ISAAC MARION Warm Bodies Contents Cover Title Copyright Dedication About users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - iBook Pile Free Download Ebooks - iPad,site, iPhone Hidden Bodies (eBook) I Love Books, Big Books, Great Books, Books. 6. maj Book to everyone comes off the force behind the state with epub ebooks free online Warm Bodies production. Another test bank wire mesh, the.
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Healing Mantras is the practical, how-to guide that makes the strengths and benefits of mantras available to everyone. The Complete Guide to the Kabbalah reveals the ancient mysteries of the Tree of Life in a way that is exciting, effective in its applications, and relevant to our modern everyday lives.
Shilpa Sumant. Yajur Veda — AB Keith 3. Reflexology Books for the Beginner and Professional Gentle Yoga with meditation for beginners as well as those who are experienced Yogis. You might also want to keep in mind that, according to the most ancient Jewish scriptures of ancient India, the OM is considered as the most powerful of all the mantras. In this detailed introduction to Mantras we describe the benefits and the way your life can be changed, but for a more all-encompassing Mantra experience we would highly recommend The Ancient A Complete Guide to Mantras and How They Will Benefit Your Life.
Summary: "A resource on learning ayurvedic pulse diagnosis, including the seven levels of the pulse and its interpretations of disease and health.
An indispensable companion on your spiritual journey. The main aim of this guide is to teach you reading Sanskrit. It is also called the "city of learning" as it has always been a big learning centre since the ancient past. The essence of what makes that soul who she or he is. Uchatan — To remove enemies from tour life.
Books by Martin Heidegger translated into English. Maran — To kill an enemy. Ancient Hindu and other Indian religious texts and scriptures have prescribed various mantras to rid oneself of enemy troubles. There are numerous categories of such mantras like — Videshan — To create fights amongst enemies and divide them. The Buddhist movement later traveled to China, where the tradi-tion was passed on to the hermetic and esoteric groups extant there.
Developing a love of Mantras is an exercise in faith. I believe, I would be of some help in their spiritual progress. Many people prefer to read mantras in their respective mother tongues. In the records you can find out the who, why, and what of any situation. It is a very privileged and honored place to be. Books marks are provided for easy navigation. Download with Google Download with Facebook or download with email.
Mantra and Yantra. Bhakti Aur Shraddha, Connect with God. Hence, this publication. The mantras used in Transcendental Meditation come from the ancient Vedic tradition of India. How Mantras Work While mantra meditation is a spriritual practice the science of how mantras work is actually well known to us. Discover the real benefits of Mantras; you will find some that might surprise you. Efforts are also being made to revive Sanskrit as an everyday spoken language in the village of Mattur near Shimoga in Karnataka.
The best part of these books is the explanation given for the origin of sounds and how each mantra is made out. Where do Transcendental Meditation mantras come from?. In other words why you chose certain experiences, relationships, issues, blocks. Rig Veda — RT Griffith 2. And while some people may seem content with the story as it stands, our view is that there exists countless mysteries, scientific anomalies and surprising artifacts that have yet to be discovered and explained.
This site is like a library, Use search box in the widget to get ebook that you Varanasi is also called the "Galiyon ka sheher", meaning the city of lanes, "the city of temples", "the religious capital of India". Solitary Witch is the ultimate Book of Shadows for today's new witches. Garbha Sanskar is an ayurvedic way to achieve feminine balance. Ancient Egypt was a civilization of ancient North Africa, concentrated along the lower reaches of the Nile River in the place that is now the country Egypt.
Unlike other organized religions Hinduism had no founder of central text because of which it evolved over thousands of years and had a large body of written material which can be Hindu scripture is a unique one stop portal where content relating to Indian Vedic Lifestyle, Scriptures, Vedas, Upanishads, Brahmasutras, Itihasas or Epics, Smrutis, Puranas, Darsanas or general snippets of information about society.
