Bill Cheng's Blog, page 9

we were always like this: since the dawn of Man, or before even then— when we were apes...

we were always like this: since the dawn of Man, or before even then— when we were apes killing each other; or when the first amino acids chained together on the early Earth; or before the sun, before the universe, when there only heat and energy coiled into negative space— all of it squeezed so tight till finally something cracked, and out came everything; space, time, great squalls of light and matter unfurling into existence. And at some point you came to the world, you put on clothes, lived soft and you forgot.  We were born Fire. 

Harris worked the crank, generating a weak light just bright enough for us to see what we were...

Harris worked the crank, generating a weak light just bright enough for us to see what we were doing.  We made our way down, single file, one hand to the wall, the other gathering up the scruff of the pants of the person ahead of us.  The stairs seemed to go on forever and I could hear Wizard breathing, the hairs in his nostrils rustling.  The walls were smooth limestone and there was this smell in the air: stale, musty.  It got worse as we got closer to the bottom.  We followed a tunnel out into a network of caves— moving slow, not talking.  We took turns on the generator, trying to keep the light going.  Whoever they were, they kept their dead in narrow shelves carved out of the cavern walls.  Empty skulls stared out at us— mute, mournful, the lower jaw missing.   We were all of us used to seeing dead except for Amler.  She kept shivering and her voice kept hitching like some hurt animal.  Beneath the shelves there were inscriptions scrawled in a language none of us could remember.  Wizard held out his hand and brushed his fingers across each etching.  We spent most the day down there— Harris figured it must’ve been fifteen, twenty miles— passing through layers of empire.

on the drive home, they didn’t talk; she was somewhere out the window, staring through some...

on the drive home, they didn’t talk; she was somewhere out the window, staring through some middle distance.  At the light he slowed the car and rolled down the windows just enough to let in some air.  He was feeling sick.  The lines on the road kept moving.  At the pharmacy, he asked her if he wanted her with her.  No, she said.  You’ll never find parking.  Just wait in the car.  While she was inside, he listened to the radio.  There was a radio preacher talking about all the terrible things he’d done before he found religion.  The preacher had a high squeaky voice and was taking calls from his listeners.  They talked to him about their problems– money, and family, and problems at work.  When she got back into the car, he switched the radio off.  The rest of the day, they tried to avoid each other.  He went out into the yard and mowed the lawn.  When he came back in, she’d already tucked herself into the bedroom, the TV going through the door.  He went back out and started working the grass off the edges of the patio.  Then he went into the car, hoping he could just drive this feeling out of him.  He drove around their neighborhood, unsure about where it was he wanted to go.  Finally he ended up in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop.  He picked out a shopping cart from the bay of shopping carts and rolled it inside.  The light seemed harsher somehow, the air thin and cold.  He pushed on through the aisles, looking but not really looking.  In the candy aisle he found a economy size bag of jellybeans.  He looked at the bright colored beads through the clear-plastic.  He’d always loved jellybeans.  He remembered eating them by the fistful when he was younger– feeling the soft sugary grit across his tongue.  Why had he given them up?  He looked over the ingredients, took two more bags and made his way over to the register.  That evening, as per the doctor’s orders, they ate light.  Some thin soup and toast.  Leave the dishes, he told her.  I’ll take care of them.  Before bed, he watched her as she lined up her pills along the edge of the sink.  What do you want, she asked.  Do you need my help with anything?  She shook her head.  She scooped the row of pills into her palm and swallowed it down with a glass of tap water.  Let’s just go to bed, she said.  That night, he lay beside her, unable to sleep.  His brain was all over the place and he couldn’t slow it down.  He looked at her shape beneath the blankets.  Her breathing was steady.  He’d never noticed it before.  How thin and reedy her breath could sound.  He tried to picture the thing inside her lungs, its shape as air rushed along its edges.  He shut his eyes but it was useless.  He went downstairs to the kitchen and dug out the first bag of jellybeans from the cabinet.  He tore it open and breathed it in.  Sweet.  Chemical.  In the dark he slipped his hand inside.  He felt the surface– cool, soft– and dug his fingers deeper into the pebbled darkness.

on the drive home, they didn’t talk; she was somewhere out the window, staring through some...

