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The Mere Tide

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Old 01-15-2018, 03:33 PM
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("...no not even an audiobook, a text reader..." replied the goblin adding "...you know how often you come across a youtube stream and it's a machine reading the text there, they're quite good in fact, but because the text is not designed for the app, many glitches abound still, whereas if the author had the app in mind there would be none I imagine, and then hundreds more people would be wanting to be read to using it...", somehow it just seemed like the future of reading is this busy age)

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Old 01-15-2018, 06:48 PM
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I gave a listen to a few and I really dont like them. I think the computerized monotone does a real disservice to the style and would do so to anything but a technical manual so I cant see myself using them. Maybe Ill try and find another way to reach a broader audience. Thanks for the suggestion though.

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Old 01-15-2018, 06:52 PM
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I use VoiceDream to listen to my text spoken. It’s good for catching typos. Otherwise, like Blue says, it’s flat and boring

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Old 01-15-2018, 07:09 PM
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*hack* came back have some bee vomit, it was disgusting --

She eats the belles. Has eaten the last of the girl and sucked dry the marrowbones. Other girls shuffle in their summer dresses to sermons that learn none dread more than this haunter of the outer dark. (This is where I’d plug in the details of the structure of worship. Nihilistic gothics love dilapidated architectural detail) After mass a plaited girleen strays from the parish and forthwith she is nake slaughtered in the shack and coupled to at the loins. She eats the bread from her belly. Imbibes the wine. (Does she pocket teeth? This is something I think would happen. Sicko. I mean,. I have my wisdom teeth on a key chain. So. Haha, I aint gonna put ‘em in no ravens.. although I’ve seen a raven fall to it’s death, break its neck on the sidewalk. Ooomen,)
Hark (! ) then alarms resound up the face of the mountains. These seeking voices. They tramp the switchbacks a few days and go back.
On the outskirts of the villages now are wards to which she knows no excantations (ex-cantations.. Never heard of this. I know incantations, ex? Also, with WC “now are wards” this is very much tell and not show. Woodville’d ding your tells out the wazoo, I know, I know, you ain’t done yet). She slingshots a raven and gorges it on human teeth by means of gavage and wraps it in human skins slaked with blood and she wears this on her back with the bird squawking like a demented herald. (teehee, it's still alive after all that?) She finds tracks in the mud. (yes on these shorties)
They are hexens. They hold convent in a riddance of trees and masturbate round a living skewered hog chanting through their gestalt orgasm. Their convulsions precede (preceding) the ecstasy. They put the thing (thing?)to fire and tongue the cum (..hmm.. I gift you: churned liquids/fluids/) from their fingertips and sucted the heated semen from the hog's hooked pizzle. Among these zoophiliacs is a witch whose pockets jangle and she stalks her a hütte in a marsh and waits upon a knoll. (This prose could be spilt and expanded. I’d start: “Pockets a jangle, the witch stalks among the zoophiliacs ….” Or whatever order. Waiting on the knoll can she still see the circle jerkers? This could be a fun detail to describe from afar … mandalas of ..ew.. Lemonzest?) The witch chants through the night and in the morning when she attempts to parley she shoots her. (her? The hexen? This could be reiterated and describe what the victim looks like before she dies. I don’t care to hear her speak, but maybe just some natural feature/s) Her brains splatter across the crude board jamb. She goes down, the marksman, and stands over the hexen. And (period) She (who?) is not gimpen, not undesirable. (Yeah. I’d expand and explain what is desirable. Why did the hexen die? I’d imagine to harvest parts? No reason? Reader says: What’s going on dude?)
In the hütte a fremd stock of poultices and hydria. Newt eyes and grimalkin tails. Babe bones ground to meal. Batwings. She stirs the ash of brogans.In a churner has been mashed an obese infant. An eye peering out of the buttered gore. Turns bloody pages of old manuals in no tongues long forgotten. A drowned landsman's map, the recorded prayer of a girl drowned in a cistern. Soviet amulets among them, medals and commemorations and secreted pictures of the dead erased centuries ago by committee decree these photos alone evidence of their ever having existed, as if their veins of causality were to be annulled. (Fantastic short sentences through entire paragraph. Great detail and the reader is brought back after wondering what the parley was about and why the female hexen had to die besides the possible obvious of a shitty world.)
What they in their absolute potency can conjure as as nothing to the industrialized butchery to come, so many years prepared. They have plied their arts but lo the tower is in the spread and what comes cannot be called back. Is already here. (Last sentence a tad awkward, but okay, would suggest ‘and’ instead of separation)

(added spacer. Not sure why.. seems like a drastic scene change here or something, not sure.)
Under saurian bones is a newspaper. The frontispiece is of a soldier frozen in midfall. (Love these two sentences) She touches him and the bullet that has felled him rips out his heart and he rights himself. Bright red flowers withdraw into the muzzles of guns and buildings erect out the recess of explosions of dust and smoke seeps into cities and bombs rise out of the earth into the bays of planes and children spring up to a platform where men unhood them (them? The children or themselves? This is where you could establish the color of cloaks and who’s wearing what including the halters.. and I’m thinking about horse dressage on these children, is this what you mean?) and remove their halters (children wearing chains/halters? Slaves? Simple detail with more show will satisfy imagery). A voice speaks. You can stop the future. Enlist today. It can be done. (Scene reminds me of that illuminatus book I never finished. This is all very etheric and could be dialed. We start with a newspaper and soldier in midfall. When “she touches him” in the beginning, is she touching the image of the newspaper? This could also be established. )
Now a revanchist she goes. Nominal harbinger of a theogony derived out the narcomaniacal yearnings of privation and a thousand miles of conifers. A meandering locus of auditory nihilism what could not fathom the nemoral birdsongs and so attributed the very symphony of life to the claustral earth.
Off the mountain. In followance of a tributary leading to the bluff wherein stairs are carved. A steel door at the landing. She hammers upon it with the stock of her rifle but there is no answer. She pulls at the hatch. It creaks like anciency. The light that fell inside seemed the first in a long while and slow in its filling of the confines as if the dark within had been caught sleeping. (si gusto transition to action, birdsongs. Except ‘nemoral’ or numeral? I’d like to see that dictionary of yours. Sometimes I let it slide..but sometimes these words you use, I don’t know.. maybe your archaically dyslexicack –sdsdf ctr-alt-del)
She moves through the maze out into a vaulted portico. She checks the rooms. The filthy kitchen, the empty larder. In the mess hall is an antique arcade game whose play is a pixelated B17 bombing a bird's eye caricature of the western front. (Excellent shorts. Very much appreciate rooms. And now… there is electricity in this apocalypse? I will accept this was explained in the first book. Solar? Wind?) She dusts the stool before it and takes the quarter out the coin slot and deposits it again. The game starts in sixteenbit music and mock bomber effects. She bombs panzers, trenches, AA nests. Guns down Messersmichts and Fock-wulfs. The Cries of the gray shapes of infantry distorted in the speakers. A V2 rocket falls her plane and she reads the only word she knows as it spins broadwise up to fill the screen. (Dahhahah)
She goes on down the hall to the squadbays. Bunks line them like unfinished cages. She hears him breathing at the read of the bay somehow on a top bunk. A sickly nigger, infirm by age. His legs slathered in a flesh colored pus dripping through the springs. She climbs atop the bunk next his. He doesnt notice. (greats! <^>) His shirt is unbuttoned and sweat beads on his chest, his brow. She nudges his shoulder with a toe. Eyes like saucers in that sable face. Squinting in the dim light falling from the ceiling he poorly could discern his visitor and he props himself up painfully on an elbow.
Git out. Git out.
These whispered commands seemed to tax him to the brink and he holds his throat as if he he (typo) had thrown up the words by force. In his breast pocket she could see a bight of maroon. Beads or some other jewelry.
I sayed I doan knowned yuh but if Ida known yuh was the devil's own Ida said. Ida mohved dese legs. Is do it now.
He gripped the springs and hauled himself up and reached for her and she rolled sideways off the bunk. He fell back down. (fantastic)
She looked about the spartan confines. Pocks in the qualmish bulkhead. Dust motes. She reached into her pocket and took out a sachet of blackberries and stood a tip toe and placed them at the foot of his bunk. (Why she feeding him? Sure is nice of her after showing she’s a cannibal… she is this yes? .. You could at the beginning of the story have Dachni picking blackberries so that we know that she has them, then this action would be a double meaning of .. nothing but character)
I bout kill yo daddy I heard what he done but Is wished he done it sooner. Fo you was old nuff to crawl back out. (See here, he said he didn’t know who she was, but then says she knew her father. I always catch me a liar. But this is where I was confused, yet it doesn’t matter, he can be a liar and you’re allowed to confuse the reader, I’ll always point out the inconsistencies and you can just ignore the chunks. However, next transition works well; Gold star tranny --)
Even that very noon she dredged the surrogate from the garden. It had been interred almost a year and it came apart in her hands. She hauled it up arm by skull by spine. A soil stuffed brisket woven to corset by dropwort. (One day this line will click, for now i’z smore fuzzled than a pizzle this dropwort woven corset soiled brisket is a head full of dizzy) She compiled the bones in the fireplace with those of her matriarch but anger alone cannot compel a fire to start. Her hands smelled of cosmoline. She had mended her rancid costumes with shot patches and bloodstained linens and spools of stitchwire salvaged out the mutilations of her own person and she seemed some aposematic refugee scaped from who knew what carnival disaster. She had a crude leather satchel fabricated badly out of the flensed hides of children and she girded her waist with four belts fashioned from the same with the scalp hair swinging strawberry or blond tailed pony or pig. She watched the stars from her perch and she watched come down an omen the color of envy and set out.


