mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai

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With this sword, I thee wed.

The guy who was throwing us down from the Walls had a sense of humor. Drilling holes in refrigerators with fat power drills, sucking up his teeth, fingering lengths of chain. "Climb in," that kind of thing. The smaller Names huddled around saying each other's three times. Other heads-- the Thinkers, for instance-- all resigned. Some of those over near me smoldering. I haven't seen the Smiling Man's brow catch fire like that since. What plots we were laying! Some of the girls over near the Tower with torn-up fishnets & pistols tucked in the waistband of their underwear. You know, we were all ash & broken glass by then. "Climb in." Or some of us took the long hejira, passing through dark mazes like it was our new job-- in a lot of ways, it was. You know? Somebody just a jumble of rusted metal bits of what looked like they used to be gears; not even bits, but the impression of cogs in mud. You know, we keep trying to build Watchtowers, beacons or language or something black left on the moon. We are all Good Soldiers. Egg cracks but the colour underneath is pink, Europa's crust, blooming, a flower of china dust, maybe a pair of wings. I watched some old man just stutter to a stop. Worn out. I could have sworn his death rattle was some kind of morse code message, if I only had the Key. I am fairly certain that the dimples in the water's meniscus is a language of some kind, left latent in the fractal roots of causality. I won't give up. I am paying attention now more than ever.
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