[Hi everybody! I've been lost in the unfamiliar territory of JOBS, so I haven't updated in a while. Sorry! I'll be back on track soon. Here's a short story I wrote roughly a year ago. Enjoy!]
Not
much inspires quite the same flavor of crystalline terror as watching a
dazzling winter sunset and knowing there’s no going back inside tonight.
Bittersweet, it snags onto your tongue like an icicle and drags it down, down
over the horizon until your brain is pulled straight out through your mouth and
everything dissolves into blackness.
My
eyes are already stuck in that direction, so I look on. Our Sun, Helios, the
ultimate provider of warmth, light, and life (until Prometheus, the
great-granddaddy of all us couch potatoes, taught his buddies how to drag it
inside, away from God) is throwing a nuclear fit as big as a million Earths and
as small as two atoms of hydrogen. From my refracted perspective within the
troposphere, all I can see is a dazzling display of photons that leap down from
heaven and splatter themselves across the whole sky, catching cotton cloudy
canvases with tufts of saffron, nacarat, rose-pink and indigo. Normally I’m a
sentimental guy, but this evening I can’t forget that when the light show ends,
my worldly existence is soon to follow.
The
display is made many times more breathtaking by the billions of ice crystals
that reflect colors back and forth at each other like a light-speed game of
Pong. High above, stars begin to stare down with a cold constancy normally
found in the eyes of job interviewers. I shift my aching, frostbitten feet
slightly, careful not to disturb the gentle equilibrium my floe keeps above the
lapping waves. I’m the only dull-colored object in sight. As if the scenario
weren’t humiliating enough, now I feel like a blot on a glittering, pristine,
snowball Earth.
As
ridiculous situations go, I think,
tugging the legs of my jeans to stop the snow from soaking them, This
one should win an award. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life… that is, for
the next few hours.
The
earlier dawn broke upon a promising scene; the weather had dropped down to
thirty degrees Fahrenheit again, and a few tantalizing wisps traced the edge of
the sky. I woke and wistfully gazed out at them, now and again looking back at
the brown grass all around and imagining it painted white. A walk was the order
of the afternoon.
I
don’t know what made me wear jeans instead of shorts. I rarely do. They hardly
heat me; the chilly denim rubbing against my skin often counteracts the warmth
trapped by the twin shag carpets of hair I cultivate on my legs. For me, long
pants serve only a social function. In New York, if not also other parts of the
world, the knees are considered among the private parts when the temperature
drops below fifty-five. Thus, one can be fully clothed and still experience the
accusation, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?” It takes some accustoming, and I’m
a slow learner.
Normally
I disregard all of it. Even without an elevated pulse, my legs are usually cozy
until the temperature falls into the single digits or below. Besides, baggy
shorts are nearly a universal fit. Blue jeans, the everyman’s standard pick,
are too restrictive in all the wrong places. Even the ones I’ve had measured
for me are short if they’re narrow enough and wide if they’re long enough. I
don’t blame the clothing industry or anyone else for my peculiar proportions.
But until today, I’d never been thankful for canvas on my shins.
The
freeze arrived suddenly, softly, like a glacier sped up to take moments instead
of centuries. The gulls noticed it first. One by one, they stilled their
squawking and turned northward, keen eyes inspecting the Long Island Sound as
if they had never seen it before. Then, not in fear, but as if all at once
notified of a great inconvenience, they surged into the air and began an
unplanned, southbound migration. I watched in detached awe from the trailhead
high above the Kings Park Bluff. It was like sitting outside and observing a
fire drill. Neither of the two old men down by the parking lot looked up from
his cigarette, but the orange stray cat by the dock followed the flock with
wide, impassive eyes. Then she turned and slipped up the road.
Cell
phone service is poor in the park, especially as I made my way down to the
beach. My phone had been off for most of the walk. It rested comfortably in my
back pocket, leaving room in the front for only the most essential knickknacks:
wallet and keys. Blue jeans are meant to be sleek and subtle, to blend in. The
instruction manual does not recommend the cramming of curios. Standing only
feet from the lapping, briny shoreline, I buried my hands in the sweatshirt
pockets, which are reserved exclusively for my numb hands. Then it happened.
It
took a moment before I realized that feeling had fled not only from my fingers,
but also from the rest of my body. Slowly I gazed around, from the sand to the
drowsy waves to glittering Connecticut far across the Sound. Although nothing
was happening, each moment took longer than the last, draining me of motivation
even to question what was occurring. The swishing whispers of the waves began
to fade as if receding into the distance. It was as if my brain and my
surroundings are decelerating, preparing to shut down. I tried to sigh but was unable.
I tried again. I was stuck. Nothing hurt. Nothing moved. It was still for the
longest moment and eon of my life. Everything melted into white light.
I
often wonder about Heaven, on the off chance that I earn a posthumous ticket of
absolution. Doubtless the temperature is perfect for everybody, but I hope they
don’t mind my wearing shorts anyway. I’ll wear them beneath my robes if I must.
After all, the pockets would be bottomless: perfect for packing my spare wings
for that overnight trip to the Aurora Borealis.
I’ll
know I’m in Hell if after I die, I find myself in a 100000 ˚C room, wearing
itchy jeans I can’t remove.
