you can sleep while i drive

she got the stones out of her stomach. it was a start. a thousand years 
ago, lizards deposited entrails into humans and they left a little grit 
along the way--nothing a little sand can't cure. her eyes darted up to the 
tick, to the tock, to the cat-clock, with the eyes and the tail flipping 
back in forth in metronome. keeping time, killing time... half past 
eleven. she emptied out her pockets, as they were. bubble gum wrappers, 
broken end of a shoelace, lint, and loose change. it wasn't going to work. 
her face was beginning to chap--it always happened in the winter, marking 
her inner compulsion when she couldn't stop washing her hands--one, two, 
three, before the microbes decide to make a nest in the orfices of her 
body. one, two, three. her hands were beginning to crack, like in her 
nightmare, like in the first one, on the empty ship with the scream, and 
the men emploding at a certain sound, leaving cracks in their exoskelton 
betraying everything in the lava beneath. she wishes she could chop off 
them off, her hands, that's where she would start. and if i ever lose my 
hands i won't have to work no more... she hums cat stevens and makes her 
way over to her perch by the window, glittery canary with the purple voice 
and an absent fool waiting for a prince who just wasn't coming tonight. 
no, she wasn't expecting him, not really...she had given no invitation, 
and she had not heard from him in days, weeks, aeons...milleniums? it's 
almost the second. and she shivers. she's always expecting him. he said 
once before he'd always be there, and allison, well...she takes things too 
literally sometimes. eleven thirty-six. he really isn't coming. he called 
her his ex-girlfriend tonight. the words still echoed through the din from 
one ear lobe to the next, and she tried to pick some sort of sensibility 
out of it, but it was lacking. she suckled a washcloth for support, but it 
went dry long ago. she folds her knees in, and her eyes pick out the very 
thin faded scars from lifetimes ago. little white lines...like margins? 
not quite. she shakes her head--this is madness, she thinks, though she 
can't stop crying, and the noise behind her eyes won't leave her alone, 
and the world looses itself in vertigo and she can't even feel her feet 
anymore. ex-girlfriend. well, it's a start. time to find another face. she 
laces up her shoes and lets her hair down. a calm, the eye of the storm, 
she looks out the window and notices that the rain is coming. her hands 
shudder and want icicles, her feet attempt to make some sort of grounding 
agent for the little lost girl but nothing helps. she sits in bemusement 
and she stares wild-eyed at the sun. her own face has dropped out the 
reflection and her mind is picking the bones dry. what when wrong? 
something about a voice...but it doesn't matter anymore. it's over. it's 
time to start moving.

she starts packing, though she's not sure what for. somewhere in her head 
there are bells ringing, but it hardly gives her any comfort. smoke 
alarms, she thinks, and snickers. how deep does madness run? she traces 
the lineage in her veins just beneath the skin. she wants to dye her hair 
again, but she's become too proud of it to touch it. now it just kind of 
grows wild like an ambush on her skull. now it just kind of takes over. so 
this is what dying feels like. and in a sudden howl of frustration she 
claws at her eyes and her arms and her heart, trying to dig the embedded 
thorn out of that little section between her lungs. but it is stronger 
than her. the little pindrops of blood sting, but she ignores them. she 
hates herself when she gets like this, the absolute pathetic little wrap 
of flesh and bone that sits with marrow of tears and does nothing but wast 
breath. she kicks at herself, but she doesn't budge. she tries harder. 
"it's time to get moving," she says. she throws her shoes in the back, 
slips into her favourite adventuring cap, puts the keys and a little bit 
of sugar into the fire, unlocks the door.

alestar is sleeping. she watches her for a long time, in the passenger 
seat, beneath the feathers of a down comfortered wrapped up for christmas 
and just as beautiful. she smiles. she has no idea what direction she is 
going, but billy joel hums a little song about siagon and she thinks she 
might as well go there as anywhere. she thought she was going east, but 
the sun rises from up behind, and it is alestar, the navigator, her rubs 
her bleary eyes and has to set her to the right. allison laughs, and 
shrugs. (it's only popcorn after all.) they turn on their heels (wheels) 
and retrace their route on the natchez. alestar notices allison swerving 
and she begins to read twisted limericks to keep her awake. they knew they 
must've bought the flashlight for something. sleep? it wants allison, but 
she's not letting it in. her fists clench tightly to the steering wheel 
and she downs another couple of vivarin with a huge swig of surge and her 
eyes vibrate from the electrocution of caffeinne in her veins. she begins 
giggling uncontrollably, as they shift down thomas jefferson street. 
sparta? but where are all the greeks? on campus, allison smirks, and gulps 
down more caffeine. highway 68 is really heaven, and bumper stickers will 
always say exactly what you want them to. allison attempt to sleep at 
cumberland, but the sky argues with her, and her body is still shaking. 
she is smiling, but she knows as soon as alestar gets off at the next stop 
her eyes will be damp again. and then the rains will come, but it's just 
about time. food, and a nap, at alestar's home, and then allison takes 
off, her adventures blurring her vision with fake mascara and magnolia 
blossoms. he loves me, he loves me not... her fists clench tightly on the 
wheel and she watches the second-sun-set. it's only a matter of time, and 
time is winning. but it isn't the nightmare, and allison's shoulderblades 
begin itching something fierce. but it's only the wings underneath, though 
she hasn't bothered to notice yet.

how much of her soul has she lost? she counts up the total in toppence, 
but she finds only that she is in debt. she's never been too good with 
numbers though. the universe links arms and nudges at her shoestrings to 
cheer her up. sometimes, it works. some days are better than others. the 
clouds will catch her, and spin her around in the elderblue sky, but she 
always nosedives, and every time it's just a little bit deeper. but at 
least she is able to sleep now, without him there. and she doesn't think 
about it, often, anymore. she dissects herself and tries to find where the 
disease started, the illness that sent him from her in the first place, 
the madness that caused her to push him away. but it all looks black, and 
there isn't any marrow, and all of it gets clouded when the tears get in 
her instruments. she convinces herself that there is cancer in her heart, 
though the others disbelieve it. and allison sinks to her knees and stares 
at the floor and doesn't really pay attention anymore.

except when the little bird sings. blue canary in the outlet by the 
lightswitch, who watches over you... every morning, from murky dreams she 
unsticks herself, and there on the windowsill is some specimen of bird (it 
doesn't matter--science has never been able to accurately describe magic) 
singing a lovely little good morning and pulling the lethargic body from 
her nest of bedclothes. it follows her, with that happy little 
tweet-deedle-dee-dee, on branch to ground to air and back again. and her 
violets, they drink in the sun and grow strong, well at least some of 
them. and the wings are beating faster in her heart. the possibilities are 
limitless, and suddenly the world is littered with them, a million dreams 
to choose from, a million different rainbows to chase...whatever allison 
wants, she can be, she can do, she can exist and laugh and dance in the 
sunlight, and now she is free, if only she will let herself be. sometimes, 
she understands. sometimes her face is lit up like christmas and sometimes 
she sees the miracle in everything and her life begins to fall into place 
the way that it did in the beginning, in the first story. but it was all 
still a very very long time ago. and she often slips in the tears she let 
loose when she was such an enomorous size and is afraid she might drown in 
them. oh, i do wish i hadn't cried so much. but it passes, and there are 
lessons, and she nibbles at them thoughtfully, and wonders which way she 
is going to grow now. her eyes dart upward, and suddenly a little bit of 
flesh gives way...suddenly, the tinest little wing begins to peep out, 
like a bud, like the ballet faeries in sleeping beauty in saint 
petersburg. she can feel them, and she smiles.

allison is growing wings in her room.