Key remembers sixteen. Her obaachan is dead and her mother has moved to an apartment in Hilo and it’s just Key and her father in that old, quiet house at the end of the road. The vampires have annexed San Diego and Okinawa is beseiged, but life doesn’t feel very different in the mountains of the Big Island.
It is raining in the woods behind her house. Her father has told her to study, but all she’s done since her mother left is read Mishima’s Sea of Fertility novels. She sits on the porch, wondering if it’s better to kill herself or wait for them to come, and just as she thinks she ought to have the courage to die, something rattles in the shed. A rat, she thinks.
But it’s not rat she sees when she pulls open the door on its rusty hinges. It’s a man, crouched between a stack of old appliance boxes and the rusted fender of the Buick her father always meant to fix one day. His hair is wet and slicked back, his white shirt is damp and ripped from shoulder to navel. The skin beneath it is pale as a corpse; bloodless, though the edges of a deep wound are still visible.
"They’ve already come?" Her voice breaks on a whisper. She wanted to finish The Decay of the Angel. She wanted to see her mother once more.
"Shut the door," he says, crouching in shadow, away from the bar of light streaming through the narrow opening.
"Don’t kill me."
"We are equally at each other’s mercy."
She likes the way he speaks. No one told her they could sound so proper. So human. Is there a monster in her shed, or is he something else?
"Why shouldn’t I open it all the way?"
He is brave, whatever else. He takes his long hands from in fromt of his face and stands, a flower blooming after rain. He is beautiful, though she will not mark that until later. Now, she only notices the steady, patient way he regards her. I could move faster than you, his eyes say. I could kill you first.
She thinks of Mishima and says, “I’m not afraid of death.”
Only when the words leave her mouth does she realize how deeply she has lied.
—Alaya Dawn Johnson, “A Guide to the Fruits of Hawai’i”, in the July/August 2014 Fantasy & Science Fiction
Kate Bush | The Fog
it’s a sensual world kind of morning
MAKE A DINOSAUR OUT OF IT
"The rockets being fired from Gaza are a form of non-violent protest, and one that works. As military weapons they’re utterly useless. A 2012 analysis revealed that the 12,000 missiles fired over twelve years resulted in twenty-two Jewish fatalities – a kill rate of 0.175%. This is because they’re not really weapons. There are plenty of ways for resistance groups to inflict mass civilian casualties; the fact that they’re firing rockets instead shows that this isn’t on the agenda. It’s not a military campaign; it’s a highly visible protest against those forces that would prefer to turn Gaza into something like its representation in the ADL posters: a blank, white, empty expanse."
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