The Omega Book Club Reads TINKERS

Mercury liked the protagonist, George. Venus liked the floating Indian head, the New England lore. Mars liked the mergings of time and character and dream. It is still ambiguous what Uno, Dos, and Tres thought of this month's book club pick. The story wasn't funny. A reader had to work hard, to think how to read a book while being struck by lightening. What was the plot? Whose Point of View now? And now? And now? Finally, what do we make of the end?

Paul Harding's novel won the Pulitzer Prize. Everyone in the Omega Book Club wondered why Paul's book won while their own book did not.

The Omega Book Club is for losers. To be accepted into the Omega Book Club, you must love Life and Letters, and you must have entered the race and lost. The club chooses only those books that have won major literary prizes. Club meetings involve getting together to boo and hiss, to cry and rub noses with The Nobodies. The group is full of loopy creatures known for their farawayness. All members have joined the club under assumed names.

Mercury identified with George Washington Crosby because he enjoys fixing things, but instead of clocks, Mercury fixes cars. Yes. He hopes that when he is hours away from death, all the grease, the cylinders, the pistons, the exhaust will give him ample metaphorical material for his demented mind to mull over; he hopes to learn that life gives a soul a chance to tune up. Venus says the part about a father leaving his children gave her courage to finally leave her family. Mars says the book gave him a holiday feast, he chewed the clouds and dewdrops upon which the hermit Gilbert fed; and Mars didn't even mind it when his dentures fell to the ocean floor. The book gave Uno seizures that made him bite off his tongue, so who knows--other than some penetrating omniscient narrator--what he thought of the book. And Dos and Tres agreed that every copy of the novel ought to be recalled by the government and then shot up in a rocket to begin some ecumenical, millennial, intergalactic sack race against extraterrestrials.

Come read books with the Omega Book Club. One never knows what pure delight, pleasure, and surprise arises from hanging out with a bunch of losers.

Next month's Omega Club read is THE GHOST OF MADAME YES by Madame Yes, a bizarre novel that surprised the literate world when it won the 2010 Lightman Prize.

Yet Another Revision to the Synopsis of MASQUE

Leo Song sues companies that make defective drugs. His wife, Nora is a fledgling mother of a psychotic toddler and is pregnant with a child whose paternity is uncertain. The couple, transplants to San Diego from New York City, volunteers to host a masquerade party intended to build community among the aloof parents of children at their son's preschool. An uninvited, masked woman shows up to the party and refuses to leave. She never removes her mask, and apparently she speaks no English. Speaking in Shanghainese, this stranger, who calls herself Bei Qi, tells Leo that she is his own grown daughter, she has just landed in the States from China, and she needs a place to stay.

While Leo's career hinges on messy litigation involving a scheming pharmaceutical giant, Nora's motherhood is threatened by the intrusion of this supposed daughter. Meanwhile, Bei Qi gets caught up in emotional troubles that rattle her plan. And when quiet domestic struggles sustain all the secrets and betrayal they can endure, the family uncovers a scandal that threatens the health and safety of small children who have been prescribed antipsychotic medication.

Another Revised Synopsis

Leo Song sues big financial institutions on behalf of angry investors. His wife, Nora is a fledgling mother of a feral toddler and is pregnant with a child whose paternity is uncertain. The couple, transplants to San Diego from New York City, volunteers to host a masquerade party intended to build community among the aloof parents of children at their son's private preschool. An uninvited, masked woman shows up to the party and refuses to leave. She never removes her mask because it covers her deformity, and apparently she speaks no English. Speaking in Shanghainese, this stranger, who calls herself Bei Qi, tells Leo that she is his own grown daughter, she has just landed in the States from China, and she needs a place to stay.

While Leo's career hinges on messy litigation involving a scheming foreign financial giant, Nora's motherhood is threatened by the intrusion of this supposed daughter. Meanwhile, Bei Qi gets caught up in emotional troubles that rattle her plan. And when quiet domestic struggles sustain all the secrets and betrayal they can endure, the family realizes that what is also at stake is a global identity crisis.

{Actually the end of the novel is not yet written; I have no idea what is really at stake.}

Revised Synopsis for Masque

Leo Song sues big financial institutions on behalf of angry investors. His wife, Nora is a fledgling mother of a feral toddler and is pregnant with a child whose paternity is uncertain. The couple, transplants to San Diego from New York City, volunteers to host a masquerade party intended to build community among the aloof parents of children at their son's private preschool. An uninvited, masked woman shows up to the party and refuses to leave. She never removes her mask because it covers her deformity, and apparently she speaks no English. Speaking in Cantonese, this stranger, who calls herself Bei Qi, tells Leo that she is his own grown daughter, she has just landed in the States from China, and she needs a place to stay.

