::Discharge

toplayalongathome:thunderkiss65whitezombie

I have escaped the ghetto alive. Now I’m living on the side of town that I’ve been avoiding for the last ten years — though lately more out of habit or instinct than for any real, emotional reason. Idiot reflexes die hard, I guess.

The last three weeks that I lived in the old house, someone was shot within sight of my living room window. On two separate occasions. I’m glad I didn’t get stuck there for another year — they always get restless when the weather gets sticky. My magic powers of remaining unobtrusive and bulletproof only go so far, after all. Being a gigantic slab of White Boy isn’t always the best.

I desperately want to get the balls to throw away all of my stuff except a suitcase full of clothes, fifty pounds of books, and my computer. I’m so, so tired of moving all these crates and all this furniture. I wonder if people buy houses instead of renting just because they’re sick of moving. It’s tempting. But perhaps it would be wiser for me to sell off those crates of my father’s books that I never even unpack.

This would be a long-winded excuse for the reason I haven’t written in so long. Moving. Workworking:

It is a humid night and the full moon is hidden behind skirts of mist. I am a beetle clinging to the cab of a ten-ton cargo loader, my ears stuffed full of foam against the constant howling of the jets. They are clawing their way steadily into the air maybe fifty yards from me, one after another. They make my ribcage vibrate while I work, leaning on control sticks to gingerly guide massive cargo cans along their way. Everywhere, other beetles in rain slickers are darting to and fro, shouting, pointing, heaving, and pulling. Co-ordinated madness. It is good, but I am weary.

My mind has been so disconnected with this summertime thing. Daylight Savings Time is new to us this year. It’s daylight at 9:30pm. I don’t really like it. This owl gets thrown off when he’s going into his night-shift job just after sunset.

I’m developing my classic driver’s tan. One beautifully golden forearm with finely bleached hair that practically glitters. Pasty white flesh everywhere else. One of these days I really ought to go lay half-naked in the sun for a while and see if the rest of me will turn that color. I can’t think of the last time I’ve been swimming.

I’m back in school, despite scrabbling for tuition money and nearly opening a vein to pay for textbooks. Just a summer class this time, an idiot speech class that, so far, doesn’t appear any more advanced than what I took in high school. Except I’m paying $700 for it this time. I haven’t even registered for fall classes; I got a gentle reminder that they can’t apply my scholarship until I do so. I don’t know how I’ll pay for everything. On the other hand, if I starve down to a reasonable rate I can always be a man-whore, right?

No. No man-whoring. On the other hand, I am perfectly capable of slaying dragons, de-trolling bridges, rescuing fair maidens, wrangling unicorns, and initiating divorce proceedings with angry dryads. However, I do not handle paternity suits regarding Olympian gods. Oh — I also build computers. Yeah. Damned real-world skills cropping up all the time… anyhow. My per diem is reasonable. Just ask.

Being back in school does have one benefit — twice a week, I’ll have an hour to kill between the end of class and the beginning of my trip to work at the airport. Thus computer lab vegetation. I should be able to write more often. This time, I even mean it.

I ache to write. College has forced me into discipline; unfortunately it’s also taking up so much of my time that I can’t use that discipline on the things I love. I miss that sense of release. Of creation.

The magician slides into the deserted dockside bar an hour before sunrise, his muscles throbbing. The bartender is always different, but always looks familiar. A hand signal is enough at this establishment for a cold meal and a questionable drink. This is good — the magician is hoarse and his lungs burn. It has been another vicious night.

The foul beer, as always, is served in a flaking clay mug. The bread is tossed diffidently onto the greasy bar. Along with a scroll. This is unusual. His brow furrows.

It is labelled in ancient script from the beginning of days, in a long-forgotten hand. It has his name on it, and the name of another. He snorts in a moment of disbelief. “Who gave you this?”

The bartender shrugs and turns away. These things happen.

The magician hesitates a long, long time before he bends to the seal. It is the scent — so faint, so vague and so forgotten that it is more psychic than olfactory — that leads him to crack it with a thumb.

Then he thinks again and tucks it into a pouch. Best to finish his meal first — dealing with legends can wait, at least until the sunrise.