--nice. This could be the end of a chapter, omens. This last line would make me turn the empty page and read on. By god, I have to get back to my own little private hell.
i didnt do it, except

Last edited by Beesauce; 01-15-2018 at 07:11 PM..
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Old 02-15-2018, 07:52 PM
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And we are back with a massive post so I think maybe no updates for two or so weeks? Aye? Aye. I didnt want to break it up because with the exception of the opening scene its a coherent whole without any break. I did manage to work up a decent sized buffer. Ive got a hundred page buffer now and we are up to page 70 thus far. I'm actually using size 6 font with an 8x11 page size

Dachni woke to a dryness she knew would not last. She threw off the duvet and seized when the fabric brushed her foot and it was this total shock of body that kept her from soiling the bed. She recovered limbmeal and when she had regained some tenuous control she rolled off the bed and searched for a place to pee. Nothing presented itself. And so what receptacles. A gold chalice and were it the ark of the covenant it would have made no difference. She hop rushed to it with the first drops beginning to leak and plopped down and let loose a long stream.

Awuuuh, she sighed in pained relief. And too soon and her cup overfloweth. She stoppered herself with a pinky and put the brimming cup aside and hopped like some bandylegged victim to an urn. She unlidded it and squatted and let out the scorching water. It made a splattering sound like the sound rain makes on mud. With the voiding of that worry a new concern disquieted her and she cast about the panoply of arcana for that artifact not inaugurated among their number. She stood still dripping and hopped to the bed holding up the flannel pajamas she did not remember donning. The bed was empty. She looked at the door and the door opened. It was the pilot.

Ye lefted! Dachni raged.

I made breakfast.

The pilot set two enormous gold patens on the bureau and lifted their lids. Good American breakfasts. Thick prime rib and full eggs. Grits. Porcelain cups filled with orange juice and spiked with vodka. Dachni couldnt see them through her anger. Couldnt hear the meat sizzling. Smell the oily aroma.

Quitted! Ye quitted!

The pilot smiled. She crossed the room and pulled up the child's pajamas and retied the drawstring and lifted her up and bobbed her and gave an affectionate lick along the underside of her jaw.

Uck, groaned Dachni wiping her face.

The pilot kissed her again. You need shoes.

And here is Dachni jouncing along in a truck huddled haybird shy against the passenger door. Verily lapped to it as though pressed upon by an invisible force and bleeding the while the last vestiges of a terrified huff. In the long ascent from the chamber her breakfast had gone untouched and she ravaged it now. Rupturing the yellow boil of the fetus and sopping up the goo with the grits and stripping the meat from the t-bone with her teeth.

You were hungry.

Her eyes darted wolfishly to the pilot. She occupied stately the majority of the cab. Her legs tucked under herself and her arms in her robes in the manner of the Chinese or in her manner.

Dachni shrunk further.

Its alright. Its a good thing.

Gowbs dat, she mouth round the soggy bolus of potato and beef.

Well, said the pilot taking the air and a brief manual control of the wheel, you starve yourself when youre upset.

Doesnt do it.

The pilot cracked her neck. Left. Right. She released the wheel and it stayed their course. Ok.

Dachni nibbled at the bone. A greasy ring of juice had formed around her mouth. She said: If ye soy sauce her good its eggs.

I see.

Ith kay.

She stopped her chamfering to dislodge gristle lipes from between incisors. Sliding a stained thumbnail between them and then reaching further back to unstuck meat wedged between molars. Tilting her head upwards mouth agape and performing quick rotary motions at the wrist.


Ohnt gih out, she muttered. Gout.

A front wheel dropped into a pothole about as she was saying gout and the mispronunciation yelped forth more mangled as her teeth clapped on her thumb.

Guhagammit, she cursed sucking at the little row of imprints in her skin.

This pickup was no pauper's transport. The sleek design fresh from the printers and the careful minds of aerodynamicists. At rest it could levitate up to ten feet and in motion had four feet of clearance. The interior was a picture of luxury. Tempered windows. Heated seats. A HUD display built into the windshield and cameras with proximity alarms. Everything that moved doing so with a grace bordering on arrogance. And backed by warranty even in this wicked age as Jason Coke of the Lighthouse Gazette dubbed it. Among other features it had passenger side airbags and when Dachni first touched her bony rump to the bonded leather the onboard AI had warned that airbags were a peril to small children and with Dachni's hurt and totter it advised she don a seatbelt and as after her initial recovery of its existence she hissed not dissimilarly from her hissing now: Fick ye stringey cock khist.

Parental controls being enabled the AI had the personality of a nanny and in the posh tone of such proceeded to chastise the child.

Language missy. Or Ill roll down the windows and you can have your breakfast cold. A woman's voice. Moral indignation sharp in the inflection. You could almost hear its heels click. It habited so far as was discernible a screen inset in a board of jewels polygonal not aglitter but aglow and so a location and so a personality and so an offense.

Kill that fuckin thing. How does ye kill it?

Did you pick her manners out of a pig trough?

The pilot chuckled a dark pluming mirth out her sides.

How can you find this funny? demanded the AI. Juvenile services will have a lifelong ward if she doesnt acquire at least a semblance of civility. Why the church wouldnt have her. And if she is to have any prospect, economic or marital or any at all then these egregious tendencies have to be curtailed.

Yull git last irvices ye keeps talkin.

Whoever heard of an AI obeyed a truculent. To elders and AI respect. That will take you the long way in life. And dont forget I control all functions of this vehicle. And to exhibit this power it twighted the wheel a sharp port then starboard but the pilot digging one talon into the rubber of the wheel countered that though the artificiality believed in its own autonomy yet it did nothing of its own accord for it was slaved to the drive which it did not choose and in any case could be overridden by button or word and that other than a few cases of self-driving cars inexplicably ramming themselves into trees or failing to brake at intersections it was the prevailing opinion of programmers systemwide that so limited a construct was incapable of discovering suicide.

The pilot leaned across the seats. Which is the key to it all.

Herghp, Dachni grunted. She looked at the AI but the AI had no retort. She stripped the last gelatinous fascia from the bone and stored it in the side panel pocket and licked the paten clean and stored it there too. She belched lowly and slowly unflattened from the door.



Anaya reached behind the seats and fetched a water bottle and cloth. Hands out.

Dachni hid her hands behind her back. Fored what?

Youre a mess.

Irr the mess.

Heartbeat thy grubby feelers are slathered in the residue of cattle and fetus fowl and howevermuch their odor pleases tables they do indeed mark incivility elsewhere. Regard them.

Her fambles to regard. Slathered in myoglobin sheens and a barkdust of wet carbon. Tiny bits of grits like fly eggs and slivers of grime refuged under the blue tinted and rippled awnings of her nails. Appendages to whats? To gnarl perhaps with arthritis' aid into the roots of junipers. She wiped them in her hair.

Anaya laughed. Vaik. Ga goshga, megii. Come here. She uncapped the bottle and wet the rag and wrung it and the polysynthetic floor absorbed the spill into the vehicle's mechanical bladder that discharged then the waste onto the road. Dachni glared at the smooth dry floor. At her hands.

Aintint that dirty, she said.

Resent not what cant have pride. Those prideful have already learned. And who would they suspect broke them low?

A desolate guffaw croaked out the pilot that raised the dire horripilate out the child's pale scars. The pilot scooted near and took her hands and scrubbed the sear paste from her palms and between her fingers and nails with the altogether contradictory deliberateness of grief. Streams of dark water pooled on her fingerpads and broke into a charcoal rain. Steak juice was rinsed out the knotty tangles of her hair and her pale cheeks were daubed and for the soot it looked as though she wept the resin of the void.

All this Dachni endured in childish squirm murmuring guttural protestations but when Anaya had finished and moved to return to her side of the cab she found herself dragging the child with.

She smiled warmly and Dachni kneaded her forehead into her side, her eyes tight down. Is ye doned?

The pilot flicked her nose playfully. Doned. One more thing.


Mouth open.


Anaya vexed her with a smile. Dachni with a mumbling growl of uncertainty and the pilot strummed her lips to make a long blubbery sound. She flinched back. Ey.

Hello heartbeat. Mouth open. Come on.

