The Dance, page 6
I glanced down at the towel, patted it, and watched as colours filled the room and exploded into vast galaxies. Exhausted, but happy, I curled up on it and watched in amazement as eruptions of blue, gold, red and yellow starbursts filled my vision at dizzying rates of speed. In my head, I heard my own voice declare, We are stardust. The beauty of existence and the terrifying unknown melded into one. I drew my breath as I put my paw on the child’s forehead before she vanished from view. And then I understood. The planet we call home is but a whistle stop and we are but passengers. The possibilities are infinite.
MONDAY CROSSROADS BLUES
Bruno Lombardi
THE DAY STARTED WITH A problem, as Mondays are apt to do.
The Shopkeeper was ten minutes late showing up at his shop. This, in conjunction with his sleepless night and the fact that he was having a hell of a time finding the keys to his store, was making him even grumpier than usual.
Finally, the stars seemed to align in his favour for a brief moment and he found his keys. He entered his store, taking a quick minute to switch off the Gramophone burglar alarm. The Shopkeeper was always amused by that particular alarm. It had been considered “advanced” when it had come out ten years earlier as the war started in Europe, but now it was being sold in pawnshops like his for a pittance. With a shake of his head over the vagaries of history, he flipped the Treasure & Trade—CLOSED sign over to OPEN.
He was now ready for business.
Two hours and three customers later, the Writer came in.
The Shopkeeper didn’t know his name, despite him being a semi-regular customer. In this line of business, it sometimes was better not to know anyone’s true names. He certainly went out of his way to avoid having people know his.
The Writer came in on the first Saturday of every month, always on the lookout for anything “writer-related.”
The Shopkeeper had read some of his writing in an assortment of rather questionable pulp magazines. He found the stories, on the whole, to be competently written, albeit filled with some rather queer ideas and concepts.
The Shopkeeper surreptitiously made a few minor adjustments to his meticulously neat and tidy appearance—vivid contrast to the cluttered and almost obscenely messy shop—and flicked an errant grey hair out of his eyes.
“Hello!” said the Shopkeeper, smiling a practiced salesman’s smile. “And what can I get for you this day?”
The Writer—a youngish-looking man in his early 20s—scratched his scraggly beard and glanced around the shop for a moment before turning his gaze back to the man in front of him. “I don’t know. Something… for a writer…?”
The Shopkeeper smiled a shark’s smile.
“I have just the thing. Very recently acquired.”
The Shopkeeper bent down and rummaged around beneath the counter for a moment. Presently there was a loud “A-ha!” and he popped up, holding in his hands…
… a typewriter.
“Really?” said the Writer, a mixture of amusement and pity on his face. “Really?” he repeated. “I already have a typewriter, after all.” He took a critical look at the typewriter for a moment. “And it’s not even a new one! It looks like it’s almost as old as I am!”
“Ah, but this is no ordinary typewriter!” The Shopkeeper raised the typewriter to head level, as if it was a crown. The Shopkeeper poked his head around the corner of the typewriter and smiled again. “But tell me, where do you get your ideas? I believe you once told me that they come in dreams sometimes? A figure looking much like you, yes?”
The Writer smiled in return and shrugged. “The other me visits me once or twice a week, always bringing stories, yes.”
A nod from the Shopkeeper. “Now imagine not having to wait for a dream.”
The Writer tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”
“This typewriter has a long history. It is said that it has been passed down from the desks of no less than four different writers!” He leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “And yes, I have documentation proving it so!”
The writer tilted his head in the other direction, but the skeptical eyebrow went down. “Anyone I would know?”
The shark smile returned and a sheaf of papers slid across the counter. The Writer looked through the papers.
There was presently a “Huh,” an “Oh,” an “Oh my,” and finally just a simple gasp.
The Shopkeeper leaned forward. “Imagine having the essence of the great writers before you flowing through the typewriter.” The smile grew to seemingly unnatural size. “What would you pay for that?”
“A lot,” came a whisper.
“I have a very reasonable price in mind. We can make arrangements for an instalment plan, if you wish.”
The Writer was on the knife-edge of rejection and acceptance. All it would take was just one word to push him in either direction…
“You do want to be a more successful writer, yes?”
The Writer paused… and then nodded. “Let’s do this.”
Money and papers were passed back and forth, and a few moments later, the Writer walked out with his new prize.
The Shopkeeper smiled and leaned back in his chair.
He had not mentioned to the Writer just how he had acquired the typewriter. Of course, that’s because he had not been asked. The Shopkeeper snorted. None of the other four had either.
But the Writer would soon learn the dangers of dealing with him—and reneging on payments.
Oh—he would learn soon enough…
The day started with a problem, as Mondays are apt to do.
The Shopkeeper was ten minutes late showing up at his shop. This, in conjunction with his iVR glitching out the night before, preventing him from having a good night’s sleep, and the fact that he was having a hell of a time finding the RKS to his store, was making him even grumpier than usual.
