Short Stories And Stuff

Curiosity

Her thoughts were broadcast real time—no lag. The speakers and the televisions made them boom and swell and crush her head.

Why me why me why me

On every street, on every block, in every neighborhood, in every ear, all over the city.

Why me why me why me!

"It'll be strange, at first," said the man with gloved hands, who seemed very used to it. "You'll get used to it."

Oh no oh no this is not

"This is not—" She choked. Her head throbbed underneath the shoved-on helmet. "This is not what I—This wasn't in the contract." The contract had been a blank sheet of paper with a line at the bottom for her to sign.

Ow ow ow ow

"We added it," he said.

Behind him, the camera crew, twenty persons in all, bitterly fought each other for her best angle. Fists were exchanged, teeth were cracked. One or two casualties ended up crumpled on the ground and were stepped on like squirming, blood-filled doormats. The fight went on, silent but for the grunts, before suddenly stopping—there were ten doormats outside her door. The victors smiled despite the slits in their lips and the blood on their teeth, and raised their cameras.

Oh no oh no oh no

"Of course, the paint crew's renovations were also included in the contract," he said, seeming very very used to it, "just after you signed."

The fifty-person paint crew had large, special brushes that flicked off a sparkly concoction. With every drop, the walls lost their colour, till they were a faded blue, till they were white, till they were so clear they gleamed. A giant, unseen eraser worked at her walls and doors from the top floor down. In the end there stood a towering creation of glass and gleaming sunlight, a naked living room and bedroom and staircase and front porch.

My house is glass my house is glass

The crew exited with little fires at their heels.

Like a fishbowl like a fishbowl like a fishbowl!

My walls are glass

So weird so weird mask your thoughts count to a thousand

One two three

Four five six

Oh god oh god I can't do this they're all listening

"Just an hour of your time, Ms. Smith," the gloved man said without a smile. "Just an hour, if you recall the contract."

Ten eleven twenty what the twelve

Admirers ran outside their houses, still half-dressed, eyes eager. Others had been slowly creeping toward her as soon as they'd heard she'd signed the contract, and arrived sluggish from the long walk. Couples sat on the sidewalk, binoculars in hand, folding chairs comforting their behinds. Children stood and tapped or licked the house's glass window-walls; they waved when she started.

A minute later, someone had set up screens along her lot's perimeter, her face the centerpiece. Two minutes later, someone else had set up a hot dog stand, and there was a thickness in the air, the smell of warm grease and carnival fairs.

Twenty thirty forty fifty!

Two hoverplanes soundlessly descended, like knives dropped from the sky, carrying enormous, bright screens that momentarily became the sun. One screen broadcast the cameramen's feed and a slideshow of photographs, while the other relayed the mental images gathered by her helmet. She was picturing herself with her hands over her face.