Stirfry Neon

The labyrinth shook — yep, let’s call it by its official name not the twisty turning corners o’ death fun ride. Labyrinth. With monster.  Him.

He was surprised to see me. I wasn’t surprised to see him. Mace just glowered, at both of us pretty equally. Like this was all our fault. When, of course, it was his. I’m never at fault. That would imply attempts at doing the right things and a stable tectonic state.  Which might mean I’m always at fault…or I’m always the point that gives. If not, we all get shattered. Right now, there was no give. The Minotaur just wanted to take.  And I had no idea what Mace wanted. Maybe that’s where the labyrinth started — or maybe that was the door.

I turned my back on him…no, not brave, I just focus on one thing at a time (a FAULTy strategy, perhaps) and right now, my focus was Mace.

“What do you want?”  And for once, I planned to listen, not obfuscate with snappy patter or a quick duck down the alley to escape.

The quick duck would have been the sensible thing because and here are the sensations in order:

 Hot breath wheezing behind me.
 Hard hand on collar, scraping sensitive neck not in the nice way.
 Velocity, a lot of velocity.
 Choking sensation around the collar area.
 Standing on NOTHING sensation under the sneaks.
 Looking down at Mace, so a suddenly taller feeling.
 But the distance between us was a killer.

Or maybe it was the guy holding me up. “This?” He rasped.

Mace’s response? A shrug. The ground suddenly got a lot further away.

So did the world.

I don’t know why he bothered wasting time with the roaring and the shaking. I had already gotten the message. Mace continued indifferent , sitting down on a stool, pulling out some knitting, ignoring the angry Minotaur. A pleasant little domestic scene. I think I should have started this whole adventure here. We all would have suffered less.

Let’s try that. So there I was, 30,000 frikking Leagues under the sea. my feet off the ground, no bathysphere, no diving helmet, no rescue team. Pretty typical Saturday. Oh, wait, it’s a Tuesday. Unless Wednesday got here a lot earlier with a change of species, I was looking at a fairly long swim.

And this is where I should have started. Because I don’t remember anything before (better for you if you forget it too, because we are NEVER mentioning this little incident I’m assuming might have happened because my sneaks are a little wet again. Got that?  NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

There she was knitting quietly, one eye watching me, and the motion of the needles clicking together made me forget for a half second the danger, the hot breath, the oceans between us, the bull man behind us, there was just the eye, and us, as a hurricane stormed.

An amethyst eye.

Then there were more voices, swirling around, and once again I heard, “This?”

The woman snapped the threads she’s been weaving in my direction and they moved more like snakes than fabric or waves. But I wasn’t frightened.

“The only way.”

Then I was swirling, twirling like a top or a yo yo let loose off the string, unfurled, launched out of the eye into the hurricane. Into the storm. With nothing solid, thread swirling, waves crashing, the world rewriting its history and mine. Whoever I might turn out to be.

Now, imagine this is a movie and you see a montage of gorgeously lit images flash by quicker than instants, faster than breath…A woman, swirls of threads, alleys, glass, streetlights, stars seen through clear green, blue and grey storm, red eyes, rushing water, still . And your heart (or the soundtrack) is pushing you so fast it feels like a nightmare you’re trying to run your way out of because none of it’s there. The air feels empty but you can’t push through. And the lights, they pull you in like quiet pools but you can never rest.

And this is where we start.

The light punched me between the eyes like it wanted to use the hands on approach to pummel my brain. I was wet, yes, behind the ears, but drippier than usual. Though it smelled a little salty, at least the liquid wasn’t blood this time. Must be a Monday. I usually needed to be hosed down after a Saturday night’s adventure. I straightened my trench collar with a soggy snap and checked my sneaks for skid marks. Still snazzy. Still snappy. Still pattering. This time with drips on the asphalt instead of words. I inhaled — solid, cough inducing night city air.

Smelled like home. My sneaks knew the way. The alleys were empty. The streetlights working. The stars just distant enough. 

You don’t really need to know my name. It’s better that way, for all of us. All you need to know is that I know a place (it may be the only thing I know.)

Smells like a coffee night. You in?