But
neither of these seemed to be taking place today. Gradually I became conscious of
a searing pain in my head, as though a hibachi chef had sliced it into bits
waiting to fall apart. This agony extended down to my hands and navel, but
everything below my waist had become tingly and warm. Stale carbon dioxide
steamed in my burning lungs. Even as I stood suffocating the scream, the tingling
warmth spread, colonizing my organs one by one. It was the scorching heat and
eventual relief of stepping inside from a blizzard.
Ahead
was nothing but an eternal landscape of freezing fog, yet even as I strained to
blink, the crystals coating my eyes melted into tears which flowed forth to
reveal the clear, sparkling world.
No
sooner had I the chance to take in the drastic changes in my environment than I
buckled forward to an earsplitting crack! Ice water flowed into my shoes, sending an electric wave
of panic from my ankles up to my screaming brain. I scrambled forward onto the
upheaved sheet of ice, which flattened as I lay panting, inhaling thanks for my
narrow escape and exhaling befuddled ruminations of what the hell was going on.
The surface was soft and crunchy. I could feel sweat rising in wisps my neck.
Only
after a moment did the full implication of my scenario occur to me. It was
probably the gentle rocking that clued me in. I looked over my shoulder and
past my elbow to observe the shore granting me a gradual adieu as I bobbed out
to Sound.
The
floe drifts slowly; by now, after a few hours (judging from the sun) I think
I’m only a mile or so from the shore and many more east of Kings Park. Or I
could be somewhere completely different. At least I know it’s sunset. Wait:
that’s no more. In my rueful reminiscence, I forgot to stick my tongue to the
sun again, to taste and try to anchor it above the horizon with my soggy feet
stuck to the ice. If there’s only one thing that breaks down whatever it is
that ordinarily shields me from the cold, it’s being wet.
Now,
with only starlight and the last receding pink glow over the remote spires of
New York City to illuminate my thoughts, I realize that the jeans must have
saved me. Irony, my on-again, off-again inamorata, must have wrapped them
carefully around my calves in anticipation of this catastrophe. If I escape
this alive, if anyone else has weathered the freeze that seems to stretch to
each horizon, I’ll never attempt to deflect their denim-coated criticism of my
attire again. The world sure was right about the wisdom inherent in an extra
eighteen inches of fabric.
A
pinpoint of light catches my eye. Where was it? What was it?
There
it is again! There’s a boat, and it’s approaching! It cuts through the shadowy
surf like an angel of mercy riding a silver bullet. I pause to imagine the Grim
Reaper at the helm, ready to escort me to my awaited doom. So that’s why the
United States employs a Coast Guard!
Without
warning the floe is violently jarred and jerked down in the back. Dumb
reactions save me and I seize the edge of the ice to prevent myself from
sliding backward to my doom. A frenzied snuffling fills the air now below me,
and I dangle by my fingertips as the heavy ice sheet is tilted almost
vertically.
“Damn
it!” I yell aloud in panic. “A polar bear?! It’s not really that cold!”
The
boat’s motor is audible now, and its searchlight is trained on the rocking
shard of my crisis like an angler closing in on its prey, but will it reach me
in time? And was there room for a gun in the captain’s pocket?
The
bear roars in similar frustration, black eyes seeming to glow red from beneath
matted fur as I glance, horrified, to the yellow teeth into which I’ll plummet
if my fingers relax a degree or two. It belches ravenous puffs of steam up to
my face, but I can’t hold my nose. Under the beast’s weight, the ice begins to
sink, and it swings a paw at my leg.
I
gasp, anticipating a grisly injury.
But
the deadly nails only hook into my jeans and tear them off at the knee. I hoist
the leg up, but another swipe takes the calf off the other leg of the garment.
In
one of those moments in which I’m too blinded by fear to ascertain quite what
happens, the ice flips, and I wind up on top of it. Silver wind rips at my
now-exposed calves and my already-exposed face. The bear grumbles below the
surface, swimming apart for another strike. But the search boat has rumbled up
to my little disc of ice, drowning my senses in wild light that reveal me,
coated in frozen sweat, half my jeans torn from me.
The
man below the searchlight can only stand there dumbly, a ready floatation
device forgotten in his gloved hands. “What the hell, kid? What are you doing
out here in shorts?”
Girl Genius is an ongoing online comic set in an industrial Europe where "sparks" are fanatic mad scientists whose prowess can break the boundaries of possibility. The plot follows the adventures of Agatha Heterodyne, a young university student who discovers that she has been hidden as the most powerful spark in Europe. As her skill quickly begins to blossom, Agatha is forced to choose which side of her lost family to emulate: her father, descended from a line of conquerors but himself the greatest hero in memory; or her mother, a shadowy manipulator whose inventions have toppled empires. Among the countless colorful characters Agatha meets are Gilgamesh "Gil" Wulfenbach, energetic heir to the Empire of Europe; Tarvek Sturmvoraus, a deceptive prince with access to Agatha's family secrets; and Emperor Krosp, Agatha's talking cat.
One of my favorite aspects of the comic is the way science and magic are fused. There's not a huge amount of technical description, both because the science is unworkable and because they probably want to keep it exciting. This makes almost anything possible. There's a huge amount of monsters, most of which are explained as genetic constructs, and many of the wizard-like characters are actually scientists who have adopted a magical style. Many people have called the comic "steampunk," which is frequently ambiguous anyway, but the creators have gently objected to this label, noting that nearly every imaginable power source, not just steam, powers the crazy machines. My favorite is a giant robot squid whose gas valve is labeled "unleaded."