While Leo's career hinges on messy litigation involving foreign financial giants, Nora's motherhood is threatened by the intrusion of this supposed daughter. Meanwhile, Bei Qi gets caught up in emotional troubles that rattle her plan. And when quiet domestic struggles sustain all the secrets and betrayal they can endure, the family realizes that what is also at stake something something something something ?????? [TK] [TK].

What is also at stake?

Reader? You have any idea?

Updated Synopsis for Masque

Leo Song is an attorney who sues big financial institutions on behalf of angry investors. His wife, Nora is a fledgling mother of a difficult toddler and is pregnant with a child whose paternity is uncertain. The couple, transplants to San Diego from New York City, volunteers to host a masquerade party to build community among the aloof parents of children at their son's private preschool. An uninvited, masked woman shows up to the party and refuses to leave. She never removes her mask because it covers her deformity, and apparently she speaks no English. Speaking in Cantonese, this stranger, who calls herself Bei Qi, tells Leo that she is his own grown daughter, she has just landed in the States from China, and she needs a place to stay.

While Leo's career hinges on messy litigation involving foreign financial giants, Nora's motherhood is threatened by the intrusion of this supposed daughter. Meanwhile, Bei Qi gets caught up in family and emotional troubles that rattle her plan. And when quiet domestic struggles sustain all the secrets and betrayal they can endure, this family realizes that what is also at stake has the power to change the value of Chinese currency.

Synopsis for Rebecca Jane's NaNo Novel

My National Novel Writing Month novel is entitled Masque.

Here's the synopsis:

Leo Song and his wife, Leanora, host a masquerade party to build community among the fancy and aloof parents of children at their son's private preschool. An uninvited, masked woman shows up to the party and refuses to leave. She never removes her mask because it covers her deformity, and apparently she speaks no English. Speaking in Cantonese, Leo learns that this stranger, who calls herself Bei Qi, is his own grown daughter, she has just landed in the States from China, and she needs a place to stay.


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Now I do wish that the voices that urge me to write this blog would be respectful and remain quiet so that I may concentrate more writing energy on the novel, but novel writing is so challenging, and I love finding ways to procrastinate.

NaNoWriMo Tee-Shirt

So Ginny put on her NaNoWriMo tee-shirt and lots of deoderant because writing at such a fast pace makes her sweat. She has been known to write so slowly that choosing one right word consumes her full attention for over an hour, or a day. When she was writing her second published novel, Swindler’s Night, she left a whole chapter unfinished for a month because she was laboring over one word. The right word, she eventually realized, was “cadence.” When she came up with it, she had been shopping at Trader Joe’s and she nearly poked out a fellow shopper’s eye when she whipped out her pen and notebook to write down her idea. She’s never attempted NaNoWriMo, nor has she ever forced herself to write through the un-artful first-thing-that-comes-to-mind kind of writing that others seem good at. But today, she tried it and she enjoyed the speed with which she reached 1667 words. She made it to 1800, in fact. Her characters are on the page, having a significant conversation at a beer garden. Her tale is coming into being on the page, and Ginny feels a sense of relief that it is finally getting out of her head. She is far from satisfied with the klutzy writing. The piece totally lacks cadence, but Myles can’t have gotten as far in his endeavor. His novel is probably some rambling erotica crap, Ginny wonders, but then immediately tells herself to focus on herself. Forget him, already, forget him.

Myles, dear reader, is taking a bubble bath and drinking champagne to celebrate his victory today. He’s written over 4,000 words of his erotic, legal thriller entitled Thanks Be to Godfrey. The protagonist Godfrey, a lawyer and law enforcement officer, chases his financial advisor on I-5 going South and entering Mexico, a car chase scene that rivals what we saw on TV back in June 1994 when OJ Simpson ran from cops on the San Diego Freeway near L.A. Godfrey’s nemesis rides away in a black Ford Bronco, and this inciting incident throws Godfrey to his knees. Myles is so proud of writing this scene because he feels he made it very literary and successfully rendered a thrilling car chase as a metaphor for global financial emergency. If he gives his rival novelist a single thought—which he doesn’t—he’d be thinking, “Ginny, eat my dust!”

1667 Words Per Day

Myles Smyles and Ginny Floow used to be writing buddies, but now they are writing rivals.