Her mandible creaked ajar. Instantly a talon was thrust through the gap and in a deft swipe pulled out again. Kekt aye, she sputtered. But there was a relief in her jaw and as she massaged her mouth she saw on the tip of the talon held before her the meat.


She nodded shivering in her outsized clothes, her threadbare skin. Maybis. The front of her shirt was a contorted mess for all the wrong mismatch of buttons to the wrong slits but it was so huge on her it made no difference. She played with it. Folding the placket back and twisting it up.

Are you cold?

Its pretted cold, she said suddenly hugging herself.

The pilot loosened her robes and opened them in a gesture of reception.

She looked in at the nest then at the pilot. Yer coldest all.

The pilot smiled and pressed a button marked by curling line rises on the dashboard and adjusted the vents as the recycled air was shunted out and blasted through the cab. Hot benediction of engine breath, warmed by twelve cylinder's gallop.

Its warm!

Aye, said the pilot. Better now?

Aye aye. Dachni warmed her hands in the jetstreams and marveled at numbness' yield to a burning in her fingers. Is reallied warm. She knelt on her good leg and bridged the dashboard with an arm and investigated the vent slits. Airs ta fire?

No fire.

Bellshit. Howta hell...she poked about, blinking against the dry desert gust. She closed the vent making of the slats lamellar visors and opened them again but there was no fire. She glanced back at the pilot and caught some sad infection in her repose.

Yer wronged?


Not yer wronged. Yer...yer...whats wrong?


Dachni shoved off the dashboard into an almost graceful pivot on the ball of her heel and dropped to a knee and reached out and stopped. Like a child caught in theft. Her fingertips trembling in a space an inch from the pilot. They tightened almost into a fist but before they could withdraw long sickles curled round her arm and for a moment they were locked as if in greeting and then Anaya drew her caressingly towards the grotto of her robes. The child went warily and in fumbling lentor flipped into the nest of her lap and fussed at her robes until she had hid herself behind a halfdozen sashes.

Mm, she mumbled into the wool.

I know.


Night fell in through the windows and snow soundless but with a tone, a melody in its reticent and cambered trajectories of descent gloomed a without the headlights paled two bores in.

What heaventhroned elegist keeps the weathers? Who proves his muse? Who his awe? Has he the expressionist a manifest wherein he stores the tempest's wrath and the days of benevolent blue? How is he moved to rain? Is thunder the disturbance of a temper or lightning his shrive? He keeps his counsel he holds the tides and whispers through the balmy sweet secrets of their spume and elsewhere makes desolate the taiga with the cuckold's fears and dread the misted winter air of dawned portents at a windlass fair and is it more the grass blade or the locust he addresses or who is the Judas amongst birds birds that conspires to his end and who wiser to his wiles the mariner or the landsman?

The pilot struck a sulfur match and flame blued to yellow and she lit her her pipe and soon was exhaling out her operculum the smoke of myrrh. Dachni nestled sleepily. The glow from the instruments painting her the delft of blue like a sorrowful madonna. The lids to her eyes fluttered and her breathing shallowed but before the sopor the narcohypnia and would she awaken? And something waiting in the down below. Fetor lingered of a whatsit night hag orange of mine and Aryan eyes. Untrussed or a wrinkled hide save for a visage lecherous and butcherbrown nag paps. A dismal witch leaking magical cellulitis out a cloudy catheter and her mound puffed out by an enormous douche. Who would meet such a figure in dreams or out? Who sharpened her mudhooks with such avid intent.

Isses pretty farred ride.

Twenty minutes until we reach out destination, informed the AI.

Mute the AI, said the pilot. She looked at the child. Its going to be a little while yet. We cant go to Matraple.

Whos Matrapull? Whats Matrapull.

Its the town up from the lake.


The pilot scritched her spine and she straightened halfalarmed and settled back.

Mm, she moaned discomfortedly.

Why did you do it?


Why did you stab that girl?

Was ye knowed her?

I saw the spunky little brat atimes in town. Why did you
do it?

Never ded. Not far cause ta brung em to.

Why lie? Ive gived the wergild. Youre in the clear.

The what?

I paid them for the injury.

Dachni seized the pilot's scapular. Ye did leave!

Answering my door is leaving?

But ye lefted!

Its not far off.

Et tooked most an houred ta get down.

Not that long and besides theres a hole in all those floors and a rope.

A rope?

Youll need a ladder. No an elevator. Ill show you when we get back.

Aint goin back.


An it wasnt asked ta ya to do none of that.

The pilot massaged her scalp. Dont be muly. Twas your gratitude first won me. Dont destroy that. Dont efface that. Even in anger. Her hand slid down her face, lingering upon her lips, to the thready pulse quivering the shallow wem of her neck and traced it to those chambers she said were but brides.

And maybe thou art in doubt of your beauty but what star ever shone upon one glorious as you? Cosmic majesty is bluster and envy to your smile. Aye the planets would stumbled at your glance and turn themselves trinket to adorn your wrist. Jupiter his giant eye would wink and blush pole to pole at his forwardness and Mercury would forsake his near radiance as dull and scorn evermore the star's lashes and vie with his lusty neighbor for you attentions. Never go out at night, you would move the moon to woo. Roses will wither in despair to see how more worthy you are in spring blossoming and never cross the Pacific for the glistening spangled slivers of the surfaced sunlit sea shall stagnate when seeing drop the dew of your sorrow wistful under the gaze of tongue tied eternity. What rains on you rains vainly, what lash could mar the scarlet soul that aches Orion's heart? That worries the clouds booming before thee unrequested heralds. And youll be a saint a day kings pilgrim to. And every failed hope fulfilled and courage beyond childhood's imaginings, wilder than the first crowned prince's first caparisoned charger heady and snorting pride and tempered brave by fear endured and every hope you will fulfill whilst timshel shell whisper from beyond the sill.

Dachni looked up at her, mulling a fold in the robe. Ok.

Anaya laughed. Her laugh faded. Well then. Are you sorry?
Did you wish she was dead?


Well you severed her brachial plexus. She wont be tipping that stetson anytime soon.

Dachni wrapped her arms tight in the robes. Never meaned ye trouble.

I know.

Whats then ta hap?

I told you, nothing. Were you upset?


Why then?

She kept...the child trailed off. She could find no reason. Could not recall her sense at the time. Or any sense. The scenes of that night, the night before still images. A procession of sequence as though through painted glass up unto the deity of wind.

Has ye ever seed Yandvilai. Seen him?

A sharp series of pains lanced across her breast for the involuntary twitch of a hand.

Ow, she said wincing an eye closed.

How said I to say that name? said the pilot.

Ye dont git ta dictate who lieves what.



Where did you learn that word?

Dachni pulled at the pilot's thumb. From you.

The pilot lifted her talons to her chin. Touched the bridge of her nose.

Ye told it much.

Thats so. From whence comes the query?

Yandi? Has ye seen him?


He was here.

What did you see?

He was a...a...they aint words towards it. But it was him. It was. Hes in the wind.

Far away sky and earth shimmered in sporadic gray achromaticity like a sterile sun doffing a mask. Dachni thought it lightning but feeble and thunderless. Meeker lightning never seen, gelded, and a mock of stars. A buzzing accompanied it. Not like the wasps she had heard, that raised blisters or rent the skin but not unlike them either and dislike them in its electrical byss. The dawn flickered. A hard gray that skipped over the horizon and in a few minutes landed sterile day upon them.

Es gotted kinder light, said Dachni.

The pilot smiled a sad smile. Tis a cold ash gray night and it isnt dawn.

Dachni snuffled and smushed her nose against the pilot to relieve an itch. Ifn tell tell right. Is lettely light. Toe never was no queerer sunbreak.

Tis a false dawn. Tis a satellite grid called Half-Night. This is its third test run. A delegation from Hokkaido was invited to observe the stress trials. These will be the new mornings and everything still over its shadow.


Look out. Look out on the things that are made.

Dachni gathered the strength drowsiness had sapped and
holding to the pilot pulled herself up and searched out any falsity in the day. Scanning the terrain with its rags of snow and distant trees. But it was not there. And yet something unright in the leaden serge overhead.

Dont see it.

The horizon.

She pressed her face to the glass. Outside farms, orchards, wineries. Subtly illfit to their shapes like a dour mask. The road ruts. The fallen snow shining gray and fissile the gray of slate or the static radiation leaves on filmstrip. Farther out the perceptible brink of the world was shrouded in pluvial darkness. She shook her head.

Nothins diffint. Or not too diffint.

What direction is that?

She scratched her bow with her thumb and the hand turned up. Well, she said sagely. Its mornin an its light so thats gotta be east.

The horizon. Whats there. Whats of it?

Dachni located that thin meridian. Not far away and quivering and then where what masons of maya have mured the skysill with sable ramparts.

Its! Its!

Thats south. Thats south of us.

She looked east into the plumb of undawn. She searched for the source of this impostrous day but there was no point to deduce it from.