All books are in clear copy here, and all files are secure so don't worry about it. However, while learning to read Sanskrit you will also learn to write in Devanagari script - at least we hope. Offers detailed techniques for learning to The ancient Indians were excellent mathematicians and may be the product of a precise mathematical operation e.
This is the ultimate beginners handbook, it really is what it claims to be, The Complete Guide. Laura Norman with Thomas Cowan. Mantra is said to attract beings from all the three worlds. Along with the prescription of diet, Yoga, and routine body care, instructions are also given for reading material, subjects of discussion, and music and mantras to be listened to. It has been recognized that the Mantras have beneficial effects on human beings and even plants.
There have been many scientific studies done over the years to prove the efficacy of prayer and meditation in the healing process.
Hand Reflexology serves as a diagrammatic supplement for theory and treatment. The original mantras were in Sanskrit. Quoting: " Mantras are energies. Please click button to get deity linkage manual book now. Please join our newsletter for the latest updates about this book. But I don't care n mind.
In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses. So far my personal record is four rolling syllables before some. And I may be the most loquacious zombie in this airport. Prepositions are painful, articles are arduous, adjectives are wild overachievements. Is this muteness a real physical handicap?
One of the many symptoms of being Dead? Or do we just have nothing left to say? I attempt conversation with my girlfriend, testing out a few awkward phrases and shallow questions, trying to get a reaction out of her, any twitch of wit.
We wander for a few hours, directionless, then she grips my hand and starts leading me somewhere. We stumble our way down the halted escalators and out onto the tarmac. I sigh wearily. She is taking me to church. The Dead have built a sanctuary on the runway. At some point in the distant past someone pushed all the stair-trucks together into a circle, forming a kind of amphitheatre.
We gather here, we stand here, we lift our arms and moan. The ancient Boneys wave their skeletal limbs in the centre circle, rasping out dry, wordless sermons through toothy grins. That vast cosmic mouth, distant mountains like teeth in the skull of God, yawning wide to devour us. To swallow us down to where we probably belong. My girlfriend appears much more devout than I do.
She closes her eyes and waves her arms in a way that almost looks heartfelt. I stand next to her and hold my hands in the air silently. At some unknown cue, maybe drawn by her fervour, the Boneys stop their preaching and stare at us. One of them comes forward, climbs our stairs, and takes us both by the wrists. It leads us down into the circle and raises our hands in its clawed grip.
It lets out a kind of roar, an unearthly sound like a blast of air through a broken hunting horn, shockingly loud, frightening birds out of trees. We are married. We step back onto the stair seats. The service resumes. My new wife closes her eyes and waves her arms. The day after our wedding, we have children. A small group of Boneys stops us in the hall and presents them to us.
A boy and a girl, both around six years old. The boy is curly blond, with grey skin and grey eyes, perhaps once Caucasian. The girl is darker, with black hair and ashy brown skin, deeply shadowed around her steely eyes.
She may have been Arab. The Boneys nudge them forward and they give us tentative smiles, hug our legs. I sigh, and my wife and I keep walking, hand in hand with our new children. This is a big responsibility. They have to be tended and trained. And they will never grow up. Look at them. Watch them as my wife and I release their hands and they wander outside to play. They tease each other and grin. They giggle and laugh, though it sounds choked through their dry throats.
They resist our curse for as long as they possibly can. I watch them disappear into the pale daylight at the end of the hall. Deep inside me, in some dark and cobwebbed chamber, I feel something twitch. I feel the electricity in my limbs fizzling, fading. I see relentless visions of blood in my mind, that brilliant, mesmerising red, flowing through bright pink tissues in intricate webs and Pollock fractals, pulsing and vibrating with life.
I find M in the food court talking to some girls. He is a little different from me. He does seem to enjoy the company of women, and his better-than-average diction draws them in like dazzled carp, but he keeps a distance.
