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“Very well, Shizuka,” Tremon finally said. “For now, I will play along, if only because your past souls have been so well received. But remember—you have been allotted seven times seven years to deliver seven souls. Forty-eight of those years have passed. If you do not free yourself by this time next year, Hell will have no need to remember you, for there you will be—every special day, every special moment, for all eternity.”
No, no, no! Shirley thought. Mother, you can do this. She told you her name! Now tell her yours. Mother. Tell her your name.
“Shizuka. It’s a Japanese name … And yours is?” “Shizuka…” Mother! “I mean Lan! My name is Lan Tran.”
“Don’t even go there. Remember? Star Trek?” “Amateurs.” “So says a starship captain who can’t handle changing lanes on Valley Boulevard?” “No one drives a Prius in space,” whispered Lan.
Lan froze. There was nothing remotely sweet about that voice. Shizuka grabbed one herself and took a bite. The texture was crunchy, then soft. And with a little chopped leek, a little ground ginger, some chili, the flavor was delicious.
When someone needs to fly, sometimes it’s best to pull the ground away.
Shithead revved his engine again. Markus looked at the shithead and flipped him off. “What the fuck, fagg—” was as far as the shithead got. “Internal combustion. Loser.”
If being queer had taught her anything, it was that there was always a price.
“Everything the audience hears, what we strive to create … what we live to convey … it comes from there. In your hollows. In your nothingness. “There is where your music gains its life.”
Tomorrow is tomorrow. Over there is over there. And here and now is not a bad place and time to be, especially when so much of the unknown is beautiful.
As the server brought their plates to the table, Lan pulled out her phone to take a picture of her Eggplant Parmigiana. “Shizuka! Look at how pretty this is! Shizuka, can you take a picture? Shizuka?” “But you traveled across the galaxy. The galaxy.”
Why did being human hurt so much? Why couldn’t she have been different, without a soul, without worth? Why couldn’t she have been the thing her parents might have wanted? Why couldn’t anyone have treated her this way this before?
Who needs the Devil when people can create a hell like this themselves?
As far as Paganini’s Caprice no. 5? Paganini was indeed smiling at her, but not because he approved. He was smiling because he was safe.
No, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to make donuts—but that didn’t mean being a rocket scientist didn’t help.
“I think maybe it’s time to go,” she said. “Yes.” “I’ll get you back to the shop.” Lan shook her head. “They will be fine. I would rather go home with you.”
Mr. Tso nodded. “Good, good.” As he faced her, he let his hand brush across her legs. Then he grabbed her penis through her dress. Katrina inhaled sharply, and looked up at the other musicians, but they had all discreetly turned away.
Katrina smirked. You can give him all the money and power in the world, but a cocksucker was still a cocksucker.
With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured … when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you. You can always, always rewrite your song.
One might insist that no lives were saved. One might scoff that nothing was returned. But that is as it should be. The songs will change, but the music is never truly gone. A life ends. A life begins. But always, it is here for us to play.