Whats wrong? What happened? Was the sun? Did it die? It died! It died dinnit it? It died!

Dachni scampered about the cab in her panicked digestion of revelations and puzzlements. Cycling back and forth on two limbs like the most maimed of dogs until Anaya intercepted her and fitted her into the cradle of her lap. She squirmed as if in agony and shouted but the sharp talons at breast and belly pawed her calm and she mustered a bravery against the gravity of such apocalypses.

Tis not the world end, said the pilot.

Then what? But real morning. Whens gonna real the morning?

Not for another two hours.

Thats nothin rights, she moaned.

Tis quite the crime.

Ifs not the end then what is?

Do you mean what is it?

She shook her head as though to clear the misreckoned phrases and resort the jumbula of words. Aye.

Tis order's immutable advance. Men save evil for times of evil. Or to put it plainly that which is suitable for the dark is endeavored in the dark. Ostensibly this experiment hopes to reduce that time in the hopes of reducing the perpetration. Nothing of the sort will happen, in fact quite the opposite which may well be their aim. Who knows who would benefit from the proliferation of lycanthropy.

The pilot's face sobered in the telling of these things. As if more than knowing what would come to pass had foreseen passes that would come. She looked down suddenly.

Hows your foot?

Its a turibil hurts.

The pilot cupped the injured foot and massaged it feathery through the bindings.

Ahead a riotous covey flowed across the road like a diarrehtic movement squealing wild otherworldly squeals. Stubsnouted ungulates with shitbrown flanks stenched of the slop trough.

Where did you want to go?

Away, Dachni spoke as softly, as sadly.

Where was away?

The grad.

The last of the swine crossed and the clutch sucked back ghostly on its own and the stick shifted into first and the truck pulled away.

The pilot felt the tip of each purple toe, applying pressure until the child winced.

Ill take you in the fall.


You dont want to go anymore?

Dachni shook her head. She closed the robes round her face so that the v it form was based upon her lips. Gonna loned.

You want to be alone?

Dont wanna talk ta nobody.

Theres going to be about half a hundred million
somebodies to talk to in the grad.


What then?

Dachni began to cry. Not you.

The pilot let her foot down and held her, rubbing her arm. Arent we all over that?

No. Nobody would. You wouldnt.

I have.

Ye werent nothin ta mad over.

Do you really believe that?

Dachni stifled her little sobs and wiped her eyes and buried herself in the robes.

Ive let it all go. What do you want me to say?

Dachni's lips parted in a snarl. You know what ye...what ye...

The truth is twas the barrenness of thy faith that betrayed me.

This dumbfounded the child. Wha-what?

The pilot said it again.

Hell does that mean?

The pilot sighed as though on the rim of tears and hugged her. Lets not talk of this now. I wanted this to be a good day for you.

Dachni wrestled to get free. Her eyes seamed tight. Its rottenest shit day.

Dont say that.

Wanna go away. Aint stayin.

You have to stay a little while. You cant go anywhere on that foot. And I said Id take you in the fall. You wont get there any faster and thats if you were to make it at all. Listen. Theres a bounty on your head for thirty thousand dollars.

Ye saided ye paid it.

For Emily. But what about your Ural girls?

Dachni's vision swam. She clapped the back of her skull and let out a loud moan. Jess go, she groaned. Jess go.

They went. Some minutes later a plower surfaced out of the dark. Sprinkling salt and sneezing hydraulic exhaust. Its angled blade spuming thick white waves onto the roadside banks. Ahead of it the edge of the light flickered across the terrain.

Is it gonna go? she muttered hatefully.

Very soon. The last time they had to abort over Astrakhan. Heinkel predicted this would be the first completely successful run but it seems theres some damaged bulbs.

The plower grew larger. The sprinkler whipped out its carousel of salt. The mudflaps white with splatters of brine.

Dachni lifted her chin. Whatta bout it? Is buddies kere?

Automated. Everything here is automated.

Means programs?


Some miles up at a crossroads the plower turned right and they kept on the straight path. Dachni watched it lumber idiotically out of sight. She shut her eyes and scraped her cheek with her palm scabs and felt her ears. Newly bandaged, the incipient cicatrix painted with iodine. When she opened her eyes again the grid had shifted north and she could see as few on earth ever had so fast an advance on the ponderous and inscrutable dark.

Two more miles and the truck slowed at a bridge to allow sheep to cross. Wool cirrus shuffling along the sidewalk trotted along by a few dogs. Harried shepherds bringing up the rear. They had a strange gait as thought they werent used to their bodies. They clutched their crooks in trepidatious hail of this new order oversweeping all and while they watched the definable line of light shot past and in the inch wide hemorrhage of gray twilight the headlights flared on.

Peoples, Dachni gasped half ducking from sight. Is they

Shepherds, said the pilot.

But peoples.

They might be machines too.

Programs aye? Would it be a think?

The pilot rolled down the window and the warmth of the
cab was quickly evacuated. Hello.

Allo, said the herdsmen.

Doan talk to em. Dachni hissed from under the robes.

What are you two? the pilot inquired.

Dachni peered out between the sashes. The shepherds looked at themselves. At their matched gray overcoats. They didnt know. They said it was the first interrogative ever they had been posed and all their lives a haze.

Non in utero, said the pilot.

The shepherds professed ignorance.

She smiled curiously. How long have you shepherded these flocks?

The taller shepherd, a man of gray stubble, and Roman physique looked to his flock. All my life, he said in the accent of the deaf.

How long has your life been?

He stared blankly.

Is that your voice?

My voice? he said touching his throat.

Well talk later, she said and rolled up the window. She ordered the AI onwards and it shifted into gear and pulled away. The road beyond the bridge wasnt pavement but a tousled clay a high cream color like beachsand and rimed corn formed its rails. Labarums flapped from the roadsigns.

Haupt, piped the child.


Haup haup. Up! Ta see!

Ah. The pilot put her knees together and shifted the child upon them and drew in her legs and in so doing boosted the child to a better vantage.

Dachni held the doorsill and looked through the window but save for distant blooms shining through the heads of corn it was all dark.

Is that a see?

Its country. Its land.

Whats yor see? Does ye see anythin?

The pilot's head inclined low and left. Her irises shifting, widening as they drank in dark and flowed as though over contours.

Well? Sye seed saided. Said yer see.

I see rich dala. Loam long and fuscous.

Whats fuskus? Uscous?

A color brownish gray.

How can ye tell that?

Maybe I dont see it but I know its there.

What else?

You lither soul than me. Good chernozem.

Dachni pinched an eye closed. Say right. Quet sayan all that.

As thou wishes. What do I see? I see seeders sowing Calico and Schrieffer brands of winter wheat. I see their harvests and in them the flour sacks that will become the loaf and the pastry. Can you hear them?

Thats thuhs kinder thunder?

Aye. And those pale auras, canst thou see them?

Aye. Theys fuckin up the world.

And what way should the world be?

Not this way.

What way was it ever?

Dachni fumbled with her poet collar. She tucked her good
leg beneath her, forgetting she was aloft and her toes brushed the pilot's belly where it aught not and she jerked them away. Esset sposed sun fore mornin, she said quickly. Firstlies.

Are you still Catholic?

She fumbled with her buttons. Hassint churched, she confessed. It were a kindered le. About priesties bein old ta trip. Nevered priested an werdent no church.

I know.

Her fingers spasmed all discombobulated and she pushed herself an inch over the ledge of the pilot's knees and slid into her lap.

Well yer posed ta tellis ems.

True I am to do so.

Ye can say how ye wons. Yer times prettied kinder by yer voice.

Instantly her cheeks flushed and she covered her head in the robes.

The pilot pulled back the wool and laid a doting kiss upon her crown. Well. What do I see? Ist possible this see be any way other? Here is the truth. What I see cannot change but what I see in it is infinitely modifiable.

Essent that way now?

How should I know what I see? Should I say I see the logomaniacism of autodidactic sediment? Or the implausible sprent of possibility? Or a hyperdefined reality screeching down iron rails.

Dachni peeked out again. Ta what?

The pilot smiled and in a thespial outboard gaze appropriate to woe ignored her. I see crakes. I see sandgrouse and swans. Miracles watering at lakes glaciers didnt leave. Those are heated lakes. Look at them. They steam.

Caint see out.

But were she able she would seen it was indeed true, the illrounded pots did steam and there were likewise the birds alluded to.

They teem with fish. And what fear have they of drought? If these oases dry tis no matter for in their parched beds the eggs of catfish, soon pike and bream, can survive fifteen years. Beyond them aqueducts carry water. Pipes could carry it but you cant see pipes. The festooned arcades are like galleries and through them are offered windows to the hip of heaven and earth. What is lost is no longer lost forever and in their resurrection is the tacit acknowledgment of a folly and a willingness to rectify it.