on the drive home, they didn’t talk; she was somewhere out the window, staring through some middle distance.  At the light he slowed the car and rolled down the windows just enough to let in some air.  He was feeling sick.  The lines on the road kept moving.  At the pharmacy, he asked her if he wanted her with her.  No, she said.  You’ll never find parking.  Just wait in the car.  While she was inside, he listened to the radio.  There was a radio preacher talking about all the terrible things he’d done before he found religion.  The preacher had a high squeaky voice and was taking calls from his listeners.  They talked to him about their problems— money, and family, and problems at work.  When she got back into the car, he switched the radio off.  The rest of the day, they tried to avoid each other.  He went out into the yard and mowed the lawn.  When he came back in, she’d already tucked herself into the bedroom, the TV going through the door.  He went back out and started working the grass off the edges of the patio.  Then he went into the car, hoping he could just drive this feeling out of him.  He drove around their neighborhood, unsure about where it was he wanted to go.  Finally he ended up in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop.  He picked out a shopping cart from the bay of shopping carts and rolled it inside.  The light seemed harsher somehow, the air thin and cold.  He pushed on through the aisles, looking but not really looking.  In the candy aisle he found a economy size bag of jellybeans.  He looked at the bright colored beads through the clear-plastic.  He’d always loved jellybeans.  He remembered eating them by the fistful when he was younger— feeling the soft sugary grit across his tongue.  Why had he given them up?  He looked over the ingredients, took two more bags and made his way over to the register.  That evening, as per the doctor’s orders, they ate light.  Some thin soup and toast.  Leave the dishes, he told her.  I’ll take care of them.  Before bed, he watched her as she lined up her pills along the edge of the sink.  What do you want, she asked.  Do you need my help with anything?  She shook her head.  She scooped the row of pills into her palm and swallowed it down with a glass of tap water.  Let’s just go to bed, she said.  That night, he lay beside her, unable to sleep.  His brain was all over the place and he couldn’t slow it down.  He looked at her shape beneath the blankets.  Her breathing was steady.  He’d never noticed it before.  How thin and reedy her breath could sound.  He tried to picture the thing inside her lungs, its shape as air rushed along its edges.  He shut his eyes but it was useless.  He went downstairs to the kitchen and dug out the first bag of jellybeans from the cabinet.  He tore it open and breathed it in.  Sweet.  Chemical.  In the dark he slipped his hand inside.  He felt the surface— cool, soft— and dug his fingers deeper into the pebbled darkness.

thekurosawaproject:“Yojimbo” (1961) costume, make up screen...

thekurosawaproject:

“Yojimbo” (1961) costume, make up screen tests. Look how much taller Kurosawa is than Mifune (and everyone else)!

veritedreaming:Amazing set of cryptozoology-based posters. All...

veritedreaming:

Amazing set of cryptozoology-based posters. All art by the seriously talented Fernando Reza, and can be bought from his online shop!

http://frodesignco.com/shop/

I is I: 14 tonnes of space-age badassitude; going 32.000 mi [alt] in an RCC heat-tested alloy shell....

I is I: 14 tonnes of space-age badassitude; going 32.000 mi [alt] in an RCC heat-tested alloy shell.  Been 19 mo & 15d since I is launched and I’s orbital decay game is tight as hell.  CAM1 [green]; CAM2 [green]; & NAVCHEK singing okey-dokey-thumbs-up, good buddy. I is primed,  I is pumped— eyes telescoped down to Designate TNU.1256a.  She is drop-dead gorgeous— a deep-space pearl packed under bright blue ice on the far end of the Kuiper Belt.  For 19 mo. we do we dance, tugging & circling & never touching.  Every 11 cycles I launch I’s bombs and seed her atmosphere with methane and CO-2.  Then I do I’s readings with a gas chromatograph & a low-orbit probe. & so far there’s nothing doing— no algae, nor protozoa or single-celled wigglies but I is patient and I knows I mission: poised here in furthest space to watch over oceans.

He was going to kill his boss. He was sure of it now. Les had spent the afternoon in hardware...

