The Light That BindsThe Light That Binds
In the moments before the gentle autumn sun crests the eastern mountains, the valley becomes eerily quiet. The last of the night's rain spatters from leaf to leaf in the nearby copses of aspen and beech, the choruses perched among them hush their song in anticipation as the morning blossoms rose and violet in the east. When the great orb emerges, I am blinded. That brilliant, life-giving fruit of the gods--a blood orange broken upon the black teeth of the mountains, spilling its light, glistening red, into the valley. It burns into us all.
In its glow the world begins to warm again, eager to remember summer's glory. Gossamer mists rise off the fields, the vines laden with fat, sun-ripe fruit. Beneath the thanks-giving hymn of hungry, eager birds, I hear the black earth baking a glossy crust like rich harvest bread. While the soil is still soft, I take to the rows, in the high contrast of m
Untitled cyberpunk opera - Golden Jubilee EXCERPTBook: Karakuri Girl
Arc: Golden Jubilee
Title: The Tail of the White Rabbit, or: Though the Crate is Open, the Lobsters Will Never Flee, Part 1
Violet dropped into one of the imitation leather, sling-back seats at her gate. Paris, connecting through Madrid, to some town she couldn't pronounce. CNBC hummed quietly on a flat-panel TV overhead. A row of passengers, most of them in suits, seemed to huddle around the news for warmth, their spirits rising and falling with the stocks. The aspect-ratio of the OLED screen mismatched the signal, made the anchors look shiny and bloated, very American.
Her eyes flicked to the corners of the ceiling, taking stock of the smoked Plexiglas bubbles, green "ready" LEDs shining dimly inside. Dampeners--probably some Malta tech with the serials filed off. At least she'd be safe here, from him.
In the main aisle of the terminal the stream of humanity parted itself, as if around a stone.
Untitled cyberpunk opera - Fievre du PrintempsBook: Karakuri Girl
Arc: Welcome to the Dollhouse
Title: Fièvre du Printemps
Alderman Geoffrey Doyle was a good man, a family man. He arbitrated straight down the party line, putting money in schools and health care and Green prospects--"our children's future." It put people at ease. They could cast their vote and do their civic duty and sleep easy knowing someone smarter and stronger was thinking for them. The city needed more men like Geoff. Men who stayed strong when their wives drank themselves into a car, a tree, and rehab. Men who still loved their daughters even when rumors flew that she had dropped out of college to strip in a local nightclub. Men who took it upon themselves to see bright, young interns in their sharp, new, navy skirt suits succeed in the harsh, man's world of city politics.
So when a whip-sharp reporter from the Trinity Island Tattler named Lily Devaly called his office, said that she may have come into possession of some interesting photographs, and woul
When it Rains - Chapter 7 EXCERPTCHAPTER SEVEN: Let sleeping dogs lie, Harvey.
"Oh, the rest of the country can have their depression. Me, I'm not sad at all!"
A loud whoop erupted from the huge woman, setting the jewels upon her breast quivering like glistening jelly, and the small crowd around her was set aroar with polite belly laughs. Harvey moved past them, straightening his tie, to the long buffet of refreshments arrayed in the rotunda of the Artois Museum of the Arts. An enormous gold-plated statue of an elephant towered over the fountain, mountains of hors d'oeuvres, a scaffolding of champagne in crystal, and corpulent, old-money, presiding as a god of decadence, liberated from some exotic land and done up in Art Deco.
He saw a familiar shape float by, a well-known, asymmetrical swish of hips in silk. Veronica. He'd smelled her perfume an hour earlier and almost left the gala then, but some masochism kept him here. Harvey looked up into the gold
When it Rains - Chapter 2CHAPTER TWO: Will you walk into my parlor, Harvey?
The antique, worn leather molded around Harvey like a glove as he fell again into his office chair. The last eight years of his life had been orchestrated from this very chair, from finding missing persons to nabbing kidnappers, the odd shadowing job, blackmailing blackmailers, and sometimes simply determining which restaurant on his Chinatown street steamed the best buns--a case he was just now poised to take on. From the street below, neon filtered in through slatted windows in bright ribbons of orange, red, and green. The paper carton on his desk steamed the polished surface with the saccharine aroma of barbecued pork and steam bread. For the last eight years, this chair, this office, and this job had been his life, just as it had been Detective Verdugo's before he died that day on the docks, leaving it all to his neophyte apprentice.
Harvey took up his soy and saffron stained chopsticks, the bas relief cranes worn smooth, and po