In this man is become as a gardener. He sees what can be gardened and knows himself as such a thing. He steads himself. He esteems what is good. The childish indulgence in weakness flies. He recognizes himself in the things he cultivates. He knows it is from the loins of the leaf vein that bids his sprung heart face the sun. Aye when Gigphaii peered into the bark it was the warrior himself stared back. This humility towers over the narcissistic hedonism of youth. And gratitude born of knowledge that this reality decayed out of nothing. It is not meaningless because nothing could have become anything or that there are infinite possibilities realized in infinite realities and that these realities will in their time each return to nothing to become another anything. Meaning is in the beingness.

Reciprocity reigns. If I can hurt I can be hurt. Land has been set aside for the cultivation of medicinal herbs. It doesnt matter that altruism is not the sole motivating factor for their cultivation for even selfishness is born out of fear and a hope and a trust. Otherwise wherefore hospitals?

There are watermelons. Fat melons with fat bands like the reports of electrocardiograms. Rows of broccoli, carrots, fields of berries after their kind. Alfalfa. Deep green, a touch of waxy brightness to the leaves. Miles of sugarcane. Red leaved shaking in the early breeze like an army of spears preparing to sweep antiquity away. How many cups of tea will they sweeten? Besides I see tobacco, marijuana, poppy. Neighbors all to potatoes. I know with the ambiguous sense of disconcerted comfort that vice abides. But maybe those plats arent so big now. But then there are many other plats laid to fallow.

Alas the soul leaps perennial. Oh its a pleasure. They have plagued the vistas with roses. Flowerheads that could plug the bores of howitzers and maybe they have finally contrived a gaudy rose but what a delight of tulips and bonnet. In flowers Ive always seen hope. No matter what Ive said. The hope is in their beauty. The senseless beauty beautiful for its own sake. Strangest of all are pineapples. Blue bracted, hided oddly like ovoid formations of testudo. The ability to create that which has the power to bewilder the creator is the most precious gift of all. Man having achieved wonders not least of all because of its dreamers.

The pilot sighed deeply and sank into the seat. And yet in this exuberant lushness I see the eye critical of his jejunity, his sparseness, his absence. But not his sternness. Not the wild economy of his hurricanes. Not the prodigal waste, the viral concupiscent paroxysms of war. In desolation's amending to fitness for stock and staple there is indeed an indictment that the word was insufficient, that god was too affined to hell. Aye twas Lucifer was the favored angel gived reign of three quarts the world. But then what? What do I see? The meteorological mastery of the world is a spite of nature. I see the way astronomers see, telescoping the redshift, how the chemical reactions rewind through hubris, continual triumph's disease, resolve's rust into hope tempered in despair by the hundreds of millennia of merciless clawing of knowledge out reality's iron with bloody fingerbones and oft dug to through leagues of dead even to reach the iron and the naming preceded by the unspeakable horror, the sight, and always steeped unshod in endless folly and disgrace and the irresistible tendency towards oblivion that will seems powerless to overcome save that it is wedded to blind chance and charity and then back again inversely inverting in cycles epochs long to the singularity when the two great pillars of death and sentience slammed upon the shoulders of man and got its hook in the eye sockets and before even that the delicate lace of fossils through time to the first fragile bestowal of life.

Neither does this rework of surfaces or skies strike as a rejection of the chalice of the grace but rather a seizing of the mantle of the staff. Here is the salvage of a slaughter god. Man has despoilt the spirit of the dawn with orbiting sheets of lightbulbs. As if to say you are no longer the christener of the day. Men will say what is good but the announcement for all its pride is not malice to the core. Its to say we too are of nature. What hollows the atrium warps the sun wind. Were old enough now. You made us too in your image. Retire now among your star crowds and come a day when we are old and by our hearth nodding under the reading lamp you may decide to make our epigraph true: take these our ancient bones and again make us new.

Thass a lotta see.

Tis but to thee: Man hath assumed of god his brutal austerity. But not his immutability. And our enemies too have forged their deity. Or demon. A sickly decrepit titan of rust bleeding acid sap and slouching forth cold and fevery. These are the goliaths due to war, man gainst demon for rule of all.

A few minutes passed in silence.

Haupt, piped the child again.

Why dost thee fife?

The child didnt know. Or neologism distinct from the Germanic definition, germane to sick slumber. Far ahead bands of light were falling through the hard bars of trees and she pointed it out.

Es getted ta dawn again.

Nein, said the pilot shaking her head. Thats a logging camp.

And indeed workmen. Tranced, wallowing in the tsimmes, their sleek augments reflecting in the play and counterplay of lamps and carnival flares searing their shadows to the ground so that they appeared chiaroscuro harlequins or pixelated digita let loose upon the physical realms. Metal dretches shouldering timbers in teams and loading them into waiting flatbeds. Communicants supping horilka out of a jorum. A welder was cutting pipes to length with a plasma torch and the strings of sparks screamed out like tentacles nerved to a malfunctioning brain. As each pipe fell divided another would take them up and plier burrs offs the fresh ends. Skid cats hogged the road, their blared foghorns parting the shuffling clumps of laborers, their tracks roaching up all sign of their going and leaving fat sipes for wheels to rock and the massive floodlights mounted upon the rollbars boring caves in the dark. A heavy industrial reek polluted the air. Acrid and sweet and slightly intoxicating. The clearing with its havoc great root crowned stumps was like a junkyard for the the thrones of kings.

As they drove up a rangy sloomed hide bobcat accumbent on the roof an operating caterpillar and the moonshine of its eyes followed them with slight interest. Strings of oil drenched horses were being led down the road like sordid refugees and the branch of Sawyers who led them would not one survive the first skirmish of the coming war. Deep in this hurlyburly shined a mill like a chapel and the shrill scream of the saws hewed the night light an electric parish. Outside a tower yarder rose and crazed men, mast monkeys displaced in time, ascended in heavy gear and others sat fishing for hats with their tape measurers, letting the long yellow blades down with bobs and a hook at the end that would snag upon any unsecured headgear and then zip back up into their chrome cases.

Dachni the while was ducked away crying: Peoples! Theys peoples! And cursing the pilot as a traitorous sunuvabitch. Theyre folks!

Yes there are.

What if what if...

They dont know you.

The truck hovered along the shoulder for it had been decreed construction and salvage had right of way and the pilot noted the oddity of categorizing the industry of lumber as salvage.

Gotta git outta here.

Were going.

She tugged frantically at the pilot's sleeves. Leeeeve.

And so they did. Drove clear of the yard unto hills from which more distant hills were visible by the simple lamps hung from house flagpole or bracer. Wood huts with wattle and daub paddocks built into the slopes out which sounded a bleating confusion shepherds tried to repress.

Go back, seethed the child.

Were here.

Aldmost air?




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Old 02-23-2018, 08:23 PM
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A dark quixotry of a town towards which the rising road wound. The HUD highlighted the outlines of the buildings a muted orange and as they entered the suburban purlieu on Amos Street it highlighted the streetlamps and the neighborhood mail drop and the trashcans, the headlights sliding along the curb and storm drains and spilling onto the picket fences and manicured lawns or courtyards of cinder or brick fitted with the high colored gates favored by the slavic race. Like small keeps. The motion sensors activating lights as they passed.

It is a fairly accurate indicator of a race the means in which it attempts to seal itself away from the outer world. The slavs constructing the most pregnable fortresses.

At the Morganstein residence they turned right. The lights were on but it is the matriarch who roams the empty rooms. Member of the wandering usurers who'd snuck her family out of Vels to seek asylum and who would be recycled a month after the official declaration of hostilities.

Dachni was tugging on the steering wheel, trying with all her strength to alter their course, the wimpish strata of muscles raising hardly even off the bone, but the AI had decoupled the wheel from the steering column and their course maintained and when Dachni could pull no more she scampered down into the legspace and covered her head.

At the intersection of Parker and Camera they stopped as the law obliged them and turned towards the center of town. Puddles of lamplight ambered the snow. They passed a gymnasium. The marquee outside announced news showings at seven. They passed an outdoor pool tarped over. An indoor pool. The splooshing of the dives audible from within. The lifeguard's whistle. There was the town school, a library of an annex on a side and fields for track or baseball on the other. Some balance of the athletic and scholarly arts. Farther on refugees like mangled refuse laxated out along the railtracks dividing town. A foul smelling line of the haggard and plastic wrapped competing to nauseate the downwind with the hoggy reek of Pruitt's swine slaughter across from the station house and the recycling center. Or gypsies. Gypsies unchanged from ten years old. Mater and filia equal in wisdom lack and depth of experience. The entirety of their umwelt accomplished in a decade all they would ever know. Everything else a more leathern copy of experiences already played out. The truck bounced over the hump tracks and went on. Tagged cows slept in a parking lot. They turned onto Kennedec and drove past a row of autoshops. Margilen and his crew were taking on the first order of the day, a dump truck in need of maintenance. The mechanic presented a blind salute that went unreturned and a fellow car flashed its headlights as it went past. Another turn and a quarter mile through residential districts and various recreation areas brought them to the town plaza. Center of commerce and religion. The small protestant affair across from the courthouse had a peninsula of beggary leantos and the kirkyard madonna stared down by no less than three establishments of vice and peeked out at by a fourth. They pulled up in front of the single lit storefront of a strip small and the pilot engaged the handbrake.

