Conversation · Shivers

What's in the north?

Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

The morning news.

And closer to here?

A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. The lingering odour of decomposition mixes with that of damp soil.

A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Filthy water pools around a body. Droplets of rain slip from the dead man's cold cheeks.

A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Coal leaks into a puddle beneath a dead man's feet. He swings from a tree, bloated. Droplets of rain slip from his cold cheeks.

The news at noon.

The evening news.

Midnight news and reruns.

What's above?

More coalition aerostatics. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

Coalition aerostatics hang like apparitions under the cloud cover. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

"Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

"This rain will not let up any time soon. At least we're dressed for it -- let's keep moving."

"This rain will not let up any time soon. I'd recommend you put on your coat."

"This rain will not let up any time soon. You should get a raincoat. There's a Frittte to the east. They sell them there."

These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

What's in the east?

There's a Frittte on the corner. A plastic coat is folded into a small triangle under the counter by the window. Beyond that, the strikebreakers have gathered.

The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

And before that?

You -- on the Martinaise plaza. A small dot looking up at the sky. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

And beyond that?

La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

What is across the distributary?

Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

What is beyond the Couron?

A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

You have never been there. They don't need the law east of the river.

Shake your shoulders again.

You shudder, looking down at your feet. Dirty rainwater runs veins into the plaza snow.

Two green snakeskin shoes stand at attention on the mosaic paving of the plaza.

You realize you have no shoes on. Your feet are red with cold.

From the corner of his eye, the lieutenant gives your feet a worried glance. Rain drips from his glasses.

"It's cool. I'm in control."

The lieutenant nods, then looks east.

Look up.

The rain falls.

What is there?

Say nothing.

"I should probably do something about this."

The lieutenant nods, then looks east.

You realize you still have only one shoe. Nearby, on the balcony of the Whirling-in-Rags hostel-cafeteria, a single crocodile-skin shoe now fills with rainwater.

Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your disco blazer grow heavy. The cold finds its way in under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

You're not dressed for this weather. You should get an overcoat, or a patrol cloak.

Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your jacket grow heavy. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

Your shirt sticks to your chest. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

The shoulders of your jacket grow heavy. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

Water runs down your bare chest. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

Shake the shivers off. [Discard thought.]

The spring thaw must be here. The snow is melting...

What am I doing?

Looking up at the sky, cold water dripping from your hair.

What do I see?

Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.

How does it feel?