The two met as undergrads at UCSD, eloped in Vegas and divorced one month later. But they always remained admirers of one another's work ever since they'd been workshopping in Creative Writing 101. They continued critiquing and editing as loyal writing buddies for a whole decade after their brief marriage. Alas, a terrible misfortune turned them on each other.

Eventually, Myles grew to be the kind of writer who relies on improvisation and composing from the gut while Ginny writes according to mind maps and outlines; she researches and fact checks. But that's not the reason why these two writers have grown to despise one another. We'll get into that later.

Tonight, both writers sit grinding their teeth anticipating the serious writing work ahead. Both writers plan to participate in this year's National Novel Writing Month. Both writers have their pen's poised. This year hundreds of thousands of writers out there will be taking this 50,000 words in one month lightly; they enjoy writing for the hell of it, the fun of it, the literary abandon. Myles and Ginny, on the other hand, are in this for blood. Neither writer will rest until he or she has outwritten, outworded, outstoried the opponent.

In her quiet Study, Ms. Floow is prepared for National Novel Writing Month. For the past few weeks, three main characters have been doing lots of talking, moving, acting, thinking, loving, hating, eating, shitting, dressing, making their beds, etc. etc. inside Ginny's head. She has been sitting at her writing desk with her notebook open, completing writing prompts, watching her characters engage in whatever activities the prompts prompt. She has mind mapped and highlighted and has note-taken in the margins, Tonight she will sleep with her outline beneath her pillow.

Her opponent, Mr. Smyles is just as prepared. Myles has been WiFi-ing in coffee shops and beer gardens all over San Diego, He's been playing fast and loose with the "What If..."game, has engaged in dreamstorming and diving headlong into the white-hot center of his unconscious. He's come up with sordid but lovable characters and a plot for an erotic, legal thriller. The sensualist in him is on high alert--his skin pulses: Code Orange. Now he writes about lips pulling away from a straw of slurped lemonade. Now he writes about fingers feeling for change in a deep pocket. He will sleep with another whore tonight while he recites the words to his favorite novel, Finnegans Wake, in his sleep. He's going to write a novel called, Thanks Be to Godfrey, about a guy named Godfrey. He's dreamt that the opening line of the opening chapter goes something like, "Godfrey be nimble. Godfrey be quick. Godfrey jump over your financial advisor's dick!"

At midnight on November 1, Ms. Ginny Floow and Mr. Myles Smyles will proceed to write rival novels. Place your bets, folks; it's going to be an exciting race. What do you think? Which writer will win? On your mark! Get set!

Piper's Father

damn boots! Every morning I squeeze my whole life into Steel Toe. For what? Roxy says the trash covers me so thick she can't find my dick. She'll leave me soon, too. And I'll be alone again. The kids hate me. Women think I am trash just because I collect it for a living. To hell with everybody. Yeah, I could boast that I've still got one son-of-a-bitch pal that sticks with me: Migraines. I've learned to make these headaches my friend because before the awful Pain sets in, I know ecstasy; I have this vision. I am always welcomed to enter a garden made of glass. The grass is green shards that I am able to walk over without getting cut. I walk through the garden. Moonlight reflects off a glass water fall. A kind woman with long, red hair made of glass takes my hand and says, "Breathe." Her hand doesn't shatter when I hold it. That feels so nice. Hell, it's the only chance for me to get something true and pure and beautiful, makes a man feel alive. Then the vision escapes me, and I suffer. I lower into the depths of the sofa with my whole body clenched like the devil's bleeding fist. When the pain leaves me, I get ready for work. Curse you head, and I stuff my feet into these

Piper's Mum

She folded her sister Boo's letter into its envelope, then she picked up the phone. "I must see her, Boo." She said into the receiver, though she hadn't even dialed a phone number.

Piper's mother had assumed Piper was preparing to get married, and she wanted to see Piper before the big day to pass on all the secrets of The Absent Mama Legacy before Piper had a chance to start a family of her own. Boo's letter mentioned that Piper was making a wedding dress. Of glass. Piper would be turning thirty now, right? Who was she going to marry, her mother wondered, that singing coach whom she had fucked in high school? Though she may have disappeared from Piper's life, her mother knew an excellent card reader. She was sure she knew more about Piper than Piper did.

Now that Piper was getting married, she wanted to see her to tell her that it was Piper's duty to have children and then abandon them.

Piper Kincaid didn't know she had come from a long line of mothers who abandon their children, a tradition that dated way back, possibly before the days of Hansel and Gretel.

