Hey guys and gals so good news and good news. The short story Ive been working on is nearing its end and after a month-month or so to edit should be available around I suppose the late of November. I had a lot of fun with this one, its definitely a quicker paced and way less detailed picture but with none of the realism sacrificed and with an emphasis on military life. Its also helped me work through some personal baggage as well. I dont think its unknown that I have a serious grudge with Russia but in the writing I had to set aside the personal hatred I hold to create characters instead of caricatures or projections of me own noggin. I still would rather this world reduce to a nuclear wasteland then to exist under Russian hegemony but I can at least view the average Russian as a human being now whereas in the not too long ago I denied it altogether.
May that year saw two extremes in the weather. The first was almost a drought. The last of the floodwaters steamed off and the winds out of the west wheezed off the topsoil and left the pounson to roach under an oven sun. Half a month of long bloodslaked dusks and the dust like a glebous spume that no battening could keep out and noon after noon the heat roused her where she sprawled in polluted sudor among her drenched bedsheets like a victim of homicide. Rising groggy and vertiginous and her dusty hair matted to her ghostly cheeks and opening her little colored porthole to take in the choking breeze. And scarfed and goggled broomed into being whole snaking dunes in the nave. The fifteenth day began a fortnight of rain that flooded the basilica again and the dunes washed away and then it was June.
In the shower the roommates maintained a wary deference one to the other. The child tolerantly welcoming of the wash, her soaping up and shampooing with a strawberry formula. The long sufferance necessary to comb straight her panicky snarls.
Nature nevermore be your divan nor hairdresser. Adorning (as she does) tiewigs with last season's death
Or present's dying
Aye shes a petulant messer
Never giving whats new
And often foul breath
Anaya setup a barber's chair on the altar and fitted it with a booster seat and dusted it down with a bench brush. From the chancel steps Dachni watched and poked any fish that swam too near and studied anxiously the cart of barbicided supplies adjacent the chair for who knew what surgery was their purpose. The pilot whistled and she rose and toed the great black fiend lurking in the murk.
Seen ye afore.
Dachni climbed into the chair and kicked to settle.
Anaya fluffed a checkered cape over her and buttoned the collar snugly behind her neck. And what can I do for you today miss?
Yer what notioned the crazy out.
The pilot grinned. Trim and a shave then?
Dachni withered dejectedly. Doan fuck up the hair. Theys harly much pretty left.
The pilot misted her hair damp with a perfumed water and combed straight the last of her tangles to length. Her hair reached below her elbow. By my measure another year it would be as long as you are tall.
Never figgered it so lawn.
The pilot twirled shears out of a jar by an eye ring. Shoulder length say? Maybe a little longer?
The pilot viced her hair and the curt snip of the shears severed the strands in the blade meet. She felt the soporific that was the blunt of the steel's gentle alight upon her crinion. Her eyes fluttered and she purred off into a tingling doze.
The pilot held up a mirror. What do you think?
Dachni turned her head. A side of her head accommodated now a dozen cornrows and the excess in the front flowed down in as many free braids.
Thats pretty neat.
How about that shave now?
The pilot rubbed her cheeks and the child mimicked her to understanding.
Aint haired there.
Everyone should have a shave.
Anaya wrapped her face in a steaming towel and lapped the razor upon the strop and when the blade was honed she whipped away the towel and lathered her face with a shaving brush of minx hair.
She pulled her face around, peeling off the foam with the razor.
In her room she donned a blue, silvering with age, t-shirt with the sewer dripping logo Vecto Toad steampressed across the chest and denim shorts with frayed weft threads hanging out the shorn leggings like a curtain. The pilot in curious wed of royal and industrial garb, pumpkin colored trousers kept to waist by a fat cashmere belt with cam buckle and a formfitting undershirt under a turquoise caftan vaguely Islamic in its primitive embellishments of sterling swirls, windthrown stars and vining medallions flowing out the cypress shieldless torse supported by stag and kaig, that lethal beast of Aienagias, and up the lapels and towards the hinds like a dynastic lineage yet to be bred.
Where are your socks?
Dachni wiggled her toes. Wherer yose?
They rendezvoused at the entrance Dachni now besocked and besneakered, the swelling in her mended foot shrunk at last to its daint dimensions. Even so the skin showed a ruddy magenta at the rims and its range of motion was much diminished. e swelling in her mended foot shrunk to its daint dimensions. Even so the skin showed a ruddy magenta yellow at the rims and its range of motion was much diminished.
In postnoon whiteness the church grounds had transformed into a steaming glade out which larkspur protruded like imperial tears frozen and lilies not yet matured to the size of dishes floated like green areolas. Reeds young or cropped like spouts rowed the water betwixt the unblossomed stems of laceleaf and columbine carnation and begonia hyssop and mallow. Winds galed their prepubescent fragrance to and back but otherwise all this peccant lushness was pavidly tranquil as if out of dread of the basilica as though its lithic buttresses might disturbed articulate and slike its unholy bulk across the terrain with fanged portals, dragging behind its egg sac until after many snags on the muricate earth it tears and miscarries a hell premature.
A few natable troggins floated in from nearby markets. Cans. An empty bassinet. Fruit crates. Winter jackets. Who did not foresee winter again? Dachni sat on the pontoon boards and touched ripples in the water with her sneaker toes, repelling the fish struggling through this brephic underwater jungle becoming gulping earthworms.
Theyre gonda drown it dries.
Can ye take back?
The pilot said what had not occurred could not be recalled but in memory and was she remembering these fish would bake in the humid garden that would be and she rolled her trousers and stepped down from the pontoon into the water.
The child reached out after her. Hey.
The pilot glanced back, sat on the edge of the pontoon and the child mounted her shoulders, clinging to her caftan while the pilot groped the waters. The fish scabrous under their mucous sheens, thin tail spines enwebbed. When the pilot had caught all she started towards the woods ladling water over the fish every few steps. Dachni covered her eyes to pause her going but the pilot navigated without impairment. They crossed the road. Dachni closed her eyes. The scratching of the talons muted against pavement. How the water changed the sound. In the woods the birches wore new bark white as paper and their leaves admitted an immaculate laminate upon the waters. She listened to her wade through bracken. Pushing away windfelled branches, floating logs, isles of bark. Assured ford of seamless waters.
Why aint water has seams.
Samurai learning shodō were forbidden ink unto time as their fingers could equal their thoughts. Art guides the fingers. We know where things should be.
Sparrow notes rained down from behind the leaves into the babeldom drone of locusts but the great acedia within had been reduced to murmuring. On the lake pier the pilot released her catches in a fishburst of riffled streams. Floating at the center of the lake was a drowned deer.
There are stories of revenge and stories of forgiveness and somewhere along the journey it becomes evident what order the story belongs. For we are buffered all about by forces so irresistible as to subvert the nature of most any, turns devils saints and drag the beata down from heaven to wallow in the toilets of the pit.
Will they be ok?
Until next we fish.
Her arms tightened. Will ye have a sorry?
The pilot lifted her from her shoulders and turned her and bestowed the kiss requested and the child threw her arms around her and pecked at her neck.
Kiss kiss kiss, the child intoned.
And in soft antiphone. Kiss kiss kiss.
On the pontoon the pilot wrung her trousers and the water vanished through the spaces between the boards. They walked to the carport and slid into the truck cab. The pilot turned the engine.
Get us on the road.
The AI backed them out.
Wheres ta go?
Out of here a while.
How about a park?
Its far ways. Whys wrong with Materpull?
You know whats wrong with Matraple.
Said ye cared of it.
People might still be a little raw.
Let em be.
The pilot smiled. Alright.
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