By Simon Drax
June 22, 2009

This posting, the first of Simon Drax's new wovel, will be open for voting until July 3rd to give word time to spread. Wovel installments will follow weekly starting July 6th. Happy Reading!

(And yes, we know and are dutifully embarrassed by the typo in the email that went out. Not on a "role," but on a "roll." Forgive us, please.)

 ***

Exit Vector . . . Exit Vector . . . Exit Vector . . .

The piece-of-shit plasma screen on the far wall of the club must have been broken; through a rectangle of static the screen flashed two words, “Exit” then “Vector,” then again, then again.
   
Then again.
   
Mori blinked. Mori frowned. Exit Vector . . . what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Mori didn’t know, and her head spun too much to care, so she turned away, tried to fold herself deeper into the pocket of shadow she had claimed as her own at the bar. The vodka was helping, but not nearly enough. The music pounding in the club was still crap, the newsfeed behind the bar was still droning about the latest plague fatalities, and drunk as she was she was still Mori Kim Marr, seventeen years old and without a prayer or a paddle, without—the counselor at the school had loved this one—a pot to piss in. Mori Kim Marr, oh yeah, and not nearly drunk enough, oh no. With numb determined fingers Mori brought her drink to her lips and slugged it back.
   
Oh, Jesus, yah! The vodka was warm, disgusting. She grimaced, turned in her seat as if to puke.
   
The man in the next seat watched with mild fascination.
   
“Hey, you okay sweetheart?” But his eyes didn’t lift above her chest.
   
Mori gave the creep a really good sneer, all tongue and bruised lips. “Oh, take it home to your dog, man. I think Rover’s getting lonely for the big red one.”
   
The man flinched as if Mori had slapped him. He had recently gotten new eyes, Mori could tell—the pink outline around the corneas was always a dead giveaway. Wal-Mart must be running another special. But the man “sported” a comb-over and his nose was purple with broken veins. Pathetic, Mori thought.
   
“Uptight little . . .” The man shook his head, looked to the bartender for support. “Up-tight!” he whined.

Previous Page       Page 1 of 4       Next page