Some of the first abandoning mothers had done it on doorsteps of neighbors or at churches. Later, the fashion became leaving your infant in dumpsters of empty city alleys. These past few generations, abandonments turned more sophisticated: a mother stayed on with her brood for a few years, then made a quick exit, leaving Daddy with little ones who couldn't yet wipe their noses. Other abandoners got super demanding occupations, like being a suffragist or a lawyer, and forgot about the kids, though they were right under her feet. But Piper's mother wasn't like any other mothers. She made her exit after her eldest was eighteen years old! She had made motherhood into a long acting career; she'd pretended to enjoy mothering for eighteen years before she disappeared, leaving Quinn, her boy, and Piper, her pubescentl girl. This Mum patted herself on the back for sticking around long enough and then escaping just at the time when she'd have to give that awful birds and bees talk. She'd never been good with words; she'd mess up the sex talk anyway. Besides, she told herself, this Mrs. Kincaid's exit had been so dap. There had been headaches and spousal conflict and broken glass--the stuff that good novels are made of! Hey, Hansel and Gretel's Mama, or Cinderella's Mama: eat your hearts out! Mama Kincaid was surely the Queen of Abandoning her Children.

When Mama Kincaid finally did return to Quimby in her Mother-of-the-Bride floral attire, she fell to her knees and wanted to shatter her own heartless chest to discover herself facing Piper's best friend, Rebecca O'Leary, who wept as she embraced an urn full of Piper's ashes.

Breast cancer?

Mama Kincaid held her face in her hands and said, "Oh, my sweet daughter!" She'd never before used that word when thinking of or describing the girl she'd given birth to. "Oh, my sweet daughter." She repeated as if she didn't believe that voice were her own.

After that, no one knows what came of Mum Kincaid. Boo didn't hear from her ever again. And we can assume that she fired her Psychic.

The Wine of Astonishment

I read Margaret Ronda's poetry this morning and again this afternoon and this evening. And the sky that had fallen on a clutch of baby chicks lifted and whirled and opened. The weather these past few weeks in San Diego has brought gloom and clouds and uncharacteristic thunder and lightening. This makes the people slouched in the waiting room sit up and say, "Oh. Was that thunder?" And when I read Ms. Ronda's lines about looking upon the sun as the wine of astonishment, I pause my life cartwheeling before my eyes. I pause. To contemplate. Sky. Element. Light. Cloud. Pitch. Loam.

Then, I sit down to break bread with The First Person. A reliable Narrative Voice. Mum scoops spoonfuls of mush into my mouth. I gag on language and pull a face. Someone says grace after we eat. Someone gives thanks for words that un/canny. Soon I will steady my writing fist and scold that mysterious bird caller, "I must stop ignoring my eyes."

Margaret Ronda's words complicate meal journey potty time mucus, color laundry, pile toys, befriend, sinister routine, habit clouds, bark, and disappear me. Reading her words falls the Rain? And San Diego needs rain. Oh, how we Give Us This Day Our Rain!

I listen. Friends. You sit rainstorms away wiping facefuls of breaded puree?

Her wrists, are they pulsing now with wild, intimate, preened feathers? I lean my ear to her Coast.

Footfalls and callings away pass through. Dark disguises itself as sunset. Light plays dress up with Night. Makes wonder coherent to the strangely dressed lady who is reading on the park bench while the past-your-bedtime orphans invent games on the playground that is built over the old graveyard in Mission Hills. The reading lady lifts her hand and jubilantly cries out, as if she is buying rounds in a pub: "My treat: one poem for every laborer who helped move the headstones and the fog to the new graveyard in Old Town! And one for everyone who built this playground!" She wishes to celebrate, but not alone.

Nobody gives thought to those still buried here. Here are your children, your stomp stomp, your wild rumpus, your monkey callers. The revelers come every day to mash grapes and pour wine over the monkey bars and down the slides until the bucket swings floodeth over. A vintage from coastal Gleeyards with velvety layers of sorrow spice and bliss berries. Cheers! Here's to the Poet and to Astonishment!

The Sisterhood of Sisters Who Do Not Want to Become Working Mothers

Mara met Sherry at Frank's pool party. Sherry was wearing a boy-cutt, two-piece. Mara wore her infant at her breast while balancing a spoonful of Spanish rice in her left hand, attempting to feed her toddler.

"You never hear men having this conversation." Sherry said. The two women discussed what it meant to be intelligent and capable of conquering the Work Force, yet choosing to stay home to raise children.

