He’d come upon a bed of oysters clinging to a shelf of black lava rock about twenty feet down, and now he hung in space a moment, trying to commit their location to memory. Distorted light brushed back and forth over the sea floor, picking out the roughness in shells, running gentle fingers along the arms of bright anemones. The water was cold for this late in summer, and the current was strong and came in chilly pulses which carried with them the feeling of great depth. Stones clacked together, moving forward and back. His lungs tickled; he kicked back upwards.
This is all there is, there isn't any more.
"C'mon, guys, have a little mercy here," said John.
Gary laughed and took a drag of his cigarette.
"You failed your saving throw," he said.
Brett swung his legs back and forth over the porch banister, kicking the peeling blue wood with his heels.
"Dude, I've been playing Logarth since we switched to Advanced," said John. He squinted in the sun, ran the back of his arm across his forehead, wiped his arm on the side of his shirt.
Everybody likes costumed heroes, right?
“How serious are you about this ‘secret identity’ thing?”
“I dunno-- fairly, I guess.”
“Well, serious enough to keep it a secret from me?” she said.
“I think so,” he said.
“You’re fucked in the head, you know that?” she said, and exhaled a little cloud of cigarette smoke.
Not sure if this belongs here. It's surreal and bizarre, but doesn't explain.
I was frightened by the boy they called my brother. He was real; he was obdurate. He was never a pair of scissors or a thimble or a thumbtack. He never appeared suddenly in the sewing-room, fully formed and naked, unknowing, screaming at being alive. He had come out of the vagina of the woman they called my mother, purple and small, and had grown up gradually. This was natural, I was told. I nodded. Natural.
Hello, Oort Cloud. This won't make sense if you read it without the first two chapters, also blogged here.
I try to close my eyes and sleep, but my mind and stomach are spinning too fast for me to settle. The headache begins to throb in earnest. I need a cigarette.
I pull out my computer, trading one addiction for another, and log on to my hard disk.
Mail. Three rejections from three different print mags for three different articles. I asked for money. I think that was the problem.
This is the tip of a novel I am attempting to write. I'm not sure how many Canadian readers we have here at Oort-Cloud, but if you live in Toronto, the place names will mean something to you.
My aim is to focus more on my characters and on digital rights than on ray guns and spaceships. Feedback appreciated.
It’s three AM or so now, and quiet. I’m listening to the rhythmic scrape of a bent fan blade as it brushes air from somewhere to somewhere. My eyes are closed, light-bruised. My mind makes the room rotate, pushing me into the couch.