Were here.


Verily we are.

The pilot extracted the key from the ignition and the engine hummed out waves dissipating waves in a borealis shimmer. She opened the door and stepped out.

Thell see.

Meaning shines forth. Thou wouldst not shine to them what thee shines to me. Nay thee would not shine at all.

Dachni got onto her fours and leaned towards her. Wanna go.

I cant afford to waste fuel. You can wait in the truck but that expends the credit of your image. It damages my conception of you.

Dachni turned her head sideways and looked out from between her arms. Ye lied! Ye lied!


Yer lied, she croaked.

Will you not come?

Git on then.

Anaya reached in and stroked her nape. Ill be back soon, she said. When she closed the door the truck deployed its landing gear and settled down as the engine sighed the last of its power. It raised the hairs of the skin. It smelled ionic. At the door the pilot turned back.

I bid thee stay, the way you bid a dog to stay.

Fuck you!

The pilot went up to the door and knocked twice and before any answer could come went in.

Dachni climbed out on the seat and stood in time to see the door of the little shop close. Through the lace curtains of the storefront she could see a weak lamplight intensify. A vast shape gliding away. In the reflection she could see stargazers in the plaza packing up. They stumbled loudly towards the street. Dachni turtled up with her arms over her head. Their chattering neared. Someone rapped on the window.

Hey! You in there.

Hey we heard fighting are you ok?

Fuck off!

One of the men gave a light backhand to his friend. What a prick, he said. They sauntered off. Their talk fading with the sole slaps of their shoes. They turned a corner and were gone but not this terror in the child's chest that had snagged in veins.

The shop light was brighter now. She gnawed her thumb and cast about for other insomniacs or early birds and saw a few and ransacked the truck for arms but there were none. When she opened the glove compartment two human skulls clattered out. Thick boned and to an adult and a child. She went back to the wheel and hollered.


From the courthouse steps a drunk litigant added his own raspy mock tot he summons and an unlicensed citizen no less inebriated shouted from a second story window for the respect of the nocturnal tranquility and his own call prompted a dog to relay its own thoughts about the sanctity of silence and this ignited a whole chorus of dissent from alley mongrels and the litigant modulated his voice to a strained wrynecked gargling and windows were slamming up and voices from the dark within raging for the resumption of peace in a furious free for all of accusation and counter accusation and exploding glass bottles and a gunshot and now the litigant was chasing tomcats through the plaza offering representation at the rate of five pounds of kitty food an hour and an acquaintance yelled:

Youve been disbarred Julio! Go home Julio!

And the louder the yells of the townfolk the louder the bays of the mongrels and high pitched screech of cats and at last a clarion bell announced the commencement of mauds and a ribald chanty broke out concerning monks and how the second head is tonsured.

The driver side door opened and the confused and muted waif flung herself across the seats into the sweet cool scent of Anaya.

Wanna home, she cried.

The pilot took her under arms. Soon as were done.

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Old 03-07-2018, 07:16 PM
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Oh these days these days. Losin me marbles A 1982 British film I came across a couple months ago I would now recommend. Threads

The din was petering out fast as it started and by the time the pilot was ducking under the lintel it had ceased altogether into a tensive observation of the participants for any violation whereby it would all erupt again. As they crossed the threshold Dachni caught sight of a small silver box nailed to the doorstop with symbols of star and candle and citadel worked into the metal. Inside was a warm low lit den perfumed by a rich symphony of fabrics. A tailors. It felt a place of another time. Attire of various styles were displayed prominently on the wall and these lessened in formality the farther back you went into the store from the garb of the executive to the more utilitarian garments of the working classes. The register by the door had a big porcelain shoe by it for canes and beyond the double railed racks spaced across the floor was a drywall partition with a cutout for the thin proprietor behind to greet his customers.

When the doorchime rang he put aside the trousers he was darning and sat up. You never said she was so pretty, he said.

Geh ta hell! Dachni shrieked.

His lips pursed into a nervous grin. He folded the trousers and put his needled and thread upon them and touched his glasses low on his nose and pushed them back up again.

Shes shier than a kitten, said the pilot taking the cushioned chair for clients by the partition.

Shell grow out of that soon as the boys start getting cricks in their necks.

Dachni hid herself in the pilot's robes.

The tailor's desk had a sewing machine mounted underneath it and which by means of a lever would revolve up flush with the desk and lock into place. He pushed back from it and crossed his legs. That is the most unleavened child Ive ever seen. She should have baked a mite longer. How old is she?


You say it like you dont know.

She doesnt know.

My niece is about her size and shes seven. He took a handkerchief out of his front shirt pocket and daubed his dry brow and put it back. I was expecting an aienee. I didnt know you all adopted.

The pilot made a slicing motion across her neck. Dont worry about it.

Im not. Makes my job easier. I didnt know if Id have to invent a new style.

Well you dont.

Those eyes are...

What about them?

The tailor scratched his curls. You could get her contacts.

That would be a lie.

I guess you could say its a kind of deception. He threw his head back to glance at a percolator. Do you want some coffee?




Ok. No refreshments. Then lets get started. He he cupped the top of his fist and put his elbows on his knees. Hello, he said. Im Morganstein but friends call me Aaron. He clawed within range of his customers on the heels of his monks and extended a hand and Dachni leaned out of the robes and fastened her teeth to it.

Gah, he cried.

He kicked back. The child's teeth were dug in behind the proximal phalanxes and it looked like she was plucked backwards out of the encompassing arms. She had his wrist in her hands and she was threshing now savagely and he raised his hand to cut off her air but the pilot blocked him with her great corpus and levered her jaw down.

The tailor fell back into his seat.

Dammit. You little bitch.

He fell back into a heat press machine and scraped
alongside it and knocked over an ironing board and the heavy iron left a dent in the hardwood.

Theres an actor's flair.

This isnt histrionics. Look at this. He held out his hand. The skin was like crumpled wrapping paper. The base knuckles of his index and middle finger had been drawn out. He wiped away the blood and wiped away the blood and wiped away the blood and so pictured the wound. My job. My job.

Youre fine.

He made a wild gesture and blood flung up to the ceiling. Goddammit. You have to go somewhere else. I cant work. Im done.

Youve been paid.

Ill give it back.

The pilot had become grave. The jew does not refund.

Ill give it back.

Between them stood the child and she put her fist athwart
his knee and scampered back to cower behind the slender trunk of the pilot's leg. A hand reached down to stay in her to a place.

She doesnt know any better.

I dont care.

Calm jew. Clean your hurt. Come back. Well start afresh.

Get out.

Do you want to be drafted? Do you want Miriam drafted? Or David? Clean your hurt and come back.

Aaron glared at her. A succession of distortions morphed his face that finally settled into an acrid resignation. He ransacked his desk for a tiny first aid kit and checked its contents and hurried to the restroom holding the wound high to keep blood from getting on the floor. He depressed the doorlatch with his elbow and went inside.

Dachni felt a tap on her head. She looked up.

Will you behave?

Lets get outta here.

Hes going to fit you for clothes.

Done has clothes.

Rags pigs would be ashamed of.

Howsit your care?

Because I care about you. Now let this be. Ill have the jew take your measurements and as soon as hes done well go back. Promise.

Ye promise?

I do. Of course I do.

Dachni played the cool cashmere through her fingers. She pressed it to her lips. Ok.

For ten minutes there was a continual mutter and run of water from the restroom and then the tailor emerged. His wound was bound. He resumed his seat and surveyed his desk and straightened a column of bobbins and put in place a clear plastic cup of threading needles. He held up a bloodsoaked scroll of parchment about the size of a cigarette and pressed it to his forehead and then crumpled it and threw it in the wastebin. Then he got it out again and unrolled it to study and then threw it back again. Finally he looked at his customers. A remark was on his tongue but it went uncombed by his breath and the pilot gave her compliments that truly he was an heir of Solomon. And it was vanity those words. He rankled his curls and took a deep breath and settled into the mode of his trade.

Shes fifty one inches.

Shes taller than that.

Shes not.

She has scoliosis. You see how her shoulders dont rest
evenly? How her ribs bulge slightly out. When I straighten her shell be taller.

Ok. Her arms are...

Take her measurements.

I can tell from looking.

Do it because I told you to.

Do you have a muzzle?

The pilot bared her own fangs in a vicious smile. Do I have one?

He grunted angrily, swaying in his seat. He undid his bandage. Ill need a new profession. Im right handed. I cant thread a needle with this.

Youll live. And if its so bad get an augment. Youre being paid enough.

I aught to be paid more.

You have what you have.

You didnt tell me who she was.

I told you what she was. Now nay to haggling. Repress thy nature and preserve your soul.

