to you. For years it delighted me to think of your grief..."
"Zoe... is it really you?" He reached out feebly. "Why did you come here?"
She stared at him. "I came back to kill you. I wanted true revenge."
He raised his arms in a gesture of defeat. "Then why not take it?"
"Because I saw your art. I saw how much you suffered, how guilty you were and how much you regretted doing what you did. Then I read the script... How could I bring myself to kill you when you had already decided to kill yourself?"
She finished her dialogue and held out her arms to him, and the performance was complete.
~
Lasers bloomed in the darkness above the dome, and Supra-sapiens materialised and turned tight spirals of delight. An open air-car bearing six Omegas hovered above the patio rail. A venerable immortal stood, smiled at Zoe and held out a hand. In sombre tones he communicated their judgement, and bade Zoe and her father step aboard.
Abbie allowed herself to more fully accommodate her body of old, felt the last tenuous link with her somatic simulation break like a silken thread. She inclined her head and stepped towards the air-car. Then she turned and held out her arms to her father – who was standing mute in the cone of a spotlight, between one life and the next – and awaited his decision.
The Art of Acceptance
I curled in the window and watched the rain come down in the darkened boulevard. It was the graveyard shift in Paris for the next thirty days, party-time for suicides and psycho-paths. Next month we were scheduled a classic spring, and Gay Paree would be thronged with lovers and poets and artists – and I'd do my best to hibernate until night came round again.
Dan sat lotus on the battered, legless chesterfield. Leads fell from the lumbar-socket under his shirt, and a bootleg tantric-tape zipped ersatz kundalini up his spinal column. He'd told me to go home at midnight, but I liked being around him, and anyway I had to be on hand in case the fountain of pleasure hit jackpot and blew the chakra in his cerebellum. I'd told him he was playing Tibetan roulette with his meatball – bootleg tapes had scoured the skulls of many a novice – but Dan just laughed and said he was doing it all for me. Which he was, in a way, but I still didn't like it.
When I got bored I tidied the office, stacked Zen vids, cleared away tankas and Confucian self-improving tracts. Then I felt-tipped mahayanan aphorisms backwards on his forehead, the only part of his face free from beard and hair, and inscribed his arms and palms with that old number, "He who has everything has little, he who has nothing has much," just to show him what I thought of all this transcendental malarkey.
I was getting bored again when the building began to shake and flakes of paint snowed from the ceiling. The clanking downchute signalled the approach of a customer.
I yanked the jack from his socket and winced in anticipation of his wrath. He jerked once at the disconnection, then slumped. "Shit, Phuong-"
"Visitor," I said. I prized open his eye and peered in like a horse-doctor. "Jesus, you look wrecked."
He was all hair, blood-shot eyes and bad temper. I pulled him to the desk and sat him in the swivel chair, combing my fingers through his curls and arranging the collar of his sweat-soaked khaki shirt. The adage on his brow accused me, but there was no time to remove it – footsteps sounded along the corridor. "Pull yourself together, Dan. We need the cash."
I switched on the desk-lamp, made sure my cheongsam was buttoned all the way up, and sat in the shadows by the wall.
She strode in without knocking. I like style – being possessed of none of it myself – and everything, from her entry to the way she crossed her legs and lighted a cigarillo, whispered sophistication.
"Leferve?" she enquired, blowing smoke.
"How can I be of service?" It was his usual line. I was pleased to see that her elegance left him unaffected; he was doing his best to disdain all
"Zoe... is it really you?" He reached out feebly. "Why did you come here?"
She stared at him. "I came back to kill you. I wanted true revenge."
He raised his arms in a gesture of defeat. "Then why not take it?"
"Because I saw your art. I saw how much you suffered, how guilty you were and how much you regretted doing what you did. Then I read the script... How could I bring myself to kill you when you had already decided to kill yourself?"
She finished her dialogue and held out her arms to him, and the performance was complete.
~
Lasers bloomed in the darkness above the dome, and Supra-sapiens materialised and turned tight spirals of delight. An open air-car bearing six Omegas hovered above the patio rail. A venerable immortal stood, smiled at Zoe and held out a hand. In sombre tones he communicated their judgement, and bade Zoe and her father step aboard.
Abbie allowed herself to more fully accommodate her body of old, felt the last tenuous link with her somatic simulation break like a silken thread. She inclined her head and stepped towards the air-car. Then she turned and held out her arms to her father – who was standing mute in the cone of a spotlight, between one life and the next – and awaited his decision.
The Art of Acceptance
I curled in the window and watched the rain come down in the darkened boulevard. It was the graveyard shift in Paris for the next thirty days, party-time for suicides and psycho-paths. Next month we were scheduled a classic spring, and Gay Paree would be thronged with lovers and poets and artists – and I'd do my best to hibernate until night came round again.
Dan sat lotus on the battered, legless chesterfield. Leads fell from the lumbar-socket under his shirt, and a bootleg tantric-tape zipped ersatz kundalini up his spinal column. He'd told me to go home at midnight, but I liked being around him, and anyway I had to be on hand in case the fountain of pleasure hit jackpot and blew the chakra in his cerebellum. I'd told him he was playing Tibetan roulette with his meatball – bootleg tapes had scoured the skulls of many a novice – but Dan just laughed and said he was doing it all for me. Which he was, in a way, but I still didn't like it.
When I got bored I tidied the office, stacked Zen vids, cleared away tankas and Confucian self-improving tracts. Then I felt-tipped mahayanan aphorisms backwards on his forehead, the only part of his face free from beard and hair, and inscribed his arms and palms with that old number, "He who has everything has little, he who has nothing has much," just to show him what I thought of all this transcendental malarkey.
I was getting bored again when the building began to shake and flakes of paint snowed from the ceiling. The clanking downchute signalled the approach of a customer.
I yanked the jack from his socket and winced in anticipation of his wrath. He jerked once at the disconnection, then slumped. "Shit, Phuong-"
"Visitor," I said. I prized open his eye and peered in like a horse-doctor. "Jesus, you look wrecked."
He was all hair, blood-shot eyes and bad temper. I pulled him to the desk and sat him in the swivel chair, combing my fingers through his curls and arranging the collar of his sweat-soaked khaki shirt. The adage on his brow accused me, but there was no time to remove it – footsteps sounded along the corridor. "Pull yourself together, Dan. We need the cash."
I switched on the desk-lamp, made sure my cheongsam was buttoned all the way up, and sat in the shadows by the wall.
She strode in without knocking. I like style – being possessed of none of it myself – and everything, from her entry to the way she crossed her legs and lighted a cigarillo, whispered sophistication.
"Leferve?" she enquired, blowing smoke.
"How can I be of service?" It was his usual line. I was pleased to see that her elegance left him unaffected; he was doing his best to disdain all
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