The Maestro of the Silver Cord

Writing is a lot like brewing coffee. You have to prepare it and grind the beans just right before adding almost-boiled water at the right speed before you can step back and wait for it. But then you have to wait--and you can't wait too long or else it comes on too strong--just the right amount of time before you try it.

I think a lot of what I've been doing recently is waiting, whether by option or circumstance. This is why a lot of what I've been working on remains unfinished. At some point in the next few months, I promise you, more will be complete than in the process of brewing.

'Zombies - Finale' is still on its way. I haven't really had time to work on it for a long time, but what time I have had is now preserved in a notebook that may be permanently irretrievable. If that is the case--and I should find out soon--a rewrite should be more daunting than difficult.

The following is what happens when I ask Maria what I should write about. Now, before you get your hopes up, it's a complete freewrite. The only character I spent any time fleshing out at all is the one you may never meet. But I like this setting, so I may stick with it a while. Anyway, read and enjoy. Comments are welcome.

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It was a little after eight when Miles left the pub and stepped into a sheet of rain. A strong gust of wind flung hair in his face with a vicious howl and tugged meaningfully at his coat. Hurriedly, he brushed hair from his eyes and pulled his coat up a little higher to shield his neck from the stinging gale. With a single upward glance, he turned and hurried down the sidewalk, figure hunched against the penetrating downpour. Billowing clouds overhead loomed darkly, setting the city in shadow so deep it looked like night.

Around the corner, Miles stopped in front of a small corner store and waved madly at a taxi parked half a block down, almost invisible in the glistening sheets of silver raining from the sky. There was no sign of acknowledgement for a moment, then the vehicle started with a glow of taillights and puff of steam from the exhaust. It pulled away into oblivion to find a place to turn around and Miles retreated to where a few others stood under the cover provided by the building's meager awning and folded his arms against the chill, bowing his head as he did.

Before him, in the street, runoff gathered in a quickly rising pool above a gutter, driven to madness by more rainfall. A small, pockmarked whirlpool whirled about in its center like a dervish.

Then, the sidewalk shook a little, ever so slightly, as if something had been dropped on it and the dervish began to slurp up a new rivulet, this one red. Miles squinted. That couldn't be right.

A cry broke through the sound of pounding rain, Miles whirled to its source. A woman lay face down on the sidewalk, arms flung out before her as if in humble petition. A man was stooped beside her, shaking her gently by the shoulder. He was sobbing.

"Maya! Maya!" he was wailing. Miles stepped closer to pull the man away and inside the building, struggling against the man's futile attempt to revive his Maya.

Forcibly, Miles pushed the man to the floor against the counter, ignoring the startled cashier. "Listen to me!" he shouted. He swatted the crying man's hands away and tried again. "Listen! She's dead!" At that, the crying stopped.

"H-how?"

"I don't know. Stay here. I'll call 911."

The man listened, obviously in shock and Miles did as he promised just as the taxi arrived. The cab driver came bolting through the door just as Miles hung up the phone.

"There's a--"

Miles shut him up with a glare. "We are very well aware of what is out there."

The cabbie swallowed and nodded, casting a nervous glance to the now prostrate man by the counter. Then up at the cashier, who shrugged helplessly.

After that, nobody uttered a sound except for the occassional sob from beneath the counter. Miles spent his time browsing through the store, poking at filmy bags of potato chips and Cheezies until boredom overcame him and he strode over to stand by the window. He quickly returned to browsing, though. The site of the body was too unnerving.

A distant wail of an ambulance quickly manifested itself in flashing red lights outside. Miles glanced around, saw no one else willing and headed for the door to speak with the paramedics himself.

"Wait!" This from the cashier.

Miles obeyed and drilled the short Asian with an annoyed glare. "What?"

"It might not be safe."

"Safe? We're in New Jersey, not Iraq! Whatever happened, happened." He started for the door again, annoyed all over again when he saw the paramedics waving to him. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grouched and slapped a wet palm against the door to open it.

It looked like someone slashing across a page with a red paintbrush, followed by a limp body crashing to an awkward slump in the street with one shoulder propped up on the sidewalk. The second didn't take long to follow his friend and flung himself backward onto the hood of the still-running taxi. Miles cried out, backpedaling from the door as fast as he could. He collided with the cashier who had been tentatively creeping to look out the window.

"What happened?" he stuttered.

"The fuck you think happened?" snapped Miles. He hurried to the far back corner and sat down with his back to it, placed his head on his knees and breathed deeply. This would all come to an end and then he would wake up and it would just be a dream. Make it be a dream, make it be a dream...

"It's real."

His head snapped up. Had he been speaking aloud? Gathered by the counter, looking worried, stood the cashier and a couple he hadn't noticed before. They looked like a movie couple. She was wearing leather boots that complimented her jean-hugged legs nicely and a large, gray sweater that obviously belonged to her man but looked fantastic on her anyway. He was dressed in simple dark jeans and a black t-shirt with a sport coat thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His free arm curled protectively around the woman.

"It's real," repeated Mr. Protective. "We're stuck here."