Post by Wragnorok on Apr 14, 2009 14:54:22 GMT -5
Preface
Humans reluctantly share their world with reptilian shape-changers simply called "The Freaks". Less than 1% of the world population has ever set foot on a flying machine. A half-satz still buys you a handful of candy. Prime Minister Ibrol Fabar continues to give his comforting addresses to people all over the Conithine Federation over the radio, which was invented seventeen years ago.
Environmental groups rage as the wilds are destroyed to feed growing industrial powers and the docile fungal giants known as bemoth are driven close to extinction or forced into domesticity. Preachers walk the country roads, breathing new life into the gospels of Saddak, and civilization turns its eyes to ever farther frontiers; dreaming, perhaps, of the stars.
It is a bold new age. Anything is possible, but how much actually comes to be? Welcome to the Radio Age.
* * *
Smelly Boot
It's four-thirty P.M. and I'm tired of waiting for my big brother to show up. He always makes me wait for him up on this hill, it's stupid. Sometimes I wish his girlfriend would leave him. Then he'd know what being alone feels like. For the, I don't know, maybe three? Three days it would take him to move on, he'd know what it's like waiting on this damn hill every single day after school. The one nice thing about the hill is...okay, the two nice things about hill are the little pond right at the top and the solitude. I actually
wouldn't mind never seeing my brother if mama didn't say I had to wait for him.
I jump the ten feet down from Furug's head and I twist my ankle when I land. I wince, I cry, I cuss a little, then I stand right back up and walk over to the pond. A slight breeze sends ripples through the water, and then I see reflections. The grass, the sky, me. I look like any other boy, sort of. I'm only thirteen years old, so I haven't mastered the shape-shifting stuff just yet, but mama says I'm coming along real nice. When I want to, I can be a five-foot eight, lanky little thing just hitting my 'maturity'.
Maturity my ass. Maturity looks like a boy made of pale pink twigs? Maturity is this ratty shock of curly red hair I gave myself? Maturity sure isn't the sharp teeth or the scales down my spine. I frown and bite my lip, then I stomp on my reflection in the shallows. A red drop slips down my chin.
“Screw you!” I shout at him, at me. I hate hiding what I am. It's not wrong being what I am. But we have astigmatism...or stigmata...stigma. Something like that with a 'stig' in it that's attached to us 'indelibly', mama says. That's a twenty-dollar word. The kind the prime minister says on the talky-box every night. Mama has a lot of twenty-dollar words. And I have me, with my own blood running down my chin. I'm ugly. I have ugliness...and my giant green friend, Furug.
His big mossy body is towering close behind me because I yelled. He's an easy scare when it comes to me being safe. As far as bemoth go, he's small, but by Saddak he's got a heart. I wish I had one. I don't have that luxury. I listen to the talky-box every night. I visit my papa's grave. I go to school. People call me Nicodemus. I like coca-cola. This is stuff you can say about me, but it isn't me. I can't afford to have a 'me', none of us can.
Saddak. I'm thirteen years old. I'm too damn young to think like this. When is big stupid brother going to show? I look at myself in the water again one more time. My eyes look like broken glass. Put that on the talky-box.
I can hear big brother coming, finally. When he gets over the hilltop, he looks as goofy as ever with his big straw hat on and the old, patchy linen suit-pants. He's got this real tough guy swagger and the top four buttons on his shirt are always undone, like he's got something to show off. Not in this body, he doesn't. He's so full of it, though, it's like sometimes he wishes he were human.
“'ey, Nick,” he waves at me, completely ignores Furug.. I'm not sure what sticks out to me more right now. That he made me wait this whole time and that's all he has to say, or that he has that stupid fishing pole of his resting on his shoulder. I'll never get why
he has that damn thing, but he takes it everywhere.
“We're going home now,” I tell him, pointing at my big leafy friend behind me.
“Sure you are,” he says. He's looking out over the town, his eyes following the power lines, I just know it.
