May 17th, 2005



The Aeon editors speak. As someone who has collected approximately 700 rejections (a few in the last week), and who has (co)issued about the same number, what they said.

But Aoife's Kiss will be running "The Short, Happy Death of Mack Francis" this coming December.

Work in Progress

Old Roger, fey as any elf-shot youth, rode forward. "I call this tourney to arms," he said, his old man's quaver little more than a whisper, though by the Lady Moon's magic it echoed among the stands. "In memory of the White Knight Schneewittchen, whose rose still blooms under the Hill and over the horizon."

The Moon's servants danced out from among Her brilliant fog. They were the tattered legions of faerie trailing blood and lace, smiling like razored diamonds, fingers long and clever like the jaws of snakes. Old Roger seemed indifferent to them, staring at his late love's tomb as if his very gaze could crack her sepulchre and draw her from the grave whole and hale. Shadows gathered in the noon sky, lending a dusky aspect to the field, while the Moon's glowed multiplied, a fire cold and pitiless.

Her voice was the gentle hiss of the turning of worms, writ thunder-loud. "How is Our brother come to Our city, without Our leave?"

Stupid traffic lowjinx

So driving home from a late dinner with a couple of friends, I head down SE 12th Avenue to avoid the light at Powell. Some guy in a 1982-ish Monte Carlo runs the stop sign at 12th & Kelly at speed, and I have to make significant evasive maneuvers so as not to hit him (I had the right of way). I honk, he gives the F-U stare. The nerve of me, hogging the right of way where he wants to go. Then he turns at Franklin, my usual turn, and stops in the middle of the road. No way am I going for this, so I head on down 12th, make a long block on Milwaukie, come back to Franklin. There's the Monte Carlo, going real slow up the hill in front of me. It's dark, I figure at this point I'm just a pair of headlights to him, so I park my mild paranoia and pull into the SE 11th, the street that faces my basement mansion, and do the turnaround-and-park. The Monte Carlo comes by again going the other way real slow. Now I think he's hunting me for dissing him back at the stop sign. He stops on Franklin just past the outlet of my street, out of my line of sight, but I can see his brake lights reflected in the chrome wheels of a parked car. So I sit in my car, and wait to see what happens. A couple of minutes later, we're both still sitting there, I figure it's time to hop out, get his plate and call 911, in case I come out later to find my tires slashed or something. As I stick my head around the corner he backs up toward me, then starts talking to a guy in a parked car, window-to-window. I'm think, oh great, I got in the middle of a drug deal. But I can see them both waving their hands -- Mr. Monte Carlo is lost, getting detailed directions (either that or they've got a great cover for their drug drop).

Jesus, dude, don't do that stuff to me.
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