The bus to the Daley Center was running late as it pulled up to the curb. I waited at the bus stop next to a fella leaning against the sign with his head down and looking, well, kinda blue like he’d been waiting there forever. The driver opened the door and said that I could get on, but the “blue-skinned son of a bitch” behind me would have to walk. I stepped back and let the blue fella climb aboard before me, which pissed off the driver something fierce. The driver cursed and pulled away from the curb, knowing he was already running late, as the blue fella sat down at the front of the bus and nodded at me. Hopefully that meant “thanks.”
This story was also published at Six Sentences. (Yay! Published work!)
[Note: I started writing this (in a radically different form) a long ass time ago. It's high time I sat down and finished it. So, here's part one of the final beta version before I attempt to get the sucker published. ~el jo]
Novara is not a planet for nice girls like me. It’s a dead rock littered with drunk and desperate men. I met my contact in one of the seedier dives on the outskirts of the urban decay. He perched on a barstool and clutched a drink like a molting raptor. I eased up to the bar and ordered two shots of juscou from a bartender with shimmering purple eyes. Maybe they were violet. The willowy barkeep wore his Valosian heritage seductively. The gnarled up bird man on my left wore his heritage like a cadaver. I took my first shot. Bang! The fumes alone were enough to evacuate my sinuses. That is potent little water!
Below the Fold »