"The hardest part of it is that it is not paid. No benefits. No vacations. But I must say the opportunities for growth are richer than any other career."

At home that day, Mara collected the mail from a rusty box that hung on the front of the garage; they'd lived here three months, and Mara still hadn't had time to clean the spider webs. Had she remembered to leave this forwarding address...? Mara shrugged and shuffled through the pile. Amongst the junk and bills and statements, there was an issue of Working Mother magazine. This surprised Mara as she is not a subscriber. She wondered if the mail carrier had made a mistake, but the name on the address label read Robert Kant. Why was Mara's husband receiving such a magazine?

When Mara showed her spouse the magazine, both chuckled. With the late-night hours he pulled at the office, when would he find the time to work on his mothering?

Maybe someone had sent him the magazine as a prank? Maybe someone was suggesting he needed a sex change operation? Maybe the magazine was intended for Mara, to give her a hint that she shouldn't be sitting around at home raising children in her pajamas all day, but should get out and get herself a "real" job.

Then their fooling around lifted to the next level. "Hey, remember that Saturday Night Live sketch with Chris Rock on the 4 am talk show?"

"Yeah. The one where he is being interviewed for leading a group called The Brotherhood of Brothers Who Make Responsible Fathers?"

"Well. Looks like this magazine is for the Sisterhood of Sisters who Make Responsible Mothers."

"Or, for your sake, they should print a magazine and start an organization for The Sisterhood of Sisters Who Do Not Want to Become Working Mothers."

"Ooh. You're too witty!" Mara said to Robert with a mother load of irony in her voice. She pulled him close and kissed him. And their fooling around lifted to the ecstatic level--She'd use sex to distract him from any further discussion about her job hunt.

Unbeknownst to Robert, it was Mara's intention to stay in her pajamas until her children were sixty, if she had to, she'd stay in this very same pair of pajamas. Like hell she was going to hunt for a job! She didn't have much of a wardrobe anyway. With all this baby raising and spouse seducing, who needs a wardrobe? Honestly.

The Volunteer and The Gargoyle

Valerie never misses an opportunity to do good. She volunteers for Meals on Wheels, aids the nurses of the helpless, sick babies in the NICU at the Children's Hospital, walks for every cause from the cure for Breast Cancer to the annual fund raiser for Multiple Sclerosis. She even competed in a triathlon for such a suspect cause as finding the cure for Death--she had just wanted to make a point to her competitive siblings about how committed she was to doing good for the world.

Her only vice? Stone India Pale Ale, a local brew that is only served on tap at one ale house in town, a dive called The Gargoyle.

Tonight, after completing all 17 actions to reduce energy use in her household, Valerie craved A Cold One. So she hoofed it over to The Gargoyle. She nearly fell off her bar stool when she noticed her best friend, Babs, sitting in the corner of the bar nearly passed out.

"Babs, what in heaven's name has gotten into you?" Valerie slid next to Babs in the booth. The bourbon on her friend's breath reminded Valerie of painful nights spent caring for her own drunken mother.

"I'm taking your keys." Valerie shuffled through Babs's purse. "I'll take you home." Valerie practically dragged Babs out to Babs's car. She regretted it was too far to carry Babs home on her back. How would Valerie pay for the debt this drive would incur upon her own carbon footprint?

As for Babs, she never could tell Valerie about the secret affairs that inspired the drinking binges. Hell, Babs couldn't even admit to Valerie that she sometimes left the water running when she brushed her teeth. Now Babs was too intoxicated to scold herself for having chosen this bar to self medicate tonight. Valerie's bar. But Valerie went out drinking so seldom. What a fluke!

Babs immediately passed out when Valerie started the car. During the ride home, Valerie reached to wipe sweat from Babs's brow; she only had one hand on the steering wheel and wasn't paying close enough attention to the homeless vet who was limping across the intersection of Washington Avenue and Kilaguy Street. Valerie hit the man, and he died instantly. After Valerie heard a fleshy-boney thump on the hood, she told herself that she must have hit a large, stray dog because what half sane person would even think of crossing such a famously dangerous intersection where there were no pedestrian walkways? Valerie continued driving, too concerned for her friend, too oblivious and not at all interested in investigating her error more closely.

After cleaning her friend up and putting Babs to bed, Valerie walked back home all the way across town. The next day she woke early and headed to the soup kitchen to do her part to help feed the hungry.