The tailor pursed a disgusted frown and pointed at a stool. Stand her there.

It was under a table on which were stacked fat bolts of the cloth of every color. The pilot hooked it out and stood the child on it.

The tailor rose, swiping a tape measurer from the desk, and unspooled it.

Straight thee as the way, said the pilot pressing her hands to the child's breast and back.

Dachni cowered before the tailor's approach but a prickling in her sides mustered her courage. Ye keepted a fuck away ye gluttied cunt.

Aaron hesitated. He looked at the pilot as if for an assurance of safety.

Prove it Aaron.

He exhaled in resolution through his bared teeth and knelt. Ok miss...


Gillespie. Can you stand up straight for me?

Anaya jostled her. Its ok.

Dachni's face twisted up in a cry. Her arms flapped up and
down in frustration. Dont wanna. Dont wanna.

Anaya crouched and held her arms by her sides. You know if you hadnt put up a fight we'd already be done.

She moaned mournfully.

Go on, she told Aaron. Its as tame as shes going to get.

He worked quickly. He noosed the tape around her neck and wrapped it around her chest and then her waist. When he measured the seat of her pants she slapped him and the pilot bid him be cautious and he held the tape back four inches and sighted it and then he measured the width of her shoulders and the length of her arms and her inseam with delicacy.

Ok, he said at last rolling up the tape. Painless as it could have gone.

All done Dachni. Its alright.

Dachni swung round and blotted the pilot's stopa with her tears.

Go home.

Nein, nows the fun part.

Noes fuckin fun. Less go. Ye said of promise ta gao.

Anaya pushed her a little back to look into her face. Thus
shall winter soon thaw into the lively prance of spring and summer will sprawl over us lazy as butterflies, fall shalt wither all and then old winter. We aught dress for every season and so those pelts on the walls. Pick whatever you want.

Ir fuckin crazy.

Verily I must be.

Nothins there of want.

You cant wear my clothes for the rest of your life.

Take em back.

Dachni pulled at her outsized sweater but the pilot
stopped her.

Heartbeat dont. Dont. Its ok.

Miss Dachni, said the tailor.

Alessa, hissed the pilot blackly.

He looked at her in confusion. Then he ceased to ponder it, wise jew he was. Alessa. Im sorry. I can make anything in any style you fancy. I can do military jackets, car coats, jersey capes, dresses, skirts, sweaters ribbed or graduated or blended. I can make a miniature three piece suit. Tell me what you want, Ill make it. He gestured at coat jackets hung on the wall explaining the various differences. Her eyes drifted to the back where enormous pelts of every beast of the region were tacked.

Water those?

Aaron stepped back groping for his seat and took it and swiveled round.



Anaya followed the child's gaze to a pelt of lupus. Heavy glossed and dark gray with auburn taints and channels of black.


That one.

Do you know what kind of style you want?

Coat? wondered the pilot. Coat? No. Parka. Satin inlining. Fox fur collar. Water proof. Make it eighty inches.

Do you expect her to split into triplets?

I expect she will grow.

Aaron regarded the child, trying to abstract the waif into a
taller version. It wont happen.

I dont see you having my business if you dont.

Aaron got his coffee. Before he could drink he coughed
and it sputtered over the rim and he set it down and wiped it with a finger.


Go now, said Dachni.

Anaya caressed her breast. Not now. You need more than a parka. See those racks over there? Go pick out a wardrobe.

A what?

Pick out clothes, as many as you want.

Dont want any.

Anaya smiled fondly. Even out her serpent eyes bluer beneath the water. No diva she. Go heartbeat. No choice in the matter. She turned her gently around and cast her off towards the racks at the back of the store. Go go go go little one.

Dachni gimped towards the racks at the back of the store as though under sentence of exile. Halfway she turned back and grabbed the pilot and tugged until she went along.

The racks hung children's clothes assorted by article. Mothworn, torn. Shirts with the emblems of superheroes or rock bands. Cynical axioms blazoned on their fronts, the jaded slogans of teendom. Or else pure nihilism. Decrying the phoniness of life. Anaya chuckled.

Whats funny?

You are.

Thats the boys section, said Aaron.

Shell get what she likes. What do you like?

No conception had Dachni.

Whatever you pick well have to make sure it fits.

If thats the case, said Aaron, it might a bit much but the toddlers section is back there.

Shes not that skinny, said the pilot. But as they tried on the clothes there was no garment not outsized on her. Youll need a belt thats all. Drawstrings.

She went to go get them. Dachni fetched a pair of jeans from its hangar and shimmied out of her pants and tried it on. She couldnt do it standing. She sat and lifted her legs like one about to give birth and fed her legs through in. The leggings were like windsocks on her. She hobbled up to her feet and thumbed out the waistband and there was a gap about a foot wide.

Anaya came back holding a selection of belts through the buckle.

Are those belts?

If theyre not Ive done it wrong all my life.

Dachni reached out to take a belt and the pants dropped around her ankles and she was naked from the waist.

Anaya's head hung in mirth. You are a wonder.

She grabbed a fistful of pants and pulled them back up
and got one of the belts and figured it through the loops.

Anaya crouched and put a talon to her shin. Well have to shorten them about that much.


They filled three bags full of clothes. And it was mostly her giving tacit approval to garments Anaya asked if she liked. When they finished moving through the floor they went back to the partition.

How much is this all ta cost?

Aaron was fingering back the beads of his abacus.

It is no joy to a jew to discount his wares thus does he forfeit all hopes of clemency. The rebate being the beginnings of mercy.

Essented no cheaper? Owed pays for it? Hows ta pay for

Ill pay for it.

Dachni stared at the bags. Ye caint do that.

Of course I can.

Aints yours ta do.

I provide credit, said Aaron looking up from his calculations.

Tame thy avarice.

Whats credit?

Nothing you need concern yourself over.

It sounds as does.

Credit is a loan. You purchase now and pay in increments over an agreed upon time.

Shell not need that.

Dachni clutched one of the bags. Will pay it. Does have
gold putted ways.

Im paying, said the pilot. And you. You are upon a wire.
Never speak to her of money again.

Aaron said nothing. He pulled a bag near and took out the
clothes and continued totaling the price. When he had tallied all
he wrote out the bill of goods. The total read in pencil $17017.08.

Youre shitting me.

The jew put up his abacus. Were in war scarcity. Everything is being requisitioned by the army. All my orders are for the army. Uniforms. Boots. I cant get leather, I cant get cotton or jute or flax or hemp or anything. My suppliers have empty warehouses. The trappers wont even sell anymore. What am I supposed to do? I have a family.

War your excuse?

I dont set the prices. Broadcloth is fifteen dollars a yard.

Most of this is already secondhand.

I find a lump of gold in the river when its thirteen hundred an ounce. Do I sell it a year later for the original price when the current price is seventeen hundred? I have to make a living.

Tallying never furrowed the brow of a jew so long as he was being paid. See how greed's challenge sweats him.

I cant part with it for anything less. Everyone knows the cost of cotton. I have to buy by the kilo.

As I recall these were donations for survivors of last year's war. The war you fled. This business you fell into, the house you squat in.

I dont squat.

Its not your house.

There was no one there.

Thats because he was shot. Im telling you this as a favor.
If you try to extort people theyll run you out if youre lucky.

I cant give you prewar prices.

Were not at war yet.

We might as well be.

Anaya stood. Ill tell you what, she said moving the chair
aside. Im not above taking all of this without laying down a dime.

Aaron watched her warily. He looked at the receipt. Ill go to the law, he said to the piece of paper.

The pilot gathered up the child and put her in one of the bags like a kitten and then gathered the bags. Go to him. Go to god if you think it would help.

She turned to go. As she passed the shoe she sorted out a cane and gave it to the child.

Look at you, she said. Old and old.

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Old 03-07-2018, 07:55 PM
Beesauce (Offline)
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i keep listening to The Quire "Oh Freedom"

Do you know or does the story give away any of Dachni's dreams? Not to go overboard with it, but any dreams at all?
i didnt do it, except

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Old 03-09-2018, 07:29 PM
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Oh yes there are many dreams so far and dreams to come. In fact there was one not too many posts ago:

Cold wombed her in the sleep that followed. A rudimentary awareness tenuously limned as perhaps squid possess in the egg clutch. A brief gestalt presence before the horror disseminates into the abyss. In this unvectored matrix a feeling of compression as the downwash of a bird. A voice spoke. Hardly more than a murmur or from far away. All at once that porous cognizance contracted into a locus of aesthesia extreme. A singularity of sensation that fragmented into a thousand clarities of pain and yet no architecture wherein they could manifest. As though each agony were noumenal. The voice came louder. Coordinates in this plane of chaos decayed of their erratic wanderings into an aggregate, mud as became as rock and rock as became as bone of a pedocidal curse unto the revolt of meatless phalanges out a yolk of mud and followed ulnar, followed scapulae like a knife, clavicle swinging hingeless, grangrel ribs grimacing, a hollow skull rearing sidelong in a wordless howl and fixed to a writhen spine, all dissected incomplete, the stones still with terrible velocity spalding the dread skeleton even as it was made. It stood in a sooty globular pour of rain slanted in a windless valley and the sludge at its feet sleeched up the bladed shins and became as muscle and sinew and the horror clawed at this terrible bemeating but it was tide like all tides and now eyes bubbled in the sockets and she gouged them, the opal jelly tearing down her maxilla, enameling her teeth, assuming into the creep of her fleshing-for the pilot would say that sure as thou art to die thou art to be born-and mud seeped between her joints and became as cartilage and her eyes blossomed again and the muscle slithered out of her ribs and fused into a tongue and she strangled the chords of her voice that let her cry and that ground that had vomited her surged through her and she unthreaded these veins so that they hung by the bolt flaccid in her halfmade hands like the spew of a loom.

