got to the pedestrian sidewalk she was alright. She pounded the cement, one-two, one-two, hoisted the case in front of her and shared its weight between her two hands. When she reached the midway point right alongside the fuel tanker, she turned back and watched the city disappear. Lights dimmed or simply disappeared in huge sections of city blocks. Everything got quiet, still. She could hear a distant soft booming, saw flares eat up the night, watched as tall firewalls flickered and grew in the downtown core. Her breath was loud, ragged. Her chest heaved and sweat glistened all over her.
In that frozen moment, that time without movement, she felt it all slice through her. Drew was gone, she was certain. Probably Jasmin, too. Axis had wiled her way to safety; she was halfway home and no longer knew why. The struggle seemed suddenly hollow, without its certain rewards. Without those pretty comforts, those precious bolts of rage and passion, there was no point, really. She gasped for air and floundered. She looked down to the utility belt, to the grenades sitting, waiting. She looked to the large truck beside her.
The sirens started up again and the bridge burst back to life.
*
KD: “They Came from Next Door” is a story about passion and possibility. Set in a future world of nightmarish gay capitalism, three disease-ravaged women, former corporate-owned slaves, lead a class war pre-emptive strike. Our heroes monkey wrench the system from Next Door and from Down There, always with an eye to liberation.
They came from next door are lyrics from Bauhaus’ song Rosegarden Funeral of Sores .
The word “kronk” originally came from Carol Shields’ book Unless .
Ishtartu
By Lyda Morehouse
The reflection in the changing room mirror looked like an effeminate man in drag, Edie decided. It didn’t help that the salesclerk, in a misguided effort to be helpful, had chosen something pink and girlish. The legal-length hemline didn’t flatter her rugby-thickened calves, and she’d yet to find a pair of high heels she’d been able to wedge her broad, square-toed feet into. This was never going to work.
Edie waved her hand to dispel the hologram. She smoothed back the trim line of short blond hair above her ears, and adjusted her tie. Much better.
Except.
Except she’d interviewed with eighteen prospective religions this week and none of them—not even the Wiccans—could grant her immunity from the Leviticus law which stated “a woman shall not dress as a man,” and vice versa in public.
The salesclerk knocked politely on the shuttered door. When Edie didn’t immediately answer, the woman cleared her throat. “You might like these.” The hand that inched the door open slightly held a number of holo-chits. “They’re not precisely street legal, but I think you’d look great in them.”
Curious, Edie took the shy offering. The first turned out to be a black mini, which showed off the lions of Ishtar tattooed on Edie’s inner thighs. And hid little else.
“Oh, my, my,” the clerk tsked in pure Minnesotan, clearly peeking despite the privacy screen. “You’d be arrested in a heartbeat. It’s a shame too, because it looks hot with the blazer and tie.”
“I look like a whore,” Edie said, more angrily than she’d intended.
“No disrespect, but isn’t that what you are?”
The question was innocent enough. Normally, Edie had a firm but tactful explanation that the ishtartu were sacred prostitutes—that she was, in fact, a priestess, due as much respect in the eyes of the law as a Catholic Monsignor or a Muslim Imam. But, since Valentine died, she’d lost her faith.
Valentine was Edie’s best friend. He’d been her “cover” all through high school. He was probably the only reason she wasn’t in some re-education camp right now. He’d saved her life. In fact, Valentine had been the first one to show her the queer underground comic books and magazines. Together, they’d discovered that the
In that frozen moment, that time without movement, she felt it all slice through her. Drew was gone, she was certain. Probably Jasmin, too. Axis had wiled her way to safety; she was halfway home and no longer knew why. The struggle seemed suddenly hollow, without its certain rewards. Without those pretty comforts, those precious bolts of rage and passion, there was no point, really. She gasped for air and floundered. She looked down to the utility belt, to the grenades sitting, waiting. She looked to the large truck beside her.
The sirens started up again and the bridge burst back to life.
*
KD: “They Came from Next Door” is a story about passion and possibility. Set in a future world of nightmarish gay capitalism, three disease-ravaged women, former corporate-owned slaves, lead a class war pre-emptive strike. Our heroes monkey wrench the system from Next Door and from Down There, always with an eye to liberation.
They came from next door are lyrics from Bauhaus’ song Rosegarden Funeral of Sores .
The word “kronk” originally came from Carol Shields’ book Unless .
Ishtartu
By Lyda Morehouse
The reflection in the changing room mirror looked like an effeminate man in drag, Edie decided. It didn’t help that the salesclerk, in a misguided effort to be helpful, had chosen something pink and girlish. The legal-length hemline didn’t flatter her rugby-thickened calves, and she’d yet to find a pair of high heels she’d been able to wedge her broad, square-toed feet into. This was never going to work.
Edie waved her hand to dispel the hologram. She smoothed back the trim line of short blond hair above her ears, and adjusted her tie. Much better.
Except.
Except she’d interviewed with eighteen prospective religions this week and none of them—not even the Wiccans—could grant her immunity from the Leviticus law which stated “a woman shall not dress as a man,” and vice versa in public.
The salesclerk knocked politely on the shuttered door. When Edie didn’t immediately answer, the woman cleared her throat. “You might like these.” The hand that inched the door open slightly held a number of holo-chits. “They’re not precisely street legal, but I think you’d look great in them.”
Curious, Edie took the shy offering. The first turned out to be a black mini, which showed off the lions of Ishtar tattooed on Edie’s inner thighs. And hid little else.
“Oh, my, my,” the clerk tsked in pure Minnesotan, clearly peeking despite the privacy screen. “You’d be arrested in a heartbeat. It’s a shame too, because it looks hot with the blazer and tie.”
“I look like a whore,” Edie said, more angrily than she’d intended.
“No disrespect, but isn’t that what you are?”
The question was innocent enough. Normally, Edie had a firm but tactful explanation that the ishtartu were sacred prostitutes—that she was, in fact, a priestess, due as much respect in the eyes of the law as a Catholic Monsignor or a Muslim Imam. But, since Valentine died, she’d lost her faith.
Valentine was Edie’s best friend. He’d been her “cover” all through high school. He was probably the only reason she wasn’t in some re-education camp right now. He’d saved her life. In fact, Valentine had been the first one to show her the queer underground comic books and magazines. Together, they’d discovered that the
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