“Why do we have to go through this every time?” I ask.
“Nick, would ya get the radio out for me? I want a little music while I fish.”
“There ain't no fish.”
“And ain't ain't a word. Get me the radio.”
So I go to get him our private talky-box. Not far from the edge of the water there's a big hole that I cover with a rock. I move the rock and pull out the heavy, familiar tin box. It's too cold. It's dirty. I hate the way dirt feels on human skin, makes it so gritty. I take off the lid and there it is, same as always; a piece of junk. But big brother found it, so he's proud of it. It's a little square number and it's got a big ugly battery jammed into the back. I set it down next to him, pull out the antenna and turn it on. Same old blues as always.
“You're a damn fool,” I tell him. He knows it, I'm sure. “Ain't no fish in there.”
“But we're already trying so hard to catch something that isn't there, I figure...why not?” It takes me a minute to get what he's getting at. Furug makes a rumble like he understands, and tilts that big messy head of his, a scrap of green falling from it. When I grasp just what he's saying I have to wince. He went and started one of his 'deep' conversations, saying stuff I actually care about. Which means I have to forget all about being mad at him for making me wait.
“Mama says it's only for a while now. They'll learn to like us, Leo.”
“Like shit they will, Nick,” he says, adjusting his position as he really gets involved in fishing for nothing. “We'll always be holding these shapes. You know it. 'Sides, sometimes people are so damn stupid I wouldn't take their friendship over a smelly boot.”
“Yeah...” I don't really know what to say at this point. I look back at Furug, he's put some distance between himself and my brother and I, like he thinks my brother cares enough to protect me.
“Woah!” he shouts, something pulling his line. He struggles against it hard. For just one moment, he's so riled up his fake eyes flash yellow like the real ones do. His teeth are bare. In one big swing, he pulls his enemy out of the water. It's a big, smelly boot. There's silence one moment, and then we're laughing to our lungs give out the next. I don't think I've ever seen big brother so alive before.
We've never been closer and never will be closer than right now, when we share a smelly boot and a view of the power lines.
Humans reluctantly share their world with reptilian shape-changers simply called "The Freaks". Less than 1% of the world population has ever set foot on a flying machine. A half-satz still buys you a handful of candy. Prime Minister Ibrol Fabar continues to give his comforting addresses to people all over the Conithine Federation over the radio, which was invented seventeen years ago.
Environmental groups rage as the wilds are destroyed to feed growing industrial powers and the docile fungal giants known as bemoth are driven close to extinction or forced into domesticity. Preachers walk the country roads, breathing new life into the gospels of Saddak, and civilization turns its eyes to ever farther frontiers; dreaming, perhaps, of the stars.
It is a bold new age. Anything is possible, but how much actually comes to be? Welcome to the Radio Age.
* * *
Smelly Boot
It's four-thirty P.M. and I'm tired of waiting for my big brother to show up. He always makes me wait for him up on this hill, it's stupid. Sometimes I wish his girlfriend would leave him. Then he'd know what being alone feels like. For the, I don't know, maybe three? Three days it would take him to move on, he'd know what it's like waiting on this damn hill every single day after school. The one nice thing about the hill is...okay, the two nice things about hill are the little pond right at the top and the solitude. I actually
wouldn't mind never seeing my brother if mama didn't say I had to wait for him.
I jump the ten feet down from Furug's head and I twist my ankle when I land. I wince, I cry, I cuss a little, then I stand right back up and walk over to the pond. A slight breeze sends ripples through the water, and then I see reflections. The grass, the sky, me. I look like any other boy, sort of. I'm only thirteen years old, so I haven't mastered the shape-shifting stuff just yet, but mama says I'm coming along real nice. When I want to, I can be a five-foot eight, lanky little thing just hitting my 'maturity'.
Maturity my ass. Maturity looks like a boy made of pale pink twigs? Maturity is this ratty shock of curly red hair I gave myself? Maturity sure isn't the sharp teeth or the scales down my spine. I frown and bite my lip, then I stomp on my reflection in the shallows. A red drop slips down my chin.