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Old 03-17-2018, 09:19 PM
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They drove back in the cracking of the dawn. The day's yolk seeping color into the world which was all as the pilot had told. The child hugged the bag in her lap. She stared at the paper. Seeing the quadratic formulation of its fabricature.

Well hey today wasnt so bad was it?

They stopped outside the cathedral gates and the pilot helped the child out and then the truck drove off to park itself in the car port. She showed her the rudiments of cane use and Dachni hobbled a three legged ancient ill of gait. She made it to her room after a long struggle and when she opened the door her room was ordered again. Her bed made, the books replaced. Dachni set on the bed. Anaya came in a moment later with the bags and began to put the clothes in the chesterdrawer. Filling only the lower drawers that she could reach. When she was done she came and sat by her on the bed and looked out the colored window.

In my library I have a collection of novels. Its a beautiful tome. The lettering is of gold gilt, so too the foredges. The endpapers have a swirled pastel marbling and its jacketed in a tan bonded leather with three ribs to the spine. There is a scuff and I hate that. And yet on page 579, among other pages, it reads: To have gone to both and them home would have entailed a sixty-mile horseback ride. Its plain what the typesetter thought he saw. To have gone to both of them and then home and yet its there. The editor must have thought the same too. If ever it should be that I am commissioned to do another run of that collection I would keep the error. I glory in that imperfection.

She bent down and kissed her and went out.


Two weeks then of days alike in panther black or auteur orb starting constellations of motes on sunbeams. Her sleepless hours sweat wracked abed parceling out the theoretical perdurantism of night, the tribal combat of dark against light, each decaying to the others recede as if a curse to be flown from. Eventually to succumb to a rank rest would last till lousy morrows, to scamper frantic to the bathroom and back her head lifting pained out of the toilet bowl, her unkempt lock ends dripping a citrus colored bile. Or else to wander the corridors lethargic, inevitably to be intercepted by the stealthy giant also prone to after hour serenades thereof to be born to the altar for drinks.

Once the pilot presented a silky brown beverage floating soft black clumps. Dachni poked them into dissolution with a spoon and with no small suspicion and deadly gravity asked: Ded ye poop in this?

Anaya cackled grandly. Its chocolate Dachni. Its sweet youll like it.

But Dachni narrowed a distrustful eye. That werent the question.

Even so she found herself the beneficent of a cautious dotage that knew too well the delicate balance on which such truces rested. That changed her sheets, that brought offerings of tobacco and fortified brew that prevented her contraction of scurvy. Who sang myriologues and cooked meals of which through claims of dysphagia she would manage to partake only a few morsels of.

The pilot weighed her and truth she lost no weight yet in her drare diurnal ventures from the dorter it was as a frail retardate shambling sullenly as if out of Orcus where aught she might have been of wont to remain. Staged late in emaciation as though undergoing a ritual of minishment. Bones razarous under the lunar translucency of her hide and her whiteless eyes huge and blank in their sockets. And reducto absurdem would she regress yonder infancy and in a final fading assume the shadow ambiance of the halls? For it is so men may also become the shadows of shades.

One night to emerge out of a groggy fugue. She blinked at the ceiling and spread her arms on the bed and clasped its sides. Then threw off the blankets and groped for her cane and finding it looked about and hobbled out.

The other dorters were empty. The library. The refectory. She retraced her route, looking into the bathroom, the nave. The flame in the lantern seemed a silhouette rapt in ponder and the crucifix below it creaked as it turned heavily in the air. Subordination to a foreign deity in his own repurposed house. She returned to her room and got the lantern for to light those back end corridors she loathed to traverse. Where the echo seemed to escape through false walls and where the barriers between vales did thin. Hear now distantly a gramophone rife with static. Violent violin sawed by an arthritic and can the bone warp be told in the chaos of the chords? No signs to tell where she went. There were rooms. Some empty. Some with piping jutting from the concrete. Others locked. A scratching at boards stopped her and she knocked and those were nails on wood.

Whos there?

Something like a caterwaul's death croak answered.

Who is she? Is it her? Is it really her?

The something pounded on the doors. The child peered through a slit in the boards. To see a shadow move in anguish. Say who, she hissed. Say who.

Perhaps the thing within had no tongue. It could not say and the child went on. At the stairway she raised high her lamp to give reach the light a few more inches into the puzzle below where paths multiply. Down these stairs. Would that she could debride the cathedral to find what heathen stepgod festered below and is it he who has laid the roads of time? She caned gingerly down, lowering the lantern a few steps ahead at a time and then easing down herself. At the bottom she spared a fretful glance to the light above but then she spat and cursed god and marshaled on. The first she was come to was an undercroft stacked with casks. Puncheons out of what cooperage. She tried a tap and sour black amber whiskey poured out and she wished all journeys were so rewarded. She drank up her courage and then drank away her senses and stumbled out. Her lantern multiplied as did her new spawned arms and their lights accordioned in and out of the article like a shadow that lost no detail in its duplication. Somewhere a mourner puled. A scaled hexapod skittered across her roof and regarded her broadwise with its torso oculars and the lids closed and opened as it breathe in sequence and then the headless thing slipped into a wall crack, its beneedled tail flattening and sucking into its body to fit. The involucrum of dark bayed by her light. Farther down it began to snow. Snow coming from a lunarium in the ceiling. She found the second stairwell. Or a stairwell like it. At the these depths it grew humid. A swelter reeking of humus blown in from existence strictly ordinate. Flowerfied wax vining upwards budding a thick foliage of wicks that blossomed with light. She broke off a branch and it was smooth in her hand and left an oily feel. Plashing rebated by soil walls but the puddles investigated rippled not. Ahead the tunnel flared into a chamber a pair squared acres sowed with an obelisk flora. Groping charmel. Rigid, upright, bearing a sentient fruit that rattled a shivaree with its chitin casing as she passed. And in so doing scared off bugs of another earth to be chumbled by leathery insectivores whose drool succored the fruit.

At the far end of the chamber was an exit and this she took. Antepaste of misventures future bound this corridor. Stepgod to this heathen. A shallow flow of water rising out of a seep and flowing on. At the next turn she found herself in a channel freshly painted. She put her back against the far wall and gave the painting a study.

It was the battle of Oreck'u'kii. When forty nine thousand airships disrupted the magenta heavens. High cloudbanks, mesas of cumulus and the archipelagic cirrus higher yet and far below the occluded front. The scene was well advance from that opening salvo first delivered from a range of a hundred and thirty two miles that devastated the skirmish lines before degrading twenty seconds later into a dogfight.

The airspace depicted was so crowded she could count no less than eight collisions. Four Gorecki class carriers dueling five Barrazgez. Aerial leviathans clouds themselves and their crazed rain duelists streaking at every vector, their passes like medieval jousts, some popping in and out of actual reality, reducing their probability of existence so low that missiles streaked through them without harm. They speak of a momentary blankness, the pilots. The theological portents of that nonexistence not lost on them, no not on them. Bombers approached in such a state and would they for too long remain would blink into nothingness never to return. Gunships blazed through the murk, their shields shining, their guns pissing great steams of tungsten that tore through tungsten and here was the grand gunner Coraskii in his crimson corvette having just cleared the smoke plume of his nemesis Gabios, never to see him in person, on his deathbed citing it his greatest regret, That dubious charlatan let fly his soul.

Thirties of thousands of missiles hounded exactly each soul of the shrieking craft, their contrails intersticed by tracers, by hot beams of plasma turning the overcast to steam, flashes of laser and flak burst. Missiles in swarms rendered in such detail you could read the serial numbers, see the galena's transit into and out of the masks of terror. Aircraft of divers designs, hyper specialized wings, a different manufacturer for almost every formation. Shock collared planforms, canards, sweep wings and scramjets. Ships exploding in glimmers of fire and downed ships falling, venting coiffured smoke, or barrel rolling through the alchemical convoke of flak burst, some shalki pilot, his canopy shattered banging on the side of his airframe and two ejected belligerents from opposite factions exchanging fire with their sidearms still strapped to their seats. And this battle only a prelude to the contest of land to occur scarcely an hour later.

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