He laughs them off. The Boneys once tried to set him up with a wife, but he simply walked away. Sometimes I wonder if he has a philosophy. Maybe even a world view. I shake my head and clutch my stomach harder. He is, after all, a zombie. He manages to find a few others with appetites, and we form a small posse. Very small. Unsafely small. We set out towards the city. We take the freeway. Like everything else, the roads are returning to nature.
We wander down empty lanes and under ivycurtained overpasses. My residual memories of these roads contrast dramatically with their peaceful present state. I take a deep breath of the sweet, silent air. We press further into the city than normal.
The only scent I pick up is rust and dust. The unsheltered Living are getting scarcer, and the ones with shelter are venturing out less frequently. I suspect their stadium fortresses are becoming self-sufficient.
I imagine vast gardens planted in the dugouts, bursting with carrots and beans. Cattle in the press box. Rice paddies in the outfield. We can see the largest of these citadels looming on the hazy horizon, its retractable roof open to the sun, taunting us. But, finally, we sense prey.
The life scent electrifies our nostrils, abrupt and intense. They are very close, and there are a lot of them. Maybe close to half our own number. We hesitate, stumbling to a halt. M looks at me. He looks at our small group, then back at me. M shakes his head. He sniffs the air. The rest of them are undecided. Some of them also sniff warily, but others are more single-minded like me.
They groan and drool and snap their teeth. Focused thought. The rest of the group reflexively follows. M catches up and walks beside me, watching me with an uneasy grimace. Spurred to an unusual level of intensity by my desperate energy, our group crashes through the revolving doors and rushes down the dark hallways. Some earthquake or explosion has knocked out part of the foundation, and the entire high-rise leans at a dizzying, funhouse angle.
After a few flights of stairs I start to hear them as well, clattering around and talking to each other in those steady, melodious streams of words. Living speech has always been a sonic pheromone to me, and I spasm briefly when it hits my ears. As we approach their level of the building, some of us start groaning loudly, and the Living hear us.
We burst through a final door and rush them. M grunts when he sees how many there are, but he lunges with me at the nearest man and grabs his arms while I rip out his throat. The burning red taste of blood floods my mouth. The sparkle of life sprays out of his cells like citrus mist from an orange peel, and I suck it in.
The darkness of the room is pulsing with gunfire, and by our standards we are grossly outnumbered — there are only three of us to every one of them — but something is tipping things in our favour. Our manic speed is uncharacteristic of the Dead, and our prey are not prepared for it.
Is this all coming from me? What has come over me? Am I just having a bad day? There is one other factor working to our advantage. These Living are not seasoned veterans. They are young. Teenagers, mostly, boys and girls. Their leader is a slightly older kid with a patchy beard, standing on a cubicle desk in the middle of the room and shouting panicked commands to his men. As they fall to the floor under the weight of our hunger, as dots of blood pointilise the walls, this boy leans protectively over a small figure crouched below him on the desk.
A girl, young and blonde, bracing her bird-boned shoulder against her shotgun as she fires blindly into the dark. I pull his feet out from under him and he falls, cracking his head on the edge of the desk. Without hesitation I pounce on him and bite through his neck. Then I dig my fingers into the crack in his skull, and prise his head open like an eggshell. His brain pulses hot and pink inside.
I take a deep, wide, ravenous bite and— I am Perry Kelvin, a nine-year-old boy growing up in rural nowhere. Other than the emergency chain-link fence between the river and the mountain ridge, life is almost normal.
My neck. My neck hurts, it— I am eating a slice of pizza with my mom and dad. I take an oversized bite and the thick cheese sticks in my throat. I choke it back up and my parents laugh. Tomato sauce stains my shirt like— I am fifteen, gazing out the window at the looming walls of my new home.
She has short, choppy blonde hair and blue eyes that dance with private amusement. My palms are sweating. My mouth is full of laundry lint. Her eyes glitter. I glimpse her braces. Her eyes are classic novels and poetry. She twines her fingers into mine and squeezes hard.
I kiss her deep and caress the back of her head with my free hand, tangling my fingers in her hair. I look her in the eyes. She smiles. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her.