Finally, the stars seemed to align in his favour for a brief moment, and he found the thing. He entered his store, taking a quick minute to switch off the security alarm. The Shopkeeper was always amused by that particular alarm. It had been considered “advanced” when it had come out ten years earlier just as the war started in Ukraine, but now it was being sold in pawnshops like his for a mere pittance. With a shake of his head over the vagaries of history, he tapped the app on his phone and the sign changed from Treasure & Trade—CLOSED to OPEN.
He was now ready for business.
Two hours and three online orders later, the Writer came in.
The Shopkeeper didn’t know his name, despite him being a semi-regular customer. In this line of business, it sometimes was better not to know anyone’s true names. He certainly went out of his way to avoid having people know his, to the point that he had even hired an internet scrubbing service to do so.
The Writer came in on the first Saturday of every month, always on the lookout for anything “writer-related.”
The Shopkeeper had read some of his writing in an assortment of rather questionable online magazines and forums. He found the stories, on the whole, to be competently written, although he was by no means a fan of these “slipstream” and “bizarro” genres.
The Shopkeeper surreptitiously made a few minor adjustments to his meticulously neat and tidy appearance—a vivid contrast to the cluttered and almost obscenely messy shop—and flicked an errant black hair out of his eyes.
“Hello!” said the Shopkeeper, smiling a practiced salesman’s smile. “And what can I get for you this day?”
The Writer—a youngish looking man in his early 20s—scratched his goatee and glanced around the shop for a moment before turning his gaze back to the man in front of him. “I don’t know. Something… for a writer…?”
The Shopkeeper smiled a shark’s smile.
“I have just the thing. Very recently acquired.”
The Shopkeeper bent down and rummaged around beneath the counter for a moment. Presently there was a loud “A-ha!” and he popped up, holding in his hands…
… a laptop.
“Really?” said the Writer, a mixture of amusement and pity on his face. “Really?” he repeated. “I already have a laptop, after all.” He took a critical look at the laptop for a moment. “Jeez! And it’s not even a new one! It looks like it’s almost three years old!”
“Ah, but this is no ordinary laptop!” The Shopkeeper raised the laptop to head level, as if it was a crown. The Shopkeeper poked his head around the corner and smiled again. “But tell me, where do you get your ideas? I believe you once told me that they come in dreams sometimes? A figure looking much like you, yes?”
The Writer smiled in return and shrugged. “The other me visits me once or twice a week, always bringing stories, yes.” He smiled. “I learned guided imagery from YouTube,” he said proudly.
A nod from the Shopkeeper. “Now imagine not having to wait for a dream.”
The Writer tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”
“This laptop has a long history. It is said that it has been passed down from the hands of no less than four different writers!” He leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “And yes, I have documentation proving it so!”
The writer tilted his head in the other direction but the skeptical eyebrow went down. “Anyone I would know?”
The shark smile returned and an IPad slid across the counter. The Writer scrolled through the IPad.
There was presently a “Huh,” an “Oh,” a “Holy fuck,” and finally just a simple gasp.
The Shopkeeper leaned forward. “Imagine having the essence of the great writers before you flowing through it.” The smile grew to seemingly unnatural size. “What would you pay for that?”
“A lot,” came a whisper.
“I have a very reasonable price. We can make arrangements for an instalment plan, if you wish.”
The Writer was on the knife-edge of rejection and acceptance. All it would take was just one word to push him in either direction…
“You do want to be a more successful writer, yes?”
The Writer paused…
… and then shook his head. “No.”
“No?” repeated the Shopkeeper, genuine shock in his voice.
The Writer shook his head once more.
“I’m happy where I am. Really.” He tilted his head to one side. “It’s a very tempting offer, I admit, but—no.”
The Shopkeeper’s smile returned once more.
“The offer remains on the table. And perhaps next month, you’ll find something more to your liking?”
“Perhaps.” And with that, the Writer left the store.
The Shopkeeper frowned and leaned back in his chair.
He was just going to have to redouble his efforts.
He was all too familiar with how these writers worked—after all, that was the reason why the laptop had so many previous owners. He knew that sooner or later he’d hook the writer.
And once hooked, there were oh so many ways to keep them hooked.
The Shopkeeper smiled.
Soon. Very soon. Very, very soon.
He’d get his prize soon enough...
The day started with a problem, as Mondays are apt to do.
The Shopkeeper was ten minutes late showing up at his shop. This, in conjunction with him forgetting to renew his Restful Sleep spell with the neighbourhood hedge mage and the fact that he was having a hell of a time remembering the counterword to the Lock ward on his store, was making him even grumpier than usual.
Finally, the stars seemed to align in his favour for a brief moment, and he remembered the counterword. He entered his store, taking a quick minute to switch off the glyph alarm. The Shopkeeper was always amused by that particular alarm. It had been considered “advanced” when it had come out ten years earlier just as the war started over that misunderstanding with the Unseelie Court, but now it was being sold in pawnshops like his for a pittance. With a shake of his head over the vagaries of history, he spoke the Word and the Treasure & Trade—CLOSED sign flipped to OPEN.
He was now ready for business.
Two hours and three avatars later, the Writer came in.
