When Krishna wakes, Radha explains the situation, leaving out the part about how she caused it. Krishna curses. He stands, then sits, moving around the cabin.
"I thought it would be different with you,” he says. He is tender, even when angry. “You were stronger than this. Better."
So he knew. Radha says nothing. She won't let him hurt her, not now.
"I'll reboot; won't lose much, but you, you stupid girl."
"Stop.” Radha cuts him off. They don't discuss her life outside the game; his life inside when she isn't in the ‘ware.
Krishna's gaze moves over Radha's frame, as if her motives were spelled out in the shape of her knees, the length of her forearms. He shrugs, admitting his complicity.
"You're sure there's only that foil-wrapped shit to eat?” He grimaces towards the emergency rations. Even gods like to eat.
"And plenty of it,” Radha says. She doesn't giggle, but she is smiling. It's not as if they need to eat.
Radha squeezes Krishna's hands, then picks up his flute from the bed. He accepts it, and plays a few notes. A new song. Radha pushes gently on his shoulders, and Krishna sits cross-legged on the floor. The song he plays is slow, melancholy, and tender. Radha opens his dhoti, raises her skirt, and makes love to him while he plays. The sex is better. She is happier now than she can ever remember.
This Radha spends her days locked into Krishna. If she remembers that her name was once Christina, when she first plugged into Krishnaware, it isn't important anymore. Radha entwines her arms around her Krishna.
This Radha has chosen her outcome, which is different from an option. In this ultimate unification with God, Radha forgets about her other self, the slumped body in its lonely apartment. Only a casing now, it fires neurons and excites nanos in Krishnaware, and Radha lives.
After a while, Krishna forgives her. He starts playing happy songs again, along with the sad and the sexy ones.
Krishna and Radha sit across from one another at the small table, or Radha sits on Krishna, or they lie in the small bed. The flute is between them, and when they finish talking, or eating, or sleeping, Krishna raises the flute to his lips. It is not the same tune as the one the rat catcher plays.
At the end of all of the Krishna stories, the god Krishna and the mortal Radha wander off together into the woods. Or maybe it is the desert.
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Eleven Wonderful/Horrible Things Found While Bookscouting
William Smith
After a decade of “wearing the paper hat,” I finally discovered a cause worthy of my compulsive shopping, list-making, and intense need for curmudgeonly solitude. For two years now I've supported myself as an online bookdealer.
The following is a list of the high (and low) lights of my siftings through attics, trash heaps, and the treasured possessions of dead people.
1. Two signed Arthur Conan Doyle titles from his spititualist/fairy period. The books were nibbled and the autographs were cut from correspondence and pasted onto the flyleaves. Nice, but not great. Laid-in, though, was a flyer for a Doyle appearance at Carnegie Hall that brought nearly $1000 at auction (my best page rate to date).
2. Thirty years of the recorded phone conversations of a paranoid landlord. They spanned every home-recording format from reel to reel to CD-R. They were layered on every surface in the house. I wish I could've gotten these into the hands of an electronic musician or performance artist.
3. Declassified documents from Post-WWII Berlin all from the collection of a single diplomat/functionary. I still need to research these. I have them in a large container of things I don't understand now but hope to, someday.
4. An original Jack Kirby painting portraying Captain America (RIP) and the Red Skull done for a co-artist of Kirby's at DC in the seventies. This was the one that got away. Probably for the best because I would have mortgaged children for it.
5. A pile of biodegrading sex toys covered in black tar. Having already left my filth threshhold behind, I picked one up. They stuck together like a mobile and I sent a phonecam picture to my girlfriend. She didn't call the police, bless her heart.
6. Two childhood signatures of Dare Wright, author of the cult children's picture book The Lonely Doll. In bizarre sychronicity I had just purchased her biography a few days before. I'm accumulating a collection of Wright material to auction after the biopic comes out.
7. Cremains. In an unmarked can, under a pile of TV Guides, near a seat-sprung recliner and a collapsed bookcase.
8. A first edition, first state of The Great Gatsby marred by a phone number and grocery list inked on the flyleaf.
9. A thick album of postcards collected on a cross-country trip taken in the 1920s with three or four cards from every stop. I spent months selling these individually and learned that small towns are better than cities, buildings are better than nature, and fire gives birth to nostalgia.
10. A cat skeleton (I think) ..... or a big rat.
11. A room filled shoulder deep in damp stuffed animals. To a New York apartment dweller this is truly a miraculous thing.
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I'll Give In
Meghan McCarron
This is a story about marriage, monsters, and a labyrinth, not necessarily in that order.
The labyrinth was made of hedges, and it sat next door to our new house. It was left over from the estate that used to occupy the grounds, a sprawling, fanciful money pit that had been sold fast and cheap by the owner's heirs to our developer. The lots were still cluttered with cracked fountains, overgrown gardens and toppled statues. My husband, Oscar, raged about this at least once a week, especially about the “eyesore” next door, but I hardly noticed it until Phil moved in.
