A MAN WITH NO HOME
Tell me, sweet stranger, do you know the story of Normant Lumensky, the man from a mystical land universes away from Earth? Making an ark out of his chains, he turns from a prisoner of war into a fugitive.
A WOMAN AGAINST THE WOR...
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BACK IN TORONTO the weather was cool. Yet I was not cool with being in Clairvoyant's office first thing in the morning to talk about business. When the phone had rung, Jasmine and I were still in bed, the world around us silent, the onerous secrets we had shared still lingering in the atmosphere. Like a sacrament, that was how last night had felt. Clairvoyant calling us this morning had been a blasphemy. We had been waiting in her office for almost two hours now while her team of experts had been analyzing what was on the flash drive we had brought her.
"Imagine Stephen fooling us and the flash drive having just cat videos and shit,"
"Why do I find this more interesting than all the other possibilities?"
"Because it is."
Standing across from us, Clairvoyant was in a good mood today, talkative and brim with energy. She could be the sweetest, gentlest, most supportive person someone had ever met—but that only until she had gotten what she wanted. With her petite figure and shy smile, she made people believe she could perform no ill task. The greatest contrast, the pretender of the century. When I had started working for Pioneers, Clairvoyant was just another member of the company, high in rank and full of sweetness. Back then, her clothes had been a mess of ugly brown skirts and old dresses. She had discarded that version of hers a few years ago, when she had become the chief executive, probably because she could not bear the thought that Jasmine and a few other members of the company looked more like the boss there.
So there she was now, in a black fur coat, leather shorts and high-heeled boots, even though it was not past ten in the morning.
"It's been so long since the last time I saw you, my sweethearts," she said without looking at either of us.
I could not quite explain it, but if it had not been for her profile photos on different apps and sites, I would not have been able to recall her face. Yes, her skin was pale—she liked to call it porcelain white, making herself seem fragile and delicate, but as Jasmine had once said she looked more like a phantom living in exile because the rest of the spirit world could not stand looking at her. Yes, her eyes turned to an olive green shade when standing in the sun, but even that was disgusting. For it was not the bright green of springtime I had found in Jasmine's eyes. It was more like vomit and moisture and everything nasty in the world.
"That's true. It's really been a long time. But we're here now," replied Jasmine, and I did not know where she found the serenity to sit on the crimson velvet couch next to me with the most gorgeous smile on her face.
She was made for that, I thought. A moment later, I realized I was wrong. She was not made for that. She was not made to be a liar and an executioner. She had been forced to be that way when in reality she was everything but that.
Clairvoyant nodded. "Exactly. And I heard that you're bringing great news, too."
I kept silent, noticing the mess her office was. She liked it that way. She had once said that she could not trust people with clean, organized spaces. But she could because she had trusted me.
