“Call me Ishmael,” said Ishmael. “I will then,” said Klaus, her voice a high-pitched anvil on which she hammered out the words. Klaus wore glasses with rabbit faces, and a turn-on that let in lights in your eyes, and with them, she would stare and stare, silent in the background like a dark and bearded wraith. The lights were bright! And there was background, actually: Klaus was here as roadie to Ishmael, who was fresh trimmed hardrock, which meant he had priority here when it came to getting sandwiches, or chips or soda, or whatever. Klaus wore a hideworn jacket with had ridges along the back and arms, making her semi-armoured armadillo-like, except that the trousers were made of fine hemp and woven in a bright checked pattern that he felt must have something on ancient history. “British.” He said matter-of-factly, not wanting an answer. He didn’t get one. “Glam Rock.” Said echo. Thanks very much. “And you turn that shit off right now.” A persistent echo, brand new. Annoying, but necessary. A chaperone in the canteen. So Klaus dilated the turn-ons and let him in. An except from my in-progress SF Novel, "The Keepers and the Kept", first part "Slackers of the Future". Any good?
Posted on: Thu, 03 Oct 2013 19:37:42 +0000
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