I want our ribcages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
Julie is on the seat behind me, her arms clutching my chest, her legs wrapped around mine. Her aviators glint in the sun as she grins, showing her perfectly straight teeth. But at least I can protect her. At least I can keep her safe. She is so unbearably beautiful and sometimes I see a future with her in my head, but my head, my head hurts, oh God my head is— Stop. Who are you? Let the memories dissolve. Your eyes are crusted — blink them. Gasp in a ragged breath.
Welcome back. I feel the carpet under my fingers. I hear the gunshots. I stand up and look around, dizzy and reeling. I have never had a vision so deep, like an entire life spooling through my head. The sting of tears burns in my eyes, but my ducts no longer have fluid. The feeling rages unquenched like pepper spray. I hear a scream nearby and I turn. Julie is here, older now, maybe nineteen, her baby fat melted away revealing sharper lines and finer poise, muscles small but toned on her girlish frame.
She is huddled in a corner, unarmed, sobbing and screaming as M creeps towards her. He always finds the women. Their memories are porn to him. I still feel disorientated, unsure of where or who I am, but. I approach the girl. The urge to rip and tear surges into my arms and jaw. But then she screams again, and something inside me moves, a feeble moth struggling against a web.
I let out a gentle groan and inch towards the girl, trying to force kindness into my dull expression. I am not no one. I am a nine-year-old boy, I am a fifteenyear-old boy, I am— She throws a knife at my head. The blade sticks straight into the centre of my forehead and quivers there.
But it has penetrated less than an inch, only grazing my frontal lobe. I pull it out and drop it. She is fumbling through her jeans for another weapon. Behind me, the Dead are finishing their butchery. Soon they will turn their attention to this dim corner of the room.
I take a deep breath. It rolls off my tongue like honey. I feel good just saying it. Her eyes go wide. She freezes. I put out my hands. I point at the zombies behind me. I shake my head. She stares at me, making no sign that she understands. I reach my free hand into the head-wound of a fallen zombie and collect a palmful of black, lifeless blood. Slowly, with gentle movements, I smear it on her face, down her neck and onto her clothes.
She is probably catatonic. I take her hand and pull her to her feet. At that moment M and the others finish devouring their prey and turn to inspect the room. Their eyes fall on me. They fall on Julie. I walk towards them, gripping her hand, not quite dragging her. She staggers behind me, staring straight ahead. M sniffs the air cautiously. Just the negativesmell of Dead blood.
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Without a word, we leave the high-rise and head back to the airport. I walk in a daze, full of strange and kaleidoscopic thoughts. Julie holds limply to my hand, staring at the side of my face with wide eyes, trembling lips.
After delivering our abundant harvest of leftover flesh to the non-hunters — the Boneys, the children, the stay-at-home moms — I take Julie to my house. My fellow Dead give me curious looks as I pass. Because it requires both volition and restraint, the act of intentionally converting the Living is almost never performed.
Most conversions happen by accident: a feeding zombie is killed or otherwise distracted before finishing his business, voro interruptus. The rest of our converts arise from traditional deaths, private affairs of illness or mishap or classical Living-on-Living violence that take place outside our sphere of interest. So the fact that I have purposely brought this girl home unconsumed is a thing of mystery, a miracle on a par with giving birth.
M and the others allow me plenty of room in the halls, regarding me with confusion and wonder. I lead her to Gate 12, down the boarding tunnel and into my home: a commercial jet. Sometimes it even tickles my numb memory. Looking at my clothes, I seem like the kind of person who probably travelled a lot. And then the fresh lemon zing of poisson in Paris. The burn of tajine in Morocco.
Are these places all gone now? Silent streets, cafes full of dusty skeletons? Julie and I stand in the centre aisle, looking at each other. I point to a window seat and raise my eyebrows.
