There is a form. Small hands scrawl names, addresses, dates of birth. Small feet step between long, geometrically precise rows of gray chairs.
Creak -- step -- and the handle clicks shut.
This is the elevator.
"A pair of new shoes with matching laces," Mush says to the wall, in a taut, trembling voice. On the wall, pinned under a glass, a shoelace glitters.
Racetrack, alone in the elevator, mutters to the ticket stub framed on the wall, "A permanent box at Sheepshead Races."
"A porcelain tub," says Spot Conlon, gazing into the darkness, "with boiling water."
To each one, the voice in the wall says, "Deeper. Go deeper."
Jack Kelly stares into the one-way mirror. Behind him, a cowboy hat hangs pinned to the wall like a butterfly. "Santa Fe," he says. "Are you there?"
The elevator screeches to a halt.
Souji Mikage plunges a quill into each young, beating heart.
"Careful," says Mamiya, licking a smudge of newsprint off his finger. "It'll scab."
*
Jack closes his hand around the tip of the small and awkwardly shaped printing press that erupts full-formed from David's chest, and draws it out, crying, "For the revolution of The World!"
"And da Joinal too," says Racetrack, munching popcorn on the sideline. "Mush, Blink, whaddaya say we lay bets -- 3 to 1 the Cowboy wins, yeah?"
Jack loses.
"Do I have to keep wearing this?" says David plaintively.
"Brings out your eyes," says Racetrack, and pats his epaulette.
dude you may have already seen this
There is a form. Small hands scrawl names, addresses, dates of birth. Small feet step between long, geometrically precise rows of gray chairs.
Creak -- step -- and the handle clicks shut.
This is the elevator.
"A pair of new shoes with matching laces," Mush says to the wall, in a taut, trembling voice. On the wall, pinned under a glass, a shoelace glitters.
Racetrack, alone in the elevator, mutters to the ticket stub framed on the wall, "A permanent box at Sheepshead Races."
"A porcelain tub," says Spot Conlon, gazing into the darkness, "with boiling water."
To each one, the voice in the wall says, "Deeper. Go deeper."
Jack Kelly stares into the one-way mirror. Behind him, a cowboy hat hangs pinned to the wall like a butterfly. "Santa Fe," he says. "Are you there?"
The elevator screeches to a halt.
Souji Mikage plunges a quill into each young, beating heart.
"Careful," says Mamiya, licking a smudge of newsprint off his finger. "It'll scab."
*
Jack closes his hand around the tip of the small and awkwardly shaped printing press that erupts full-formed from David's chest, and draws it out, crying, "For the revolution of The World!"
"And da Joinal too," says Racetrack, munching popcorn on the sideline. "Mush, Blink, whaddaya say we lay bets -- 3 to 1 the Cowboy wins, yeah?"
Jack loses.
"Do I have to keep wearing this?" says David plaintively.
"Brings out your eyes," says Racetrack, and pats his epaulette.