He was going to kill his boss. He was sure of it now. Les had spent the afternoon in hardware stores all over town, picking up: masking tape, bleach, a pair of workman’s gloves and a 16-pack of heavy duty lawn bags. He’d been thinking about it for weeks and couldn’t make up his mind. But now that he’d actually shelled out the cash for what he needed, it was starting to feel like a foregone conclusion. In his head, his boss was already as good as dead. All that was left was the follow-through. Les drove confidently— the radio turned up and blasting Journey, the Eagles. When the Talking Heads came on, he beat his fingers against the steering wheel. Yes, he said. Yes. Yes. On Eastman, there were road flares and strobe lights; people in bathrobes crowding into the street. A cop up ahead was stopping traffic, waving cars off the road. Les checked himself in the mirror. He was in his late 30’s, white, slightly overweight. Not at all like a murderer, he thought. He edged his car up and rolled his window down. “Can you turn down the music, sir?” Les fumbled with the dial until it clicked off. “You’ll have to turn back,” the cop said. “We need the area clear for the emergency vehicles.” He wanted to ask her what was going on, but she’d moved on to the car behind him. He was sweating now. His mouth was dry. He thought he might throw up. Les put on his blinker and prepared to make a U-turn but instead found himself pulling to the curb and putting the car in park. He climbed out, and immediately he smelled smell smoke, burning rubber. On the street, the crowds were on their toes, murmuring to each other, shoving for a look. Les sat down on someone’s stoop hoping to settle his stomach. A porch light went on and a man in a robe stood over him. “Hey,” he said and Les said ‘hey’ back. The man sat down next to him. He took a joint from behind his ear and offered a toke to Les. Les shook his head. He asked the man if he knew what was going on. “There’s a fire down the block,” the man said. “It’s a mess out here but my bathroom window you can see everything.” They went inside to the upstairs bathroom. The man sat on the edge of the tub and smoked lazily. “Just out there.” He gestured to a pair of binoculars sitting on the cistern. Les took them looked out the window. The man was right. He could see the house, black smoke pouring out the windows. There was a fire truck and an ambulance, and police cruisers banked on the street. Firefighters were shooting their hoses into the flames and the cops were trying to keep the crowd back. Les panned the binoculars and he thought he saw something. “There’s someone in there,” Les said. The man stood next to him. “What?” Les pointed. “Third story window. I thought I saw a woman.” He handed the man the binoculars. The man looked out. “I don’t see anything,” the man said. “Are you sure?” Les looked again. He pointed the lens toward the third story window. If she’d been there, she was gone now. The man told him he should tell the cops. “You’d be a hero,” he said. “Yeah,” Les said. He lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down. “If she’s not dead already.”

The night the Rovers came, we hunkered into the canebrake, pressed low till we were on all...

The night the Rovers came, we hunkered into the canebrake, pressed low till we were on all fours—  muscles coiled, one toe spiked to the earth.  You could hear them coming— metal shucking and cranked servos.  They were like us.  They talked like us; had names like Bob and Bill and Diane; they joked and chatted and made small talk.  But there was that smell: polystyrene, castor oil.  They dragged their lights across the field,  passed cool blue beams above our heads.  Down in the brake there were lice and bull-ants and stinging beetles, and we itched like hell trying to keep our hearts from bursting.  Suddenly one of us shouted Scatter! and we took off.  All around us, the air was popping, and I could hear us dropping one by one and I kept on running— limbs fluid, head fast to the horizon, and everywhere the smell of burning carbon.

Once upon a time I was a weak man; I let others dictate the conditions of my existence. I did their...

Once upon a time I was a weak man; I let others dictate the conditions of my existence.  I did their work and sought their praise, and by and by bargained away those parts of myself worth anything.  But outside the walls, it’s just you, your gear— your brain mapping a hundred feet in every direction.  In the beginning I tired easy; my breathing ran shallow.  Everything burned, my muscles, my lungs— every atom screaming for respite.  But stay out long enough and some region in your brain will go dark— and all that’s left is the meat; when to walk, when to run, when to clench and squeeze down against the earth.  No doubt, no hesitation.  And some hours later, the circuit will re-connect and you’ll be there, alone, covered in mud or blood, with skinned knuckles and bruised ribs, waiting for the trembling to stop.