she stared at it for a second, then sighed and opened her car's passenger door, getting some napkins out of the glove compartment. she straightened and took the stone with the napkins, wrapping it up. "Get a phone dude."
"Phones are bad for your mental health," he replied. "What's your name?"
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"That's classified, I'm afraid." He flipped up his hoodie. "Nice to meet you, Queenie."
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"Well, good luck!" He gave a wave. "I'll be in touch."
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin
It was a few days later when Queenie finally got around to using the rock thing. It had been a busy few days, assignment after assignment as the weekend wrapped up and the pop singers for the event finished up the last of the meet and greets and concerts.
It was only after they were all gone that Queenie had a few days off - until someone decided she was needed and filled those days, but for now they were free, and she could meet with this guy.
The ground floor conference room of one of her father's more fancy office buildings had a moat built into the perimeter of the floor, with artificial waterfalls flowing over the stone walls, and one wall of windows looking out over the lake at the edge of town. There was a large conference table in the center of the room, and a tile bridge over the moat to the doors.
Queenie sat down in one of the chairs and pulled the napkin-wrapped rock out of her bag. She'd reserved the room for the evening, and disabled the cameras. There was no one in the company with the power to care who would even blink at that when it was her. No one particularly cared what she did.
She turned around in the chair and unwrapped the rock. Gods knew how this thing worked. Maybe she was supposed to be outside? But there was no privacy outside. Rows and rows of windows staring down at whatever she did. This moat did connect underground to the lake itself, anyway. It would probably be fine.
She leaned over and dropped the rock in the water.
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