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Wednesday, May 11, 2005

The Midnight Crier at (yawn!) 9:00 a.m.:

"The Girl in the Fabrilon" is up at Ellen Datlow's SCIFICTION magazine, a publication of the channel. Just click on one of these: or Click on my name for a biography and bibliography.

Here's one small bite:

When joyful notes came swirling along the hilltops, she began to hum. Curious how one's never any older on the inside, she thought; at seventeen, I would have pirouetted on the grass, feeling just as I do at this instant, quickening with music. Only not breathless. Never that. The landscape opened like a precious box of jewels, the lid of clouds lifting and letting in a gleam of sun while torn leaves quivered, flew, and, juggled by air, dropped in stages to the lake. Limber young trees yielded into the breeze and flung their heads over until the green of foliage barely kissed the green of the grass. Drawn to the edge of the water, Rosamund leaned forward, feeling the park stretching behind her like a boat eager to snap its moorings. Where was she going? Where had she been? Was she the figurehead of the ship, the column of the harp, the bard who had fled and was sure to be going along the road singing and strumming and looking for fresh faces to please? She didn't know; she was all of them, none of them—the music, the strings, the player, the listeners, and the outward-going vessel.

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Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.