I hadn't known the labyrinth was, you know, available, but one morning a moving truck parked out front, and after the movers consulted what had to be a map, they started carting boxes in. I watched this mysterious parade from my window until I got antsy and put Slash, my dog, on his leash to do some on-site reconnaissance.
There was no sign of the movers, but a car pulled up as I was peering into the entrance. I booked, trying to pretend I was just out for a brisk walk, but a voice—sweet, tenor—stopped me.
"You're not just gonna run away, are you?"
I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur.
He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more—human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live Pulp Fiction.
"I'm Phil,” he said.
"Phil?” I said.
"It's easier to say than my real name."
"Try me."
Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing.
"I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?"
"Your next-door neighbor, Jane. I assume this is your—house?"
"For the moment. The construction company hired me to do security,” Phil said.
"This is, like, the safest suburb in the whole city,” I said.
"Construction has a way of making things ..... unstable.” he said. “Jane. I'm sure the place is a mess right now—how about you come by tomorrow?"
"In there?” I said.
"It's easy. All you do is turn right."
"Not much of a labyrinth,” I said.
"Then I'll be sure to see you,” Phil said. He smiled when he said this. I had never seen a minotaur smile. It was weird and comforting at the same time. I liked it.
* * * *
That night, Oscar made it home in time for dinner, and I had my usual three-course feast prepared. I had been working on the soup all afternoon.
"Mm,” he said. “Lentils."
I knew that I was supposed to feel pathetic, spending all afternoon cooking for my husband, waiting with baited breath to hear him say “Mm. Lentils.” But I didn't. I could get a job whenever I wanted. Well, if they didn't ask a
bout the criminal record. But anyway. Better procrastination through gender roles.
"A minotaur moved into the labyrinth today,” I said.
"That's cool,” Oscar said. He was still engrossed in his soup.
"A minotaur, Oscar. His name is Phil. I've never even seen one before. Once we saw that pegasus—"
"I still think it was a fake,” Oscar said. “Is he Greek? Phil, I mean?"
"I dunno. Maybe he's French—a surrealist minotaur."
"Did he hit on you?"
"No, no. He's just ..... very modern,” I said.
For some reason, I thought it best not to mention “security,” to Oscar. He didn't trust the builder to begin with.
We polished off the sage-encrusted chicken and settled down with some homemade ice cream to watch The L Word. Oscar and I both get kind of randy after watching The L Word, and that night we went at it right there on the couch. I fell asleep on his chest afterwards; he poked me when I started drooling, and we went upstairs to bed.
* * * *
I am nothing if not a woman of my word. Or, more precisely, a woman who never misses an opportunity to visit weird neighbors. I used to spend hours with my neighbor in Brooklyn, Mrs. Tannenbaum, who claimed to have been a high class whore in the thirties. Her living room was full of empty bird cages. We used to sit under them in sagging chairs, drinking tea in cups with matching saucers, and tell each other dirty stories. But compared to Phil, Edith “Legs” Tannenbaum was a minor distraction.
I didn't know what time was best for minotaurs, so I stopped by the labyrinth around lunchtime. Halfway through the maze, it occurred to me that I would look like a lunch-moocher, but I was suspicious of this “just turn right” system. Did I “just turn left” to go out? It seemed too easy.
The center was one of those servant's cottages that dotted the development, also left over from the estate, except this one was stuck in the middle of a freakin’ labyrinth. Phil was, in fact, having lunch—I passed a shaken pizza delivery boy at the door—but he didn't so much as offer me a slice. At first, I was offended, until I realized he intended to eat the entire pie. Slash and I sat in silence as he took the pieces two at a time and stuffed them in his mouth. It was a little hard to watch.
Despite the fact that the cottage was in the middle of a maze, it had electrical outlets, and the faucet worked when I turned it on. Every room was equipped with skylights, because the windows were choked with hedge. The boxes near the bedroom held the most beautiful old books I had ever seen. Others contained dishes, decorations, linens. Semi-automatic machine guns.
"Um,” I said. “Are those guns legal?"
"Yup,” Phil said. He was at the sink, washing the sauce from his mouth—muzzle?
"Are you in the mob or something?” I said.
"Do you know about minotaurs?” Phil said.
"You're security contractors?"
"Sort of. Because of the nature of this property—"
"—'Nature of this property'—shit, this isn't Poltergeist or something, is it?"
"No! Just some minor nuisances which I'm in the process of taking care of. Lemme show you my library."
The library turned out to be the bedroom. Bookshelves covered every available wall surface, like ivy. They were only a third full, but what was there was beautiful. I must have sighed, because Phil said, “I thought you'd like books."
"I—I'm kind of a writer,” I said.
"What do you write about?"
"I don't write much, to be honest. Mostly I cook elaborate dinners for my husband.” I reached out to touch some of the books. “I kept writing the same story."
"What story?"
"There's this boy. Or a girl. It used to be a girl. They go to this other land and are supposed to be a hero. But they don't want to be a hero, so they wander around and try to find a better hero so they can get off the hook."
"That's a boring story,” Phil said.
"I know. I gave up,” I said.
"Maybe you could write about me,” he said.
