A Diamond Is Forever
Pharaoh stood at his bedroom door and watched the green sand pour out of the open closet. It had been coming in a steady stream for about ten minutes, time enough for the initial panic to subside and the incongruity to ripen into fact. The inside of your closet is gone, he could now tell himself, and it has been replaced by a light-resistant wall of shadow. Furthermore, green sand is streaming out from this shadow at the rate of what looks to be a few gallons per minute. It took him only ten minutes to be able to tell himself this in the same breath as ...and my television is on the fritz. He wasn't sure if this kind of adaptability was normal.
At first he thought Ellsworth might have something to do with this. Ellsworth "Eli" Glass, Maker of Ghosts and the nervous little shit next door. He had woken Pharaoh up early that morning, pounding on the door and blubbering some nonsense as usual. Could this be why? He decided this most likely had nothing to do with the ugly floating things Ellsworth obsessively sculpted out of æther. As a desiccated corpse himself, Pharaoh made it clear to Ellsworth to keep his ghost business far away from him. Pharaoh didn't go for that ghost shit at all.
The sand was now close to covering the whole floor, with a large dune collecting at the base of the closet. For a few seconds Pharaoh fought the urge to smooth out its distribution into an even blanket covering the whole room. "I can't figure this out now," he said, "I need the goddamn diamond for that." And as luck would have it, it was the fucking ruby in his skull, not the goddamn diamond.
He reached under his bed and pulled out the worn lacquered box from the Old Days. He riffled through the various gemstones with his twiglike fingers until he found the diamond. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held it up and watched it carve slivers out of the light in the room, and a deep sigh blew through the tatters at his ribcage.
In the Old Days, Colonel Argyle was around to do this procedure safely. In the years since the colonel's death, it was getting harder and harder for Pharaoh to pull off. He had to be quick, or all was lost.
Holding the diamond tightly in his left hand, Pharaoh slipped his right index finger and thumb into the hole at the base of his skull, grasping dumbly for a moment before feeling the warm-edged surface of the ruby.
"Come on, Pharaoh," he told himself, wheezing. "One . . . two . . ." As he yanked the ruby from his head, the diamond jumped obstinately from his hand and tumbled to the floor before he could make the switch. The ruby clattered after it, rolling from his slackening grip. "Shit," he said.
In the last seconds of consciousness, Pharaoh had mind enough to grope madly at the box for another jewel, any jewel, but only succeeded in smacking it over the side of the bed. The awareness of this final fuck-up was the last thing he registered before blinking out like a TV set. Pharaoh's withered corpse, now quite empty, fell forward onto the floor. His right arm broke off at the shoulder with a puff of dust; his head snapped off and rolled an irregular trail across the thickening blanket of green sand.
© 2005
At first he thought Ellsworth might have something to do with this. Ellsworth "Eli" Glass, Maker of Ghosts and the nervous little shit next door. He had woken Pharaoh up early that morning, pounding on the door and blubbering some nonsense as usual. Could this be why? He decided this most likely had nothing to do with the ugly floating things Ellsworth obsessively sculpted out of æther. As a desiccated corpse himself, Pharaoh made it clear to Ellsworth to keep his ghost business far away from him. Pharaoh didn't go for that ghost shit at all.
The sand was now close to covering the whole floor, with a large dune collecting at the base of the closet. For a few seconds Pharaoh fought the urge to smooth out its distribution into an even blanket covering the whole room. "I can't figure this out now," he said, "I need the goddamn diamond for that." And as luck would have it, it was the fucking ruby in his skull, not the goddamn diamond.
He reached under his bed and pulled out the worn lacquered box from the Old Days. He riffled through the various gemstones with his twiglike fingers until he found the diamond. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held it up and watched it carve slivers out of the light in the room, and a deep sigh blew through the tatters at his ribcage.
In the Old Days, Colonel Argyle was around to do this procedure safely. In the years since the colonel's death, it was getting harder and harder for Pharaoh to pull off. He had to be quick, or all was lost.
Holding the diamond tightly in his left hand, Pharaoh slipped his right index finger and thumb into the hole at the base of his skull, grasping dumbly for a moment before feeling the warm-edged surface of the ruby.
"Come on, Pharaoh," he told himself, wheezing. "One . . . two . . ." As he yanked the ruby from his head, the diamond jumped obstinately from his hand and tumbled to the floor before he could make the switch. The ruby clattered after it, rolling from his slackening grip. "Shit," he said.
In the last seconds of consciousness, Pharaoh had mind enough to grope madly at the box for another jewel, any jewel, but only succeeded in smacking it over the side of the bed. The awareness of this final fuck-up was the last thing he registered before blinking out like a TV set. Pharaoh's withered corpse, now quite empty, fell forward onto the floor. His right arm broke off at the shoulder with a puff of dust; his head snapped off and rolled an irregular trail across the thickening blanket of green sand.
© 2005