Weeks later, Valerie heard from another mutual friend that Babs had been charged with a hit and run. Valerie "Tsked" with her tongue and shook her head. That fateful night at the ale house, Valerie had already decided she needed to find herself a new best friend, and it wasn't because her friend drank too much. Babs became Valerie's ex best friend when Valerie discovered Babs had chosen the wrong drink.

Shave It All Off

Ramona Galhare used to write erotica. She used to own dozens of dildos, various vibrators, and countless other phallic doodads. However, Ramona had not felt sexy in over two years. And she didn't feel sexy now. She didn't feel sexy or sexual or sexed or sexist or sexsational or sex-crazed or sex-starved. Sex sucks. Ramona had been pregnant and given birth to two kids who continued to get up in her grill long after any memory of her ever having had an orgasm had faded. Now Ramona needed a father's day gift for the man responsible for making her a chuck wagon, any gift that might make daddy feel big. So, she walked into a boutique in the Fashion Valley Mall called The Art of Shaving.

A beautiful salesgirl helped Ramona. The girl's name was Leila. She had the grace of a ballerina and the lips of a goddess. Her hair reminded Ramona of the setting sun.

Leila gave Ramona a well-rehearsed pitch.

"I even use this balm in my Bikini area!" Leila explained to Ramona about the after-shave balm. Leila rubbed a bit of the balm on the back of her hand to give Ramona a sniff of the sandalwood scent. Ramona had never sniffed a more majestic little hand.

Ramona looked Leila square in the eyes with her own bedroom eyes. She cocked one brow and bit her lower lip. Then Ramona's voice deepened and she said, "Is that so?"

Leila blushed only slightly as she returned Ramona's sentiment by inhaling, tossing her head back a bit to expose her slender throat, and exhaling so gentle a sigh of pleasure that only a pin-drop pixie could have heard it. Ramona heard the sigh and said, "Bet his philtril dimple feels smooth as a babe's ass after such a perfect shave."

"His what?" Leila asked, cracking her salesgirls' promiscuous smile.

"His philtril dimple." Ramona repeated slowly, and she stretched out her index finger to rub over the groove on Leila's upper lip. It was such a sensual, intimate, and unexpected gesture that both women nearly wet their pants right there in the boutique.

Ramona left the Art of Shaving store with a new, fancy kit for her man. She had also gotten Leila's phone number.

She drove her husband's Audi back home that day with the top dropped and her tennis skirt flipped up. She hadn't worn panties that day. In fact she had ditched all her panties when she'd moved from New York City to the West Coast. She had given $3,000 worth of lingerie to the Salvation Army after conceding that bras and panties felt way too restrictive in a beach town. This drive home now from the Fashion Valley Mall assured her that parting with all the panties had been the right decision, indeed. Upon entering The Five, she shifted gear, passed a Vons truck that had pictures of fruit painted all over it, and Ramona indulged in the pleasure of the San Diego Freeway rushing up her cunt.

Last Words

Ralph raced to the book club meeting on his bike. They were going to discuss Joan Didion's classic, Play It As It Lays.

In an attempt to feel as desolate, as fatalistic, as beautifully nihilistic, as that novel's main character, Maria, Ralph drove eighty miles an hour. He felt the rushing wind was like a barbituate as he crossed five lanes, and relished the feeling of having no blind spots.

Tragically, a less careful driver than Ralph overcorrected. The SUV was merely scratched, but the driver claimed he never saw the motorcyclist as the medics were peeling the boy's body off the pavement.

What an aweful way to go, and what an aweful last novel to have read! Not that the novel is bad, but you really wouldn't want it to be the last piece of fiction you read in your life.

A Busker

Lita performs contortions. Her hair and limbs twist together around her legs. Looks like wily serpents tempting all of humanity to fall further. A crowd whoops. Lita's eyelashes tickle the small of her back. She balances a bowl of fruit on her belly. She twists again, jumps up, and swallows the sword that had balanced on her pointed toes.

Applause.

Adam Cross stands behind the crowd and wishes he'd never divorced Lita. He wonders how she lost all that weight and where she learned these acrobatic tricks.

Lita doesn't notice her Ex studying her from his distance. But her guardian notices the bearded abuser and plans a quick way to take care of Mr. Cross. No one should remind Lita of her past, or else the experiment will fail.

Laughter.

Lita bows. She notices a new couple in the front row holding hands. She makes a wish and throws flame. Some of the observers toss her a buck before moving on to the next distraction.

70 degrees and low clouds in this Southern California town today. Not a soul suspects the cosmic drama playing out amidst these ordinary days' events. Another earthquake in Baja. No human felt it.