"I'll think about it,” I said. That's my standard response. “Can I help you put away your books?"
I'm really ashamed of it, but my passions in life are, in order of importance, food, sex, and organizing. I was kind of a bad kid growing up, but even then I loved rearranging bike garages and measuring out dime bags. I was the cigarette bookkeeper for half the women's prison within two weeks of my arrival.
When I say I was a bad kid, it's mostly that I dated bikers. Like, when I was fifteen I was in love with twenty-seven-year-old dudes named “Rusty Knife.” I never did anything really bad—I did time because my drug-dealer boyfriend forgot to flush the weed he bought me for my eighteenth birthday.
I met Oscar about five years later, when I was clean and straight and mostly respectable, though still not over bad boys. Oscar is the kind of lawyer whose job it is to scare the crap out of people, and he has three tattoos and a hot temper. He gives me what I want when I want it, except, of course, when I want to be denied. He's a near-perfect mix of biker and sane person, though if I were being honest, I'd say he's a little too sane. But I understand that no one's perfect.
* * * *
The next day I went back to help Phil put away his dishes. I was explaining to him why I loved saucers when Roberto, the construction manager, showed up at the door. He peered into the entrance like it might eat him.
"What's up?” Phil said.
"Hey, um,” Roberto began. “We've got, ah, some giant winged horses tearing up lot fifteen. Wondering if you could help us out there."
* * * *
There were three of them, and they were beautiful. They were bigger than any normal horse, though giant was a bit of a stretch. Two of them were kicking up dust around the construction site. The third was trotting around in what was going to become the attic of the house; right now it was only a frame. The bottom levels were busted up in places, and the construction trailer had been overturned, but the horses looked so happy.
Phil pulled out his gun.
"You're going to shoot them!” I said.
"They're monsters, Jane,” Phil said.
"Look at them! They're horses!"
Phil raised the gun. “I'm sorry."
I stood in front of him and pulled out one of the carrots I had grabbed from my fridge. “I'll show you."
I had learned to ride in a city parks program when I was little. I was pretty good—really good, actually. I still had my ribbons. Oscar and I kept talking about buying a horse, but I knew nothing could compare to these guys. I walked up to them, slowly, and whistled like I had learned as a kid.
I approached the nearest, carrot in hand. She seemed to like the smell of me, and I held out the carrot. She came over and nibbled.
At just that moment, a cement truck roared down the street, and the calm broke. The horse nearest to me reared and grazed my head with its hoof. I fell, and heard poppoppop pop! “No,” I moaned. I opened my eyes; the horses were gone. Phil picked me up. He smelled like cologne, like pine.
"Are they dead?” I murmured.
"No,” Phil said. “I shot the gun in the air. They flew away."
He carried me all the way back to my house, my head resting on his shoulder. I cried a little. He sat me on the kitchen counter and dug out my first aid supplies. He offered to take me to the emergency room, but I refused. He kept wrapping bandages, kept shining the flashlight in my eyes, kept saying, over and over, “I'm so sorry."
At some point, I was all bandaged, but he was still touching my forehead, my face, the curve behind my ears. At some point, the flashlight was out of the picture, but he was still looking in my eyes. I was rocked with equal and opposite surges of shame and arousal.
He leaned in and kissed me.
Kissing him wasn't like the bikers. But it wasn't like Oscar, either. I felt gathered up in something bigger than me, like I was something precious, but something strange as well. My heart pounded in my ears. I was scared. I was high.
&
nbsp; He pulled away, and I buried my face in his shoulder. His fur was softer than I had expected, cleaner. “I can't,” I whispered.
"I know,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'll never do it again, I just—"
"I'd like to go nap now. If you could just go, I'd—"
"Right. Sorry, Jane. Sorry."
After Phil left, I found myself, to my shock, sitting in front of the study computer. I pulled up the file called, simply “S,” for “Story.” I didn't bother reading what was there. I started to type.
Theseus and the Minotaur.
Wait, no. I don't like the way that story came out.
Allie and the Monster
The first thing Allie did when she came to Trel was befriend a monster. No one in their right mind befriended monsters. But she was new. She didn't know.
The monster's name was Brutus. Brutus was hairy and breathed fire. Allie told him she had come to be a hero. Brutus pointed out heroes weren't friends with monsters. Fuck that, Allie said. She stayed friends with Brutus.That was her first mistake.
* * * *
Oscar made dinner that night. It wasn't half bad, but I wasn't about to admit that to him.
"I hate it here,” I said. There was a huge bandage around my head. I felt like a fool. “I never see my friends, I'm alone in the house all day—"
"You're the one who wanted a house,” Oscar said. “You're the one who quit your job."
"It was a mistake, okay?"
"I'm sorry about the horses, Jane."
"I hate it all, I hate suburbia, I hate writing, I hate being married—"
"You don't mean that,” Oscar said.
I stopped talking. I could hear the unsaid, Do you?
"I'm sorry. My head hurts. I just want to go to bed,” I said.
I woke up at two A.M., unable to sleep even with the headache. I went downstairs and started writing.
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