Keeping her eyes solidly on me, she backs into the row and sits down. Her hands grip the armrests like the plane is in a flaming death dive. I sit in the aisle seat and release an involuntary wheeze, looking straight ahead at my stacks of memorabilia. Every time I go into the city, I bring back one thing that catches my eye. A puzzle. A shot glass. A Barbie. A dildo. I bring them here to my home, strew them around the seats and aisles, and stare at them for hours.
The piles reach to the ceiling now. M keeps asking me why I do this. I have no answer. Her lips are tight and pale. I point at her.
I open my mouth and point at my crooked, bloodstained teeth. She presses herself against the window. A terrified whimper rises in her throat. This is not working. I dig through my LP collection in the overhead compartments and pull out an album. She is still frozen, wide-eyed. The record plays. I can hear it faintly through the phones, like a distant eulogy drifting on autumn air.
Last night. I close my eyes and hunch forward. My head sways vaguely in time with the music as verses float through the jet cabin, blending together in my ears. Life was so new. The terror has faded, and she regards me with disbelief.
I turn my face away. I stand and duck out of the plane. Her bewildered gaze follows me down the tunnel. After weeks of staring at it, I figured out how to fill its tank from a barrel of stabilised gasoline I found in the service rooms. But I have no idea how to drive.
Sometimes I just sit there with the engine purring, my hands resting limply on the wheel, willing a true memory to pop into my head. Not another hazy impression or vague awareness cribbed from the collective subconscious. Something specific, bright and vivid. Something unmistakably mine. I strain myself, trying to wrench it out of the blackness. Erotica is meaningless for us now. A distant echo of that great motivator that once started wars and inspired symphonies, that drove human history out of the caves and into space.
M may be holding on, but those days are over now. Sex, once a law as undisputed as gravity, has been disproved. The equation is erased, the blackboard broken. I remember the need, the insatiable hunger that ruled my life and the lives of everyone around me. But our loss of this, the most basic of all human passions, might sum up our loss of everything else. I watch M from the doorway.
He sits on the little metal folding chair with his hands between his knees like a schoolboy facing the principal. There are times when I can almost glimpse the person he once was under all that rotting flesh, and it prickles my heart. We sit against the tiles of the bathroom wall with our legs sprawled out in front of us, passing the brain back and forth, taking small, leisurely bites and enjoying brief flashes of human experience. The brain contains the life of some young military grunt from the city.
His tastes are a little less demanding than mine. I watch his mouth form silent words. I watch his face shuffle through emotions. Anger, fear, joy, lust. When he wakes up, this will all disappear. He will be empty again. He will be dead. After an hour or two, we are down to one small gobbet of pink tissue. M pops it in his mouth and his pupils dilate as he has his visions.
This one is different, though. This one is special. I tear off a bite, and chew. I am Perry Kelvin, a sixteen-year-old boy, watching my girlfriend write in her journal. The black leather cover is tattered and worn, the inside a maze of scribbles, drawings, little notes and quotes.
I am sitting on the couch with a salvaged first edition of On the Road, longing to live in any era but this one, and she is curled in my lap, penning furiously. I poke my head over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse.
She pulls the journal away and gives me a coy smile. I lace my arms around her shoulders. She burrows into me a little deeper. I bury my face in her hair and kiss the back of her head. The spicy smell of her shampoo— M is looking at me.
He holds out his hand for me to pass it. I take another bite and close my eyes. We lie on our backs on a red blanket on the white steel panels, squinting up at the blinding blue sky.
I nod. I never got to do that anyway with Dad the way he is. I just miss airplanes. That muffled thunder in the distance, those white lines. My mom used to say it looked like Etch A Sketch. It was so beautiful. Airplanes were beautiful. So were fireworks. All the indulgences we can no longer afford. She looks at me. We have to remember everything. I let it saturate my brain.
I turn my head and kiss Julie. We make love there on the blanket on the Stadium roof, four hundred feet above the ground. The sun stands guard over us like a kindhearted chaperone, smiling silently. M is glaring at me. He makes a grab for the piece of brain in my hand and I yank it away.
