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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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He wished he were there now, even if he did have to sit next to Roy.
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Tucker made a grab for him but missed it, and Chad heard his shirt rip a little.
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He ran like only a small boy can run, but he was losing and he wished hard that he could fly.
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Roy!
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Chad rounded the corner grabbing the cinder block to help him turn faster just as Tucker came down again with the tumbleweed from behind, and the world slowed almost to a stop.
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Roy stood with the bill of his cap down.
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His head rose and his eyes focused over Chad's shoulder.
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Roy held stickers in his hand like flowers, but he bent looking down and snatched something from the ground.
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His hand blurred and snapped out as he stood back up.
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Something whined as it spun past Chad's ear, and he heard a sharp, meaty thunk just behind him.
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The rock was too big to fit into the iron hub of the big cable spool, so Chad leaned it against the tumbleweed and slid down off the splintery wood on his belly to admire his handiwork.
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Hey, Roy?
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Roy stood expressionless as ever as Chad turned to look.
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Tucker towered there with a surprised expression and crossed eyes, the tumbleweed in one hand and the screwdriver held up high in the other ready to stab down into Chad's back.
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A sharp, flat, flint rock split Tucker's forehead and was buried deep and solid like a part of a Halloween costume complete with a drop of blood just starting down toward his nose.
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Tucker dropped down like a jacket from a hook.
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It was Roy, and when Chad looked up there was something like his brother there around the eyes.
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Yeah.
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Chad stepped back away from Tucker's open-eyed face.
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"I thought he might stab you." Roy said and craned his neck forward to look at Tucker's face as the other boys began to crowd around at a respectful distance.
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Do you think he's dead?
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Just then Tucker blinked and began to sob.
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"Nah." Chad said, "We're gonna be in trouble."
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Nah.
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We're gonna be in trouble.
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"Yeah." Roy said.
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Yeah.
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Hey, Roy?
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What?
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You suck.
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It was all right.
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The fort was a lone, wooden cable spool like a tall barrel with thick disks on its ends, each the size of a dinner table.
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The sufferer says no, only those which cause no pain.
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And the artist says no, only those which cause the most pain, for those would be the truest memories.
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So I shall soothe my quarreling selves with a compromise.
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I will not talk of the first time Tasha and I tried any act of sex or sport together.
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I can remember similar things with others.
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Is that love?
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But it is something marvelous and rare, which is surely a sign of love.
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If my love for her was the only important thing, I would leave a holo of her with a note: "Dear Future, this is Tasha Cortez.
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"Dear Future, this is Tasha Cortez.
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You loved her.
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With warmest regards, Your Past."
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Enough.
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Tasha and I walked through The Sleeping Flamingo together, and I decided to buy it.
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Mama kept her mink jacket, a family hand-me-down, safe from time in a stopbox, and lent the capturador to my uncle for his stamp collection.
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Then --
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This is not easy.
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I stand up, I walk around, I pretend someone makes a vid about a writer and I must enact every cliche.
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But I have learned something: writing trivializes.
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The Tasha who was is not the Tasha in this file.
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The Tasha in this file is not even the Tasha I loved and thought I knew.
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The Tasha in this file would walk through a net show in half an hour, including commercials, and just before an ad for Figuero's Flash Diapers -- Keeps Baby Driest!
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, she --
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Tasha is not the whole of what happened on Vega IV.
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I must also write about Emiliano Gabriel Malaquez.
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Future Self, you know our style well enough to tell that time has passed between the last sentence and this.
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I have been re-reading all our favorite books --
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Published in Double Feature by Emma Bull and Will Shetterly (NESFA Press, 1994).
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But neither of us care to dwell on such boring subjects, do we?
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I want to pick up with Tasha and me walking about The Sleeping Flamingo, and then, for the sake of literary convenience, to say that from a corner of the yard I saw a neighboring house, and the sight filled me with darkest forebodings.
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But the truth is that Tasha pointed it out from the one place where it could barely be seen, and I only felt envy that it had been designed by someone with understated good taste.
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"Who lives there?"
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I asked.
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"No one,"
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"No one," Tasha replied.
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Sometimes they would let us little ones to seal a treasured toy or a last piece of birthday cake until we begged them for its release, usually a few hours after enclosing it.
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Truth is always more boring than fiction.
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For Malaquez did not move into Dream's End until four or five months after I -- we?
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how does one speak to one's future self?
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-- occupied The Flamingo.
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I do not plan to write a book: this narrative must move more quickly.
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Tasha and I became lovers that evening, after a good dinner of paella at her apartment.
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I made some small joke afterward, about approving of her firm's business incentives, and she cried.
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Consoling her, I began to suspect I loved her.
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I moved into The Flamingo the next day; and she gave up her apartment three weeks later to join me.
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It was the sort of romance that happens so rarely that most people believe it does not happen at all, the sort of romance that sustains the hopeless billions who regularly watch A Wandering Star Called Love.
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(Which is to say, you and me, Future Self.)
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Who was Tasha Cortez?
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She was a twenty-four-year-old (Terran Standard) N'Apulcan who left university training in hydroponics to work for her aunt's real estate firm.
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Her family said she did it to support her father, who was dying of a particularly painful degenerative disease.
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Tasha said she woke up one morning convinced that if she spent another day studying vegetables, she would become one.
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She did not like my plays.
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I had impressed her because I was famous and amusing and not, as I had hoped, because I was a great artist.
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That bothered (yes, and intrigued) me until I realized that she was bored by most plays, movies, and vid.
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She did not like being a spectator.
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I often told her that she should have a bio-check to see if she suffered from some metabolic imbalance.
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I often told her too many things.
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Search "Emiliano Malaquez" and you'll find he's a master of the "captured moment" school of sculpture.
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Even The Terran Times has only praise for his work.
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To compare his pieces to those of others is to compare mannequins to living models.
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He accents the illusion of reality --I paraphrase his entry in La Enciclopedia Humanica --by doing life-size scenes in "the full round," never the easier frontal or three-quarters view.
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Moreover, he never did portraits of famous people; his works were therefore the reality and could never be compared to it.
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As is typical of his school, his pieces are sealed in stopboxes.
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The shimmer of light on their surfaces always reminds us that we're looking at an instant snatched from under the hooves of time.
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Yes, Self, I am also bothered that this observation ignores half-eaten cheese sandwiches, incomplete insect collections, and locks of infants' hair, forgotten in closets, basements, and warehouses.
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We found our baby shoes protected in stopboxes.
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You see the inspiration for my latest play, "Captured Moments."
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The mindwipe will take its creation from my future self --but time too often does that without aid.
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The play's second act concludes with the last fight between Tasha and me.
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