Pieces of Eight

Last night I went to see Tim Powers do a signing in San Mateo. He'd lost his voice, so he was whispering, but his whisper is this huge thing that carries-- you could hear him from across the store.

It was great to see him again. He did Q & A despite his lost voice, and he was funny and charming throughout. He did a caricature of "The author as a Bedouin" in my copy of Declare. Lovely, lovely.

I hung out with Marissa and Timprov and Mark for a while afterward, until I got so loopy and sleepy that I had to go home. I hated to leave. Those are great people.

I'd expected to write more about last night, but now I want to write about the Dare. So that's what you're going to get.

*******

Today I decided to do lots of short stories during the Dare. That appeals to me more than the idea of finishing the stalled novel/beginning a new novel.

I have some notes for stories, of course-- a Bonnie and Clyde story, another about a rogue angel of destruction, another about a French snake-woman. Those are all percolating still, though, or else require research that I don't have time to do. So I'm taking my own special approach to the Masochism Dare.

I went to Pergolesi tonight and wrote 8 all-new story openings.

The plan is to turn those openings into real stories this month. That's two stories a week-- at roughly 2K a night, that shouldn't be difficult, though if one of these wants to be a novella, I'll have to re-assess my expectations.

For a couple of these openings, I have a good idea of where the story's going. For some of the others... well, after you read what I have, you'll know as much as I do about the stories. So that's exciting, right?

I'm posting these openings in the order that I wrote them, but I'm not holding myself to writing the stories in this order. I think I know which one I want to start tomorrow.

Anyway. Enough ado. On to the openings (one of which is long, and which I think will lead to a very good story):

*******

Later the doctor told me Carlos had an I.Q. of 78-- like I was supposed to feel bad for what I'd done just because Carlos wasn't very smart, like he deserved pity for that.

People who knew Carlos agree that he wasn't all that bright, but almost all of them say he was "good with his hands."

He was good with his hands all right. He was taking apart the fucking world with his hands, one piece at a time, starting with the piece that's me.

*******

There are many stories about a young woman falling in love with a monster, and the reverse-- young man, lady monster-- is nothing more than the same story with a superficial twist.

This story, my story, is different.

There's a man, a lady, and a monster in this story.

The monster is a real monster, not some sweet royal under a curse, or a fellow who's ugly on the outside but blessed with inner beauty.

The lady might be a real monster, too.

The man is me.

This could be the bloodiest love story you've ever heard. And that's saying something.

*******

Even her bicycle was evil.

*******

Let me tell you a little fable, a story I crafted while sitting inside this dangling cage, where the rooks shit on me and steal my bread all day, and the smoke from your city fires stings my eyes all night.

Did you know the owls feed me? They bring me rats, mice, squirrels, and I eat them. That's why I haven't died yet. I'll never die, not here, wait all you like.

My fable? Yes. Oh, yes. It will, most assuredly, have a moral. Hunker down and listen for it, boys.

*******

Morgan sat in the Black Swan with his wife Sara. He sipped an espresso and read the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday paper. The featured artist made paintings with dung and rotten fruit. Morgan shook his head. Another triumph of media over message.

"Do you remember," Sara said, her voice dopplering in from some dim reach of her inner space, "when that Turkish gentleman tried to stab us in Cairo?"

"Mmm," Morgan said. Sara had become increasingly strange over the years, reminiscing about things that had never happened to them. Lately she seemed to believe the two of them had been adventurers or spies in their younger years. Morgan worried sometimes that he should put her in a hospital, but she was physically quite healthy, and got through her days well enough in the particulars. She never got extravagantly upset or became violent. The doctors said there was nothing to be done for her, anyway, so Morgan just tried to make her comfortable, and to love her as well as he could.

A young man with a bushy red beard sat at a table nearby, muttering fiercely to himself. Morgan looked at him askance. The young man sketched roughly with a charcoal pencil on a piece of brown paper, a torn bit of a grocery bag. He turned the paper around under his pencil without lifting the point, chewing his lip. From what Morgan could see, he was just drawing black lines on top of black lines, dark patterns invisible on darkness.

But that wasn't why the young man caught Morgan's attention. Morgan was the local university's underpaid polyglot, professor of French, Latin, Greek, and a smattering of deader languages.

The man was muttering in some corrupt, gutter version of old Greek, and Morgan was puzzling over his strange syntax.

The man threw his pencil across the room. It hit a thin woman with ash-blonde hair in the head, and she shouted in surprise.

"Done!" the man bellowed in English. The dozen patrons-- a small, early Sunday crowd-- looked at the man in fascinated horror. He lifted the blacked-over brown paper and waved it above his head like a battle flag. "Done! Isolation is achieved!"

The light level in the café suddenly dropped. Morgan looked around, disoriented for a moment, even vertiginous. Then he realized what had happened, if not how.

The windows had all turned black. Only the lamps overhead illuminated the room now.

"Isolation!" the man screamed gleefully.

"What has that fool meddler done this time?" Sara said crossly.

*******

"That's odd," Carol Ann said, looking at her cartoonish, four-color map. "I don't see that building on the map." She pointed to a gray-green construct of steel girders and bulging geodesic domes.

"It's the aviary, isn't it?" Doug said. Their daughter Julie ran toward the gorilla pit, her pigtails flying. Doug's grip on the kiddie-leash kept her from plunging over the railing. She ran back, crashing into Doug's legs, hugging his knees and giggling.

"No," Carol Ann said. "That aviary is down by the reptile house."

"There's a sign. I don't have my glasses-- what does it say?"

Carol Ann squinted. "'Bestiary,'" she said. She shrugged. "That's all."

Doug looked at the gray sky. "Well, whatever, it looks like rain soon. That place is covered, so let's get inside."

"Must be a new exhibit," Carol Ann said, following him, trying not to get tangled in Julie's swinging parabolas. "It's funny I haven't heard about it."

*******

"You're sure you want to do this?" Glenda asked, checking the ropes.

Martin nodded and strained against his bonds. He couldn't shift much-- good. Glenda had lashed him firmly to the couch.

"You can reach the remote control okay?" She was anxious-- understandably, after what had happened last time. But he hadn't been tied up, then.

"Yes." He extended his forefinger to show he could reach the "power" and "play" buttons on the remote by his knee.

She nodded. "I should go."

"Yes." Martin appreciated her help, but he was eager to get started.

Glenda left, locking the door after her.

Martin looked at the dark big-screen television for a long moment. "Onward," he said, and punched "power" first, then "play."

This time made he it through almost fifteen minutes. He blacked out before he could chew his way through the ropes.

*******

"How the hell did they get this bathtub in here?" I asked. The tub was huge, bronze, claw-footed. It almost entirely filled the bathroom, which was otherwise modern, all gleaming chrome and white. No way the tub had fitted through the door-- they must have taken down a wall to get it in, I thought.

"The old tenant had it installed," Alexandra said, grinning. "Nice perk, huh?" She pulled me toward her and started unbuttoning my shirt. "Want to help me take it on a maiden voyage?"

"I can't turn that down," I said, but I was still looking at the bathtub. At its bronze, clawed feet. Not eagle-claws grasping balls-- just wicked, sharp talons, outstretched.

Gleaming.

*******

Resume normal entry.

I'm excited about this dare. Of course, none of these words written tonight will count toward my Dare totals-- I'll only be counting additional words toward that.

Oh, my. This is going to be something.

Anne Hutchins