“Screw you!” I shout at him, at me. I hate hiding what I am. It's not wrong being what I am. But we have astigmatism...or stigmata...stigma. Something like that with a 'stig' in it that's attached to us 'indelibly', mama says. That's a twenty-dollar word. The kind the prime minister says on the talky-box every night. Mama has a lot of twenty-dollar words. And I have me, with my own blood running down my chin. I'm ugly. I have ugliness...and my giant green friend, Furug.
His big mossy body is towering close behind me because I yelled. He's an easy scare when it comes to me being safe. As far as bemoth go, he's small, but by Saddak he's got a heart. I wish I had one. I don't have that luxury. I listen to the talky-box every night. I visit my papa's grave. I go to school. People call me Nicodemus. I like coca-cola. This is stuff you can say about me, but it isn't me. I can't afford to have a 'me', none of us can.
Saddak. I'm thirteen years old. I'm too damn young to think like this. When is big stupid brother going to show? I look at myself in the water again one more time. My eyes look like broken glass. Put that on the talky-box.
I can hear big brother coming, finally. When he gets over the hilltop, he looks as goofy as ever with his big straw hat on and the old, patchy linen suit-pants. He's got this real tough guy swagger and the top four buttons on his shirt are always undone, like he's got something to show off. Not in this body, he doesn't. He's so full of it, though, it's like sometimes he wishes he were human.
“'ey, Nick,” he waves at me, completely ignores Furug.. I'm not sure what sticks out to me more right now. That he made me wait this whole time and that's all he has to say, or that he has that stupid fishing pole of his resting on his shoulder. I'll never get why
he has that damn thing, but he takes it everywhere.
“We're going home now,” I tell him, pointing at my big leafy friend behind me.
“Sure you are,” he says. He's looking out over the town, his eyes following the power lines, I just know it.
“Why do we have to go through this every time?” I ask.
“Nick, would ya get the radio out for me? I want a little music while I fish.”
“There ain't no fish.”
“And ain't ain't a word. Get me the radio.”
So I go to get him our private talky-box. Not far from the edge of the water there's a big hole that I cover with a rock. I move the rock and pull out the heavy, familiar tin box. It's too cold. It's dirty. I hate the way dirt feels on human skin, makes it so gritty. I take off the lid and there it is, same as always; a piece of junk. But big brother found it, so he's proud of it. It's a little square number and it's got a big ugly battery jammed into the back. I set it down next to him, pull out the antenna and turn it on. Same old blues as always.
“You're a damn fool,” I tell him. He knows it, I'm sure. “Ain't no fish in there.”
“But we're already trying so hard to catch something that isn't there, I figure...why not?” It takes me a minute to get what he's getting at. Furug makes a rumble like he understands, and tilts that big messy head of his, a scrap of green falling from it. When I grasp just what he's saying I have to wince. He went and started one of his 'deep' conversations, saying stuff I actually care about. Which means I have to forget all about being mad at him for making me wait.
“Mama says it's only for a while now. They'll learn to like us, Leo.”
“Like shit they will, Nick,” he says, adjusting his position as he really gets involved in fishing for nothing. “We'll always be holding these shapes. You know it. 'Sides, sometimes people are so damn stupid I wouldn't take their friendship over a smelly boot.”
“Yeah...” I don't really know what to say at this point. I look back at Furug, he's put some distance between himself and my brother and I, like he thinks my brother cares enough to protect me.
“Woah!” he shouts, something pulling his line. He struggles against it hard. For just one moment, he's so riled up his fake eyes flash yellow like the real ones do. His teeth are bare. In one big swing, he pulls his enemy out of the water. It's a big, smelly boot. There's silence one moment, and then we're laughing to our lungs give out the next. I don't think I've ever seen big brother so alive before.
We've never been closer and never will be closer than right now, when we share a smelly boot and a view of the power lines.
