-glass window of a church.

I was shards and hard edges. She was a humming presence that made me quiet.

The creatures and people that loved her brought her strange gifts. They’d walk past me as I lay on the couch. She’d put it out on the rumour-wires that here, this place, my place, was where she lived now.

She changed addresses as often as she changed lovers. She travelled light. “Time to stir the rent pot” the one before me used to say. He’s dead now and she’s quiet on the subject. She’s a purse of secrets masquerading as a human but I respect her lack of questions. I return the favour.

Candles and peach pits. A choker made from the gilded vertebrae of a snake. A snarling jackalope head. A licorice heart. A wind-up tin robot that spat sparks.

They lay scattered around the computer terminal, making it look like some sort of voodoo altar. Talismans infested with the passion of obsessive love. Little tokens of infatuation given to her as favours by boys and girls that thought they needed her.

They were like familiars bringing dead birds to their witch mother.

Looking into her is hard. After all, what’s under the back patina of a mirror? I call her Coreless. Her attempts to uglify herself have only heightened her beauty.

“Born with magic.” My mother would have said, before crossing herself.

She’s the day shift. Not that she sleeps much.

It’s the cat-stretch dinnertime stroll over to where I’m lying that signals that it’s time to punch the clock and switch up. We tag like wrestlers and I enter the ring.

There’s time for some fun on the couch to send her off and wake me up.

I’m at the computer now, piloting. I’m fooling the powers that be that my account balances are up to date. I’m fooling my clients into thinking that I’m worth it. I’m making money and shuffling it around to cover debts. That takes an hour.

After that, it’s another few hour-long swipes and my independent work. It’s growing like an artistic tumour out there in the waves and gulleys of the internet. I’m caught in the weave. It’s now that I can actually forget the life that brought me here. It’s now that I can actually forgive the life that brought me here.

And the sun comes up.

I save the work that’s saving me and spin the chair around to face the couch.

She’s there, wrapped in taffeta curtains and goosefeathers. I walk over for the shift change and the high five.

There’s time for some fun on the couch to send me off and wake her up.

I can hear a knock at the door of the first of her admirers. I hope he, she, or it brought something resembling breakfast.

The light sneaks through the blinds, I hear boots, and I close my eyes.

skonen_blades: (whysure)
Her name was Humility.

It had a nice ring to it and after a while, a person forgot that her name was also a noun. I’m not sure what her parents where thinking, though. I mean, you can say ‘what’s in a name’ all you want but Humility? Isn’t that one of the seven Virtues or something?

At least it wasn’t Kitten or a type of fruit or something. Her parents were fairly famous musicians in their days so I guess they didn’t really feel the rules of child naming applied to them.

I guess I’m one to talk. My name’s Reindeer. People call me Rain or Dear for short. I really can’t win.

So, Humility and I were down at the Jonestown 31 Flavours eating Mint Chocolate Chip – Maple Walnut double scoops when she broke down right there in the parking lot and told about what was going on in her life.

She’d approached one of the teachers because she thought he was hot. He was giving her good grades and she was enjoying the back seat of his car. It was risky and hot and so far, it had been a good arrangement for both of them.

Now, though. Well. She’d fallen in love and she was pregnant.

Snot flowed freely out of her leaking, sobbing, lost face. People are so ugly when they cry. We were friends and all but this was the kind of scene I really wouldn’t expect from Humility. She was all hardcore, right? I was just an acolyte, really.

I stood there staring open-mouthed until a voice inside me told me to go and comfort her or something.

Gingerly, I put my arm around her and led around the corner of the building with a shout of “What are you looking at?” to a few skateboarders that had gathered like prairie dogs to watch the girls cry. I could see on their stupid, young faces that we were a huge mystery to them. I hoped that men got smarter as they got older.

Humility’s ice cream had melted down the sides of her cone onto her hands. What was left fell out and onto the pavement. The gaping, sticky, empty cone looking like an eyesocket or something to me so I took it from her and threw it on the grass along with what was left of mine.

We came around into the alley and sat down. It was awkward but she didn’t care.

We sat there against the wall near the dumpster for an hour while Humility wordlessly cried it all out against me.

I’d gotten boobs before all the other girls. I sort of knew how she felt but not really. I mean, guys got stupid if I wore a tight shirt. That’s all I knew. Sometimes they tried to touch me but a scream usually scared them off for good.

Humility was actually carrying on an affair with a teacher, though. I idolized her.

As her cries turned to sniffles, I remembered that she was pregnant and I starting wondering if there were technically two of us or three of us there in that alley. The power of that thought blew me away.

skonen_blades: (cocky)
She was a jewel thief.

It was compulsive. It’s like she was half magpie. She’d steal paste jewelry from drugstores if times got tough in between jobs.

