Quote:
Where most people saw only a narrow, muddy street, Ed Wolf saw an intricate mesh of gears and cogs, writhing and twisting, spinning and fluidly rearranging, stretching across his vision and beyond to the edges of the Earth and even to the edges of the cosmos. Every snowflake that fell and every gust of wind that whistled by set some of them into whirling motion, and these few set their neighbors spinning, and their neighbors' neighbors, and thence mapped each and every cause to a billion subtle effects spanning the breadth of the universe. The learned called these interactions Chaos Theory. He called it his sixth sense.
If he really focused, he could imagine a certain cog moving and observe how it would influence the others. Sometimes he'd lay abed all night, awake, moving this cog and that to decide what he should say to a certain girl, or how to avoid another beating. His sense wasn't perfect, though. Nowhere near so. When he tried to look more than a few hours ahead, or at a matter made up of more than a few influences, thousands of cogs would spread themselves to infinity in width and depth in an undulating jumble far too complex to make sense of. Only through agonizing effort could he ever divine the truth he sought, however tiny, from such an uncaring ocean of prophecy.
The sky was the same ashen gray as the snowy ground, and the rest of the visual world bled a ruddy red from the brick walls of Pittsburgh. It was the sort of day Ed would be content to spend without stepping foot outside his home, but the stars had insisted it was important that he did. His parka kept out the worst of the deep winter's chill, but he still shuddered now and then when some tendril of cold somehow sliced through.
He came to the mouth of an unplowed alley and briefly looked around before entering. Nervousness began to tighten his heart as he stamped through the ankle-deep snow. He knew there would be at least some disagreement, and perhaps a lot of it. Perhaps too much. And in that case, the stars did not show a kind future.
When he gazed upon the stars, they showed him things that the gears and cogs never could. Rather than showing all of the possibilities that might be, the stars showed the possibilities that needed to become reality. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were nothing more than pretty lights in the heavens, but on the other few occasions they leapt and cavorted in a cosmic dance to imprint upon the blackened sky their exhortations and demands. Never were they suggestions. The stars always spoke urgently when they chose to speak at all, and to ignore them was to invite possible ruin. Something powerful spoke through the stars, neither angel nor demon, and concerned with a far grander scheme than either. Whatever it was, it would not accept disobedience. Those who refused to be its pawns were almost always met by a nebulous force of bad lack that would eventually master them.
Voices flowed over the cracked bricks of the alley - first a young woman's, subtly agitated and harsh, and then in response a man's, solid and blunt, but with an undertone of tiredness and learned indifference.
NOW WUT HAPPENS?
If he really focused, he could imagine a certain cog moving and observe how it would influence the others. Sometimes he'd lay abed all night, awake, moving this cog and that to decide what he should say to a certain girl, or how to avoid another beating. His sense wasn't perfect, though. Nowhere near so. When he tried to look more than a few hours ahead, or at a matter made up of more than a few influences, thousands of cogs would spread themselves to infinity in width and depth in an undulating jumble far too complex to make sense of. Only through agonizing effort could he ever divine the truth he sought, however tiny, from such an uncaring ocean of prophecy.
The sky was the same ashen gray as the snowy ground, and the rest of the visual world bled a ruddy red from the brick walls of Pittsburgh. It was the sort of day Ed would be content to spend without stepping foot outside his home, but the stars had insisted it was important that he did. His parka kept out the worst of the deep winter's chill, but he still shuddered now and then when some tendril of cold somehow sliced through.
He came to the mouth of an unplowed alley and briefly looked around before entering. Nervousness began to tighten his heart as he stamped through the ankle-deep snow. He knew there would be at least some disagreement, and perhaps a lot of it. Perhaps too much. And in that case, the stars did not show a kind future.
When he gazed upon the stars, they showed him things that the gears and cogs never could. Rather than showing all of the possibilities that might be, the stars showed the possibilities that needed to become reality. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were nothing more than pretty lights in the heavens, but on the other few occasions they leapt and cavorted in a cosmic dance to imprint upon the blackened sky their exhortations and demands. Never were they suggestions. The stars always spoke urgently when they chose to speak at all, and to ignore them was to invite possible ruin. Something powerful spoke through the stars, neither angel nor demon, and concerned with a far grander scheme than either. Whatever it was, it would not accept disobedience. Those who refused to be its pawns were almost always met by a nebulous force of bad lack that would eventually master them.
Voices flowed over the cracked bricks of the alley - first a young woman's, subtly agitated and harsh, and then in response a man's, solid and blunt, but with an undertone of tiredness and learned indifference.
NOW WUT HAPPENS?
