Free The Grimscribe's Puppets by Joseph S. Pulver Sr., Simon Strantzas, Michael Cisco, Gemma Files, Richard Gavin, Darrell Schweitzer, Allyson Bird, Livia Llewellyn, Joseph S. Pulver

formless spring. Max’s work in the office became more erratic, his phone calls less articulate. He put on weight. When his tailored shirts began to feel like straitjackets, he bought cheaper and looser ones. He missed medical appointments, performance targets, having something to lose. The only thing he still hoped for was to know that his struggles actually meant something. Even if what they meant was something he’d been better off not knowing.
    He phoned Colin on a rainy morning, needing answers but not sure what questions to ask, in the end just saying: “I want to work for you.”
    “You’d better come to the office,” said Colin without missing a beat. It was in Fazeley Street, by the canal—one of the few sections of Digbeth that weren’t either derelict or being redeveloped.
    “Are you working tomorrow?” Colin asked. Max was. “OK, how about this afternoon?” That was fine. “I’ll see you then,” the businessman said. Then he chuckled—a sound he must have practiced, it couldn’t come naturally. “At last you’ll find out who and where you really are.”
    It was still raining after lunchtime, but flickers of sunlight played on the gray canal. Colin’s office was part of a narrow building whose windows were protected by fine wire grids. Mortar was trickling down from between the bricks. Max felt sure that if he waited, the rain would wash away the building’s image from the stone canvas of Digbeth. He rang the bell next to the small OUTSIDER ARTS plaque. Colin opened the door, wearing his most winning smile.
    The office was up two flights of grimy stairs. Max wondered how Colin had answered the door so fast. The climb winded him; wherever he looked the painted walls held a faint smear of yellow light, like distant streets at night. It seemed far away from the city.
    When Colin unlocked the flimsy office door, Max could hardly see into the room for the chaos of objects that covered the dusty floor. Cameras, loudspeakers, amps, lighting stands and other items were crammed together, linked by miles of tangled black cables. None of it looked capable of working.
    “Walk this way,” said Colin. Max resisted the temptation to mimic the younger man’s nervous gait. He had to watch his step in any case to avoid tripping over things. Colin led him through a labyrinth of visual and sound equipment to the middle of the office, where an open trapdoor led down a short flight of stairs to the first floor.
    There was less light here, but Max could see a bewildering array of artifacts clustered on tables and shelves: books, CDs, video-cassettes, framed photographs, sculptures, abstract paintings and items less easy to define. There were multiple copies of each work, so the room had the feel of a warehouse rather than a studio. Max noticed that the blue glass appeared not only in small panes, but in curved panels and even distorted vases. Bottles with plain black labels were ranked on long metal shelves along the walls. Once again, Colin pointed to a central gap in the floor that led to a further flight of wooden steps.
    The ground floor was a jumble of half-lit medical equipment, most of it clearly too old to be any use. Did the whole building belong to Outsider Arts? If so, it was hardly a functioning office: just a random house cluttered with jobs left incomplete or not even begun. The air was damp; Max shivered. Were those bare wires on the black table really trailing from a car battery? What were the translucent shreds of material pinned to a tall wooden block by what looked like a row of glass knives? He glimpsed a peculiarly stained enamel tub, a closet where black shapes hung on wires, a moldy ceramic vat with no lid. Fuck this , he thought, and made for the door. But Colin’s hands were on him, pulling him back, and his body—never on his side—had no power to resist.
    The eager hands forced him into a wire cradle that hung from the ceiling, and attached tight cuffs to his wrists and ankles. Max