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Alyx Dellamonica
Alyx is a bench with a sign that says 'this space for rent,' but
she already rented the space, and is tricking the world by putting up her
own sign that says 'this space for rent.' Also, the bench is electrified,
and you love getting each shock so you keep sitting on her.
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A.M. Dellamonica has been, at different times, a rape crisis worker, theatre technician, piccolo diva, burglar alarm monitor, guerilla secretary and actor. She has now, however, given up that life of variable glamour to concentrate full-time on her writing. A resident of Vancouver, BC, where she lives with the most wonderful woman in the world and two cats, she is a member of the Fangs of God on-line writer's workshop.Her current grooves and areas of consuming interest include the history of Quebec, chick flicks, birds, medical trivia and epidemiology. She mad for making lists, and most of her dexterity is concentrated in her fingertips -- which means she is a blindingly fast typist, knits like a fiend and is proficient with key-intensive musical instruments. It also means she has a lot of accidents with the other parts of her body. Her most dramatic mishap was having a small plane crash in her yard. And she never has to say "in case I get hit by a truck," as she's gotten that one out of the way.
A Few Words from Alyx's Work Violet dreamed she was in a bar called the Abacus, wearing a grey flight suit with an "X" on the shoulder and talking to Pi about the radius versus the circumference. She was sipping a blue liqueur called Equilibrium and trying to impose some sense on her surroundings. Outside the bar, blurred figures moved down pathways in a park. There was a sign by the park gates which read "Basic Ops Plaza." Violet remembered she was at the center of a city, that four streets enclosed the park like a picture frame . They were Add Route, Subtract Avenue, Multiply Way and Divide Street.
Pi was talking about himself, attempting to entertain her by rattling off short sequences of numbers. "I particularly like this bit," he said, "It's repetitive enough to be beguiling." For some reason this struck her as funny, and they laughed together.
Then the phone rang and Violet sat up, instantly alert, so different from Cray with his morning hour of grogginess and bad temper. She was surprised to find herself still in jeans and t-shirt, and then she saw the open box on her bureau. She was pregnant. When the little wand in the kit turned red she had felt a rush of terror so strong that her head started pounding, and to avoid dealing with it, she had hurtled into bed for a nap.
The phone rang again, and Violet ran to get it. Maybe it was Cray, calling from the plane. She could describe the weird dream while she decided if she would wait until he was home to tell him.
"Good evening." It was a stranger's voice, clipped British tones, "I'm calling from England. Is this Mrs. McLean?"
Violet felt her toes start to tingle painfully as though her feet were falling asleep. She put a hand to her throat and answered sharply. "I'm Dr. McLean's wife, if that's what you're asking. My name is Dr. Violet Dayton."
"I'm sorry to call you with this news," the voice continued. Lying of course, he didn't care at all. She closed her eyes and wished the hateful voice away, wished she was still dreaming. He droned on in public television tones, saying a lorry had hit Cray's taxicab, could she please come? No, there was no chance of moving him home, it would be much better if she'd just fly out.