I suppose M is my friend, but I would rather kill him than let him taste this. The thought of his filthy fingers poking and fondling these memories makes me want to rip his chest open and squish his heart in my hands, stomp his brain till he stops existing.
This is mine.
Science Fiction & Fantasy
He sees the warning flare in my eyes, hears the rising air-raid klaxon. He drops his hand away. He stares at me for a moment, annoyed and confused. I leave the bathroom with abnormally purposeful strides. I slip in through the door of the and stand there in the faint oval of light. Julie is lying back in a reclined seat, snoring gently.
I knock on the side of the fuselage and she bolts upright, instantly awake. She watches me warily as I approach her. My eyes are burning again. I grab her messenger bag off the floor and dig through it. I find her wallet, and then I find a photo. A portrait of a young man. I hold the photo up to her eyes. She looks at me, stone-faced. I point at my mouth. I clutch my stomach.
I point at her mouth.
I touch her stomach. Then I point out the window, at the cloudless black sky of merciless stars. I clench my jaw and squint my eyes, trying to ease their dry sting. Her eyes are red and wet. That fat fuck that almost got me? And then it hits me, and my eyes go wide.
The room was dark and I came from behind. Her penetrating eyes address me like a creature worthy of address, unaware that I recently killed her lover, ate his life and digested his soul, and am right now carrying a prime cut of his brain in the front pocket of my slacks. I can feel it burning there like a coal of guilt, and I reflexively back away from her, unable to comprehend this curdled mercy.
Her first questions are for others. I am the lowest thing. I am the bottom of the universe. I drop the photo onto the seat and look at the floor. When I emerge from the boarding tunnel, there are several Dead grouped near the doorway. They watch me without expressions. We stand there in silence, still as statues. Then I brush past them and wander off into the dark halls. I look at my dad.
He looks older than I remember.
Broken Souls by Nicole Fox
He grips the steering wheel hard. His knuckles are white. The gas station where I bought Coke Slushies is on fire. The windows of my grade school are shattered. The kids in the public swimming pool are not swimming.
I thought everyone comes back now. My voice cracks. No one comes back. Not really. Do you understand that? I try to focus on the windshield itself, the crushed bugs and tiny fractures. Those blur, too.
We make her live. Not some ridiculous curse. Look at this. It bumps into a car and stumbles, slowly backs up against a wall, turns, shuffles in another direction. Julie and I watch it for a few minutes. Its face displays absolutely nothing. Just skin stretched over a skull. It starts swaying a little harder, then it collapses. It lies there on its side, staring at the frozen pavement. She looks at me with wide eyes, then back at the crumpled body.
I feel a wriggling sensation inside me, tiny things creeping down my spine. I follow her back into the building.
Breathe those useless breaths. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite. In the morning, my wife finds me slumped against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the runways.
My eyes are open and full of dust. My head leans to one side. I rarely allow myself to look so corpse-like. Something is wrong with me. There is a sick emptiness in my stomach, a feeling somewhere between starvation and hangover. My wife grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. She starts walking, dragging me behind her like rolling luggage. I feel a flash of bitter heat pulse through me and I start speaking at her. Actually spits on my shirt, snarling like an animal.
But the look in her eyes instantly cools my eruption. Her lips quiver. What am I doing? I look at the floor. We stand in silence for several minutes. She leads me to a gutted, burned-out gift shop and lets out an emphatic groan.
Our kids emerge from behind an overturned bookcase full of best-sellers that will never be read. They shrug. I turn to my wife. She grunts in annoyance, and my face falls, duly chastised. Is it possible to have a midlife crisis if you have no idea how old you are? I could be in my early thirties or late teens. I could be younger than Julie. My wife grunts at the kids and gestures down the hall.
