“Hey, tell me, this look like Jesus to you?”
I come to Tito’s Tacos for a lot of reasons. The freeway overpass ambience, the way the old men in the kitchen wrap the burritos tighter than Cuban cigars, the shiny Kennedy 50-cent pieces you always get as part of your change. A lot of reasons. But conversation isn’t among them. Nonetheless, I dutifully look up from my lunch to see what the guy at the next table over is talking about.
It had originally thought the goal was to hit the two small creatures in the distance. They appeared to be identical to the three creatures whom he had joined in the game.
First approximation: separated by some distance, one attempts to down the group ahead of one using one of many metal-tipped sticks (called ‘clubs’) to ‘drive’ a small, hard ball. Those behind would, presumably, be attempting to hit one. So, one dodged and drove.
Her boyfriend put a slim hand to his forehead, as though shielding his eyes
from sunlight, even though the sun had set some minutes before. Where the
girl had pointed was a bright star, moving east.
Rated PG for frequent golf horror
We had an Elvis in the attic. Again.
Echoing in the ducts, his voice woke me around 2 A.M. I hopped from bed and headed for the attic–they always it up there. A Vegas Elvis stood by a rack of old clothes singing “Blue Christmas” to them.
As I edged in the door, he segued to “Jingle Bell Rock.” He waved me down to the front of his meager audience, conferring a special favor. I settled cross-legged on the floor and enjoyed his tunes.
For months there has been an Elvis infestation all over town, but this was the first Vegas Elvis we’d got. He worked the room hard, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. He was dressed in his trademark white jumpsuit with the spangles and beads and the big white cape he flourished dramatically. The acoustics up here sucked, but even a big fat Elvis could rock the house.
They came from test tubes. They came pale as ghosts with eyes as blue-white as glacier ice. They came first out of Korea.
I try to picture David’s face in my head, but I can’t. They’ve told me this is temporary—a kind of shock that happens sometimes when you’ve seen a person die that way. Although I try to picture David’s face, it’s only his pale eyes I can see.
My sister squeezes my hand in the back of the limo. “It’s almost over,” she says. Up the road, against the long, wrought iron railing, the protestors grow excited as our procession approaches. They’re standing in the snow on both sides of the cemetery gates, men and women wearing hats and gloves and looks of righteous indignation, carrying signs I refuse to read.
“Maybe it’s what you’d do with the knowledge that determines whether or not you’ll discover the secret of time travel.”
“What?” I asked the old man.
“I know for a fact that time travel is possible. I knew the man who discovered it. And you’ll never guess what he used his discovery for.”
Well, I didn’t believe that old man any more than you believe me, but we’d been waiting in that airport for four hours, so I humored him.
“All right, I’ll bite,” I said. “What did he use time travel for?”
“Wally didn’t need to see the pyramids getting built, or sail with Columbus, or even watch JFK’s assassination. What Wally wanted to do, more than anything, was get to work on time.”
An introduction like that demands a story, so I sat down and let him tell me.
Imagine a cross between Byzantium and a termite mound. Imagine a jeweled mountain, slender as an icicle, rising out of the steam jungles and disappearing into the dazzling pearl-grey skies of Gehenna. Imagine that Gaudí—he of the Segrada Familia and other biomorphic architectural whimsies—had been commissioned by a nightmare race of giant black millipedes to recreate Barcelona at the height of its glory, along with touches of the Forbidden City in the eighteenth century and Tokyo in the twenty-second, all within a single miles-high structure. Hold every bit of that in your mind at once, multiply by a thousand, and you’ve got only the faintest ghost of a notion of the splendor that was Babel.
Now imagine being inside Babel when it fell.
Genres: Technology
Rated PG and now available in a wide variety of colours!
Hello, you have reached Jim’s semi-autonomous answering machine. Leave a message and I will have him return your call.
Hello, you have reached Jim’s semi-autonomous answering machine. He will be hosting his birthday party on Saturday night. If you plan to attend, press ‘one’ and then speak your name. I will add you to the guest list. Otherwise, leave a message and I will make sure he receives it.
Hello, you have reached Jim’s semi-autonomous answering machine. My records indicate that you have previously RSVP’d for the Saturday night party. Please indicate your alcohol preference. For beer, press ‘one.’ For wine, press ‘two.’ For mixed drinks, press ‘three.’ If you prefer non-alcoholic beverages, press ‘four.’ This information will be used for ordering purposes only, transmitted through my wireless connection to Jim’s refrigerator, which in turn is linked to an online grocery. For more information about AutonomInc’s SmartAppliance line, please view our web site at www.autonominc.com. “AutonomInc: We give a whole new meaning to housework!” If you have a message for Jim, please leave it now.
Genres: Robot
Special closing monkey music by George Hrab
Sliding his hands over the clay, Sly relished the moisture oozing around his fingers. The clay matted down the hair on the back of his hands making them look almost human. He turned the potter’s wheel with his prehensile feet as he shaped the vase. Pinching the clay between his fingers he lifted the wall of the vase, spinning it higher.
Someone banged on the window of his pen. Sly jumped and then screamed as the vase collapsed under its own weight. He spun and hurled it at the picture window like feces. The clay spattered against the Plexiglas, sliding down the window.
Read by Jake Squid
It’s going to be the Three of Clubs.
I know this, as certainly as I know my own name. I’m less sure about some things than my fans would think. But sometimes, the swirling laws governing what _may_ happen coalesce into what _will_ happen with astonishing clarity. The sun will rise tomorrow, the Pirates will beat the Mets tonight, and as soon as I announce my “guess,” the Three of Clubs will appear on the monitor in front of me.
“Jack of Spades,” I proclaim, full of conviction.
The monitor flickers, and is suddenly filled by a pixilated version of the Three of Clubs.
Rated PG for…welll, you already know why, don’t you?