Free Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite, Deirdre C. Amthor Page A

would have been better off with one of those silly bastards than with me. But he needn’t know that yet. He needn’t know it ever, if I did this thing right.
    â€œHuh?” he said, and grinned. I supposed I could understand the perception behind the dumb-Yank stereotype. But I’d met a number of Americans in a job I had with the tourist board, and I hadn’t found them stupid at all. They simply weren’t taught to be articulate. Either they were so intimidated by our accents (which all sounded posh to them) that they couldn’t think of anything to say, or else they fell all over themselves saying the same thing five or six different ways. Overeager, yes. Frustrating to talk to, yes. But not necessarily stupid.
    I leaned against the bar. My left arm was pressed to my side, near the small constant pain of my wound. Beneath my new black jumper I could feel my heart jumping like a frantic animal in a heated cage. Fluttery, nasty feeling.
    â€œYou can stand a match in the head of your stout,” I said. “It’s quite thick enough.” I picked up a box of wooden matches lying on the bar, shook one out, and stood it on end in the silky white foam. It did not waver, but stood straight and erect like a little redheaded sentinel.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” said the American. “What makes it do that?”
    â€œI suppose it would be the air bubbles.”
    â€œYeah, but the surface tension of each bubble must be pretty strong to produce a cohesive effect like that …” He laughed. “Sorry. I left my physics manuals at home, but I guess I brought the mind-set with me.”
    â€œYou’re a student?”
    â€œDoctoral candidate. Particle theory. I’m trying for a research grant to study quarks.”
    â€œQuarks?”
    â€œElementary particles that feel the strong force—the strongest of the four fundamental forces. They come in six flavours, up, down, strange, charmed, top, and bottom. And each flavour comes in three colors, red, green, or blue.”
    â€œLike an ice lolly,” I mused.
    â€œHuh? Oh, a Popsicle! Yeah, sort of! I bet I can use that in one of my classes. Anyway, you know atoms? Well, see, atoms are made of protons, neutrons, and electrons, and those are made of quarks.”
    â€œWhat are quarks made of, then?”
    â€œWaves.”
“Waves?”
I had now finished my third pint, and was beginning to be outraged. “But waves aren’t
tangible.
They’re just
disturbances.”
    â€œVibrations, right! The whole universe is made of vibrations.” He beamed, oblivious to my dismay. “Neat, huh? Anyway, we haven’t been introduced yet. I’m Sam.” He held out a long-fingered, smooth-palmed hand that looked very much like my own. I grasped it, half-expecting my flesh to passghostlike through his. After all, we were nothing but vibrations. All the stone and iron of Painswick Prison was nothing but vibrations. Had I known, I could have begun vibrating at a different frequency and gone right between the bars.
    I said my name was Arthur. The wraiths of my eighty-seven prison journals rose before me, and in a flash of inspiration I told him I was a writer.
    â€œOh, neat! What do you write?”
    â€œTragic fiction.”
    â€œYou know,” and his dark eyes took on a wistful glaze, “I always wanted to write. I’ve got a bunch of great ideas. Maybe I could tell you some of ’em and you could use them.” I waited for him to say, “And we could split the money,” but he didn’t. Poor Sam; he was a good and generous soul who meant no one any harm. I felt the scalpel blade pricking the inside of my leg as if anxious to get on with it. We finished our beers and ordered another round.
    Half an hour later we were leaning against a brick wall in a narrow alley just off Dean Street, our hands burrowing beneath each other’s clothes, our bodies pressed together, our