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They hang their heads and make a wheezy whining noise, but they follow us. We are taking them to their first day of school. As my family and I approach, we hear groans and screams from inside this arena. There is a line of youngsters in front of the entryway, waiting their turn. My wife and I lead our kids to the back of the line and watch the lesson now in progress. Five Dead youths are circling a skinny, middle-aged Living man. The man backs up against the luggage, looking frantically left and right, his empty hands balled into fists.
Two of the youths dive at him and try to hold his arms down, but he shakes them off. From zombie bites to starvation to good old-fashioned age and disease, there are so many options for dying in this new world. So many ways for the Living to stop.
But with just a few debrained exceptions, all roads lead to us, the Dead, and our very unglamorous immortality.
He and his assistant lumber into the arena and tackle the man, forcing him to the ground. The teacher kills him and stands up, blood streaming down his chin. The five children exit shamefaced, and the next five in line are prodded inside.
My kids look up at me anxiously. I pat their heads. The five youths inside are nervous, but the teacher shouts at them and they begin to move in. When they get close enough all five lunge at the same time, two grabbing for each arm and the fifth going for the throat.
But the old man is shockingly strong. He twists around and flings two of them hard against the wall of luggage. The impact shakes the wall and a sturdy metal briefcase topples down from the top. Death takes hold of him with retroactive finality. The whole school goes silent. The remaining four children back out of the arena.
No one really pays attention as the adults rush inside to deal with the man. Whoever they are, they will forget their loss soon enough.
By tomorrow the Boneys will show up with another boy or girl to replace this one. We allow a few uncomfortable seconds of silence for the killed child, then school resumes. A few parents glance at each other, maybe wondering what to think, wondering what this all means, this bent, inverted cycle of life. My kids are next in line. Specific fears have become irrelevant. I pace outside the boarding tunnel for about an hour before going in.
Julie is curled up in business class, sleeping. She has wrapped herself in a quilt made of cut-up jeans that I brought back as a souvenir a few weeks ago. The morning sun makes a halo in her yellow hair, sainting her. Her eyes slide open a crack. She just looks at me with tired, puffy eyes. I watch her for a moment. Her posture is a brick wall. I lower my head and turn to go.
She is sitting up, the blanket piled on her lap. I look at her blankly. Does she want an arm or leg? Hot blood, meat and life? Then I remember what being hungry used to mean. I remember beefsteaks and pancakes, grains and fruits and vegetables, that quaint little food pyramid.
Sometimes I miss savouring taste and texture instead of just swallowing energy, but I try not to dwell on it. The old food does nothing to quench our hunger any more. Even bright red meat from a freshly killed rabbit or deer is beneath our culinary standards; its energy is simply incompatible, like trying to run a computer on diesel.
There is no easy way out for us, no humane alternative for the fashionably moral. The new hunger demands sacrifice. It demands human suffering as the price for our pleasures, meagre and cheap as they are.
She mimes the act of taking a bite. Why are you keeping me here? I step to her window and point to the runways below. She looks, and sees the church service in progress. The congregation of the Dead, swaying and groaning. The skeletons rattling back and forth, voiceless but somehow charismatic, gnashing their splintered teeth. There are dozens of them down there, swarming. There it is.
It had to come eventually. You said my name, I remember it. How the fuck do you know my name? No way to explain what I know and how I know it, not with my kindergarten vocabulary and special-ed speech impediments. So I simply retreat, exiting the plane and trudging up the boarding tunnel, feeling more acutely than ever the limitations of what I am.
As I stand in Gate 12 considering where to go from here, I feel a touch on my shoulder.
Julie is standing behind me. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her tight black jeans, looking uncertain. I look around the hallways. Let me go with you to get food. I know she loves pad thai. I know she drools over sushi. But that knowledge is not mine to use. That knowledge is stolen.
I nod slowly and point at her.This date is not going well. I hear the gunshots. There have been many scientific studies done over the years to prove the efficacy of prayer and meditation in the healing process. The girl is darker, with black hair and ashy brown skin, deeply shadowed around her steely eyes.
She is huddled in a corner, unarmed, sobbing and screaming as M creeps towards her.