The Shopkeeper didn’t know his name, despite him being a semi-regular customer. In this line of business, it sometimes was better not to know anyone’s True Name. He certainly went out of his way to avoid having people know his, going so far as to have paid out some serious coin to a variety of questionable Awakened Troll Mystics to have a multitude of Divine Erasures done.
The Writer came in on the first Saturday of every month, always on the lookout for anything “writer-related.”
The Shopkeeper had read some of his writing in an assortment of rather interesting World Wide Scry nodes. He found the stories, on the whole, to be competently written, albeit filled with some rather unusual and disturbing concepts. Personally, he could never get into this newfangled “chthonic” genre.
The Shopkeeper surreptitiously made a few minor adjustments to his meticulously neat and tidy appearance—a vivid contrast to the cluttered and almost obscenely messy shop—and flicked an errant white hair out of his eyes.
“Hello!” said the Shopkeeper, smiling a practiced salesman’s smile (augmented with a low-level Glamour). “And what can I get for you this day?”
The Writer—a youngish looking man in his early 20s—scratched his clean-shaven chin and glanced around the shop for a moment before turning his gaze back to the man in front of him. “I don’t know. Something… for a writer…?”
The Shopkeeper smiled a dragon’s smile.
“I have just the thing. Very recently acquired.”
The Shopkeeper bent down and rummaged around beneath the counter for a moment. Presently there was a loud “A-ha!” and he popped up, holding in his hands…
… a Crystal Ball.
“Really?” said the Writer, a mixture of amusement and pity on his face. “Really?” he repeated. “I already have a Crystal Ball, after all.” He took a critical look at the Crystal Ball for a moment. “By the Goddess’ Tits! And it’s not even a new one! It looks like it’s Hy-Brasilian! Didn’t they collapse five centuries ago?”
“Ah, but this is no ordinary Crystal Ball!” The Shopkeeper raised the Crystal Ball to head level, as if it was a crown. The Shopkeeper poked his head around the Ball and smiled again. “But tell me, where do you get your ideas? I believe you once told me that they come in dreams sometimes? A figure looking much like you, yes?”
The Writer smiled in return and shrugged. “The other me visits me once or twice a week, always bringing stories, yes.” He smiled. “I excelled in thaumaturgy according to my mentor,” he said proudly.
A nod from the Shopkeeper. “Now imagine not having to wait for a dream.”
The Writer tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”
“This Crystal Ball has a long history. It is said that it has been passed down from the hands of no less than four different writers!” He leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “And yes, I have documentation proving it so!”
The writer tilted his head in the other direction, but the skeptical eyebrow went down. “Anyone I would know?”
The dragon’s smile returned. The Shopkeeper leaned back. There was a complex gesture of hands and then—an image of light and shadow and symbols and sound appeared floating over the counter.
The Writer hesitantly leaned forward and touched a finger to a symbol here and there and wither and tither.
There was presently a “Huh,” an “Oh,” a “Holy Goddess,” and finally just a simple gasp.
The Shopkeeper leaned forward. “Imagine having theessence of the great writers before you flowing through it?” The smile grew to seemingly unnatural size. “What would you pay for that?”
“A lot,” came a whisper.
“I have a very reasonable price. We can make arrangements for an instalment plan, if you wish.”
The Writer was on the knife-edge of rejection and acceptance. All it would take was just one word to push him in either direction…
“You do want to be a more successful writer, yes?”
The Writer paused…
…and then he smiled. “Actually, I have a better idea.”
“Oh?” responded the Shopkeeper, owlishly.
“Yes.” The Writer’s smile increased a few degrees. The Writer pulled a medallion out of his pocket and held it in front of the Shopkeeper’s face. The Shopkeeper had just the briefest moment of recognition of the symbol on the medallion when the Writer spoke a Word of Power.
The Shopkeeper found himself paralyzed.
“You’ve been quite the naughty fellow, haven’t you?”
The Shopkeeper remained silent.
“It’s taken me years to track you down. I’ve lost track how many Iterations there have been. How many Paths I’ve traveled.”
The Shopkeeper remained silent and paralyzed.
“I’m curious. Exactly how many worlds have you been on? Exactly how many souls have you corrupted? How many stolen? How many destroyed?”
The Shopkeeper continued to be silent and paralyzed.
The Writer’s smile increased further. “I have to be honest,” and there was just the tiniest hint of awe in his voice, “I am very impressed with your methods. Very methodical. Very subtle. I don’t think I have ever met someone who was so dedicated to long-term planning. It was almost fae-like in mentality.”
The Writer let out a long sigh. “Anything to add?”
The Shopkeeper did not speak.
The Writer shook his head.
“No matter. It all ends here. It all ends today.”
The Writer raised his hands.
There was the sound of thunder and fury and darkness.
There was the sound of silence.
The Writer stood alone in the shop.
Taking a moment to cast a Lock ward on the front door, the Writer walked around the shop for quite some time. Slowly, bit by bit, a pile began to form on the floor. He was very methodical. He would spend many minutes looking through all the knick-knacks before finally making a decision, picking this knick and that knack. After a full thirty minutes, there was a pile of about two dozen objects.