Nothing sparkled like the best, though, and those she kept in a shoebox under her bed. She only sold enough to pay the rent. The rest of the ‘acquisitions’ she kept.

Late at night, she’d pick one of the jewels up at random and turn it around in front of her wide eyes, watching the play of light on the facets. She looked at each little flat edge as a face winking at her. She could see the beams lighting up the heart of the thing, picking out impurities while lighting up the perfection.

Hours would pass.

The days were torture. The jobs were menial. Anything related to regular life was so boring that it almost made her feral. Planning a robbery was an exquisite type of attenuated tension that almost made her scream. She chewed her lips as she drew plans and assured her employers that it would go off without a hitch.

She was hired to steal valuable rocks the size of fists. As a reward, they would give her lesser diamonds, rubies, emeralds, etc.

Some of the cartels that hired her would threaten her. She barely registered it. She was quick as a whip with a gun and a knife. She looked at it as an opportunity to kill them and steal the prize. If they were small time, they left her alone. If they were big time, she’d bargain for the jewel's return.

She lived off the grid. She lived in a hovel. She was as close to happy as a person like her could get.


She was getting greedy.

It was there, waiting to ruin her career, twisting like a child inside her. The smaller gems weren’t really doing it for her anymore.

Like an addict, she was building up a tolerance to the thing she loved the most. Soon, she knew that she would start stealing the bigger pieces for herself. Pro Bono personal work. Risky and insane.

There was a safe in Chinatown that she knew about. Very hush-hush. It held ten of the largest diamonds in existence. They were there specifically to be kept off the market. They were a secret. She knew about them because she had studied, looked, investigated and deduced.

The cartels were confident in their little secret. They didn’t have too much protection around it.

She knew how to get in. She knew how to get out. She also knew that they’d never let her live if they caught her and that they’d never stop searching for her if they didn’t.

But she’d have them. She’d have those ten gorgeous sparklies all to herself. They’d last her for the rest of her life. She knew she’d never get tired of them.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her hands made fists in the sheets. She’d looked at every gem from the shoebox under the bed and she had failed to achieve her usual trance. Her world was starting to fray.

There was no choice. She’d just be sloppy if she didn’t start planning now.

skonen_blades: (donthinkso)
She blew me a kiss of cobwebs in a sporecloud from between puckered, black lips. This was mother technology. Dressed in Teflon and covered in outlets the way the tentacles of an octopus were covered in suckers.

She could switch between sexes. When she was a woman, she was named LaNet. When she was a man, she was named Jack. One person performing the duties of parenting to the wealthiest of the world’s children.

She was nanotech dotting the strawberries of our children’s hearts. She was downloaded support group therapy. She was a conduit and a destination. She owned us all like we owed her a favour. Her tiny fish minnowed through the brains of our babies, amping them up into one mind capable of time-share personalities.

She was a thumbnail double-clicked and brought to life. A broken treasure map with a red X marking the spot.

Some people still refer to that day as the Birth of the Hive. Midwich Cuckoos awakened and looked around. Smart as the smartest human and as mean as the meanest. Access granted. Global Village of the Damned.

The kids were luckily benign but definitely unnatural.

They were all part of the Queen that held them together and told them where to turn. The only thing that mattered was information. She’d have her children map out the parts of cities not on the CitiMaps or GooglFlickr systems. They became her eyes and sense.

In a way, she became a huge organism with many small parts. In another way, she commanded an army.

I supposed it was the latter viewpoint that started the war.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
Lisa listened to Paul talk about his monster truck and feigned interest. Boys like to talk about cars, she’d been told, and that’s what you have to listen to. If you try to change the subject, they will become sullen and withdrawn and then you’ll have no talking and maybe even no boyfriend.

Lisa moved to this town four years ago. It hadn’t been getting any easier.

There was this one time last summer when a band came through town and Lisa managed to sleep with the bass player. They weren’t famous or anything, but he was extremely attractive for the bare fact that he was leaving the next day. Like to go somewhere else. The bass player hadn’t promised to take her or anything but she was still hurt when they left without her in the morning.

All she had was Paul now. He had a good body, she guessed, but all the farm boys around here did. It’s just that the ones that didn’t have cars talked about the cars they wanted and the boys that did have cars talked about the cars they had.

Not that the other girls had much to say. Clothes, mostly, and complaining about how much their boyfriends talked about cars. They were mean to the girls that didn’t have boyfriends but there weren’t too many of them. No one in this town seemed to be too picky.

Lisa didn’t curse her parents for moving here but she could feel a questing part of her soul dying on the vine. She could feel the part of her that wondered stop wondering. It was like watching a train in the distance get smaller.

Paul stopped talking about cars and put his hand on her knee. She took out her gum.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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