We Are More

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/82283.html)

May, 1996

The attic was going to be hell.

Katie stood in the middle of it, turning a slow circle with her hands on her hips. Old steamer trunks with garment bags stacked up on top of them, cobwebs sealing them to the floor like tape across the door at a crime scene. Defunct cabinets and haphazardly added shelves full of useless junk whose price value probably varied from ’50 cents, maybe’ to ‘worth more than your life, Katherine Willard,’ too tacky or too expensive for regular house display. It was an alien landscape up here, mountains made of history. The bruised-looking husk of a Commodore 64 computer perched on top of one of them, shockingly old, probably never used once since Katie’s dad had moved on to better things and donated it.

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Third Wheel

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/72672.html)

“‘Unresolved issues’?”

Nicky cackles into his drink, not so much because it’s funny as because he can’t remember the number on the drink, and hell, that makes everything pretty funny. “You sound like my mom’s fucking therapist. ‘Unresolved issues.’ Christ.”

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Canaan Falls

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)
illustrated by wredwrat

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/60769.html)


The first thing I thought when I saw Bobby Leonard again was that I had never expected to see him old. The Bobbys of the world followed James Dean’s advice, and his example, I guess; they got shot holding up all-night liquor stores by some clerk who got lucky, plowed their beat-up Camaros through the guardrail out on the point, loaded up their arms with poison medicine for the pain of being crazy in a sane world or the other way around. They had closed-casket funerals with big blowups of their high school yearbook pictures on a stand, decked with flowers. You didn’t expect them back at forty-five. Hell, you didn’t expect them back at twenty-five.

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by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/48291.html)

They had been seven, in the beginning, who had come to the desert to battle Fire.

Now she was the only one. The rest were dead. Seven was a number of power, a number that looped around and swallowed its own tail, but so, she supposed, was one. The last two to fall had been the twins: tall brothers, albino and born hairless as well as pale and crystal-eyed, smooth of head and cheek and even eye. They had been like white blades, going arm-in-arm in the city, always keeping their own counsel. They had been brave and noble to the utmost, and fought like demons, and she had not been surprised that they had lasted longest of all but her. Fire had slain one, battening on him like a hawk and tearing his cooking guts from his body with a single red stroke, and the other had died of the pain. She had honored them to the gods, but not buried them. The desert would do that.

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…But You Can’t Take Him Out

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/54118.html)

He only noticed the guy was following him after he’d passed Penn Station — around the corner of 36th and 7th. Before that the press of people was so bad that you could’ve been walking in any direction and somebody could be guaranteed to be following you, but when he crossed 7th Avenue to the east and then jogged across to the shops on the other side of 36th just for the hell of it, his messenger bag bouncing on his hip, he saw as he was checking over his shoulder for traffic the guy in the sunglasses completing the same weird-ass maneuver at the same time. If he hadn’t crossed the street just then he probably never would have known, but as it was he faced front again frowning. Still, could be nothing. Coincidences happened.

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And That’s the News

by shukyou (主教) and Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/47011.html)

[The following is a work half of satire, half of imagination, and entirely of fiction. Any resemblance to actual proper nouns is entirely intentional, though imaginative liberties have been taken with the principal characters to the point of near-unrecognisability. The easily offended, die-hard political junkies of any affiliation, and persons lacking a sense of humour are respectfully requested to both grow a thicker skin, and do it somewhere else.]

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by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/39061.html)

The clear sounds of an altercation without his office door drew David’s attention at last from his proofs, and he looked up with a slight frown between his brows. Hard to say what reason there could be for a scuffle and raised voices at four o’clock in the afternoon, particularly not with Hopkins out for the week.

Protruding his head from the doorway, however, revealed a most peculiar sight. In addition to the seven or so shouting and wrangling newspapermen in shirtsleeves he might have expected, clung to by a miasma of smoke and ill temper, there was also nearly occluded in their midst an Oriental man, of indeterminate age, clearly greatly indignant at the general attempt to remove him bodily from the office. Only after several bemused moments’ spectatorship, however, did David match movements of mouth to one of the angry voices in the general din, and realize with a start that the Oriental was in fact attempting to defend his case in perfect — albeit agitated and mildly spicy — English: “Oh, for heavens’ sakes! Off me, you great jackanapes, I only — now see here!” This made the likely explanation, that he had wandered in off the street for one reason or another, perhaps for purposes of solicitation, significantly less likely — as did his clothing, David realized too late; the man was a bit disheveled and disreputably hatless, but otherwise shabbily but smartly dressed in the English style — and at last curiosity more than temper drove him to speak.

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Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/21350.html)

Christina stepped out of the deathly heat inside the bus into the deathly heat outside it, which was equal if not greater but at least not so stale. It wasn’t a long ride from Fishkill, but both her undershirt and blouse were already sticking to the skin on the backs of her shoulders, and she could feel sweat trickling little warm rills down the path of her spine. It was a few days into September, but there was no sign as of yet the world had noticed, or might be considering opening its hands and letting August go. She supposed she could have gotten a ride, probably a cooler ride, back to school, but after the fights and silences of the end of the summer she’d thought it better to look after herself. To seem to disappear, like a ghost or a bad dream at dawn. She supposed that was what they’d wanted all along.

The bus’s exhaust made a shimmering haze in the air as the driver lifted her trunk and smaller shoulder-bag from the luggage compartment, and as she stood by, fanning herself with her hand and squinting into the sun. The driver carried the bags to the gates, and there looked uncertain, but Christina favored him with a polite but firm smile that told him his work was done, and he set them down, tipped his hat to her, and went back to the driver’s seat. She took the trunk’s short leash in her hand, slung the shoulder-bag where it belonged beside her purse, and tossed her sticky hair back from her sticky cheek so she could look ahead. It was nice to be back here, she had to admit, at least compared to being anywhere else.

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The Wolf At The Door

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/17694.html)

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.
–Revelation 3:20

A witch was believed to have animal familiars, or imps, who nourished themselves on her body, performed evil acts at her command, and were themselves supernatural beings. . . . A witch could also turn herself into an animal in order to carry out her evil deeds without being recognized. Or she could recruit real animals to do her bidding, or turn other people into animals if it suited her purpose.
–Carol F. Karlsen, The Devil in the Shape of a Woman: Witchcraft in Colonial New England

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Lunch Money

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/8265.html)

“What are you doing?” Keitaro was already calling, as he broke into a jog across the parking lot, his furrowed brow sharpening into a full-fledged scowl. “Stop that! Let him go!”

At the sound of an adult’s voice the boys broke apart, milling away from the one at the center of the cluster in an effort to look casual. It was Nakamura, he saw, and supposed he should have known; the small boy had a purpled black eye, a trickle of blood running from his lip, and a dazed expression, and was groping vaguely for the pair of glasses lying on the asphalt not far from his hand. Keitaro strode into the semi-circle of teenagers and scooped them up, handing them to Nakamura and helping him to his feet.

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