A world without poetry...that's a world without a soul. Well, perhaps not something that melodramatic, but it's something incomplete. A world without poetry is a world unwilling to look beyond the facts and the bare-bones logic and see the marrow contained within the stark white bone - the reason behind it all, or lack thereof, that makes it grow and flower and carry on into the next generations. A world without poetry is a bleached skeleton of a world, one without life covering it or filling it. It's just a world, and because of that it's somehow not a world anymore.

Different.

I should give her credit in that she didn’t walk up to me and start it right away. We were both curled up in the motel room, avoiding the stiff, embalmed bed (“Ew, smells like burbon.” “…can we not sleep in this?”) and slumping ourselves deeper into the crusty carpet around a shared bottle of Dr. Pepper and cheap Chinese-style meat product. RENT has it wrong, you know—bohemians don’t eat tofu and greens. We feast on what we are thrown or what we scavenge as we prowl through the jungles of this world, whether it be stale bread with catsup spread on it or a chunk of raw poultry. Whatever stops the gnawing wolves in our stomachs from eating up our ideas and turning that idiosyncratic light of ours to more mundane things, like why the hell we’re flat broke and can’t afford groceries. Sharks aren’t particular about what they eat as they ceaselessly swim; they just get what they can.

The cable box was out or maybe it was the TV itself—or maybe we were the defected electronics, and refused to fully turn on the tube. Either way, it hissed and crackled with electronic snow and spit out one or two random images to tantalize us. True to American television, they were mostly commercials.

Between a static-laced voice singing about imitation butter and a department store babbling about errors in orders, she put a hand on my shoulder. Lightly she fingered the thin web of cracks, frowning at the fading splits—they’re almost gone, you know. There will still be lines for me to remember them by, but the exoskeleton is almost closed. In a way, I’m contained again, protected, since they can’t split me open as easily or penetrate.

“Those people were real assholes, Olo.”

I nodded and looked to the door on reflex, checking to see if the locks were fastened tight, the windows closed, the drapes up and blotting out the scene within. I’m a sensible shark, you see—I always watch for the other predators when I slow down to rest for a bit. They can’t overtake me. “They were, Scoot. They just took…you know, and they sold it. Like it was something they owned, and not me.”

“All of us aren’t like that.” Husky tone; Scooter’s voice (it’s too late for anonymity, anyway) seemed to rumble up from within her like rock, rolling like boulders with certainty. She waved aside my ‘I know’ and sighed. “That ain’t it. I mean people who…well, share sheets. We’re not all like that.” Her hand travelled to my back, just below the neck, and patted the plating. “It’s different…I could show you, you know. It’s nicer with women, for humans and poleepkwa.”

My voice cracked like ice and shattered so that the sentence fell apart, the words like broken icicles at our feet. “W-what—no. Oh no…no no no no…” I shrunk back, wrenched her hand away—had it gone lower, snuck further down while I wasn’t noticing? No, but I wouldn’t let her. If I had to I’d scratch at the hands, use the little bit of self-defense and flee.

But Scooter was my friend. Why would she want to hurt me? The sardonic reply came quickly: Why did all of those customers want to hurt me?

She sighed, let go of me and slunk back. Her eyes—I couldn’t look away, not because they were angry, or because they were sad, but because they were sad and trying not to show it. The ice blue was melting, getting watery with the heat and tension of the moment and she turned, blinked back the gush from the melting glaciers. Raindrops, or lakes of ocean water that were separated from me by the small flaps of skin, slightly smudged tangerine. Nonchalantly her shoulders moved in a shrug that turned into a slump. “I guess I always choose the people I can’t be with.”

She was going to stop this…she was going to stop herself and retreat in inglorious defeat because I didn’t want to take part in this. When did humans do that? Never; never had they turned tail to me and fled when I whimpered for it to stop short. Instantly I realized how she must have been feeling—you’re high up on the roller coaster but derail and fall before going down the big hill. No safe rush, just the dull, sick swoop of your stomach dropping and the long plummet down, down, down, down, down. Just because I wasn’t comfortable…that had never happened.

I acquiesced. No, more then that: I agreed. That was the good in it; the vital difference that made it more then torture and, maybe…enjoyable. I chose to do it, not out of fear but out of curiosity, of companionship. The way sex is supposed to be chosen, I think, and it was all so different. So familiar and unfamiliar; the scraping of plating against soft human skin, not rough this time but infinitely more delicate, more careful. Gentle, because she wasn’t trying to hurt me. It smelled different, too—free of the stench of booze but smelling like fruit, whatever perfume Scooter wears...most of the people who rented me had been drunk when they paid for it; they’d probably had to prepare themselves with the actual act by drinking, matching the heat down there with the warm fog of alcohol so that it makes a shred of sense. Things were clear this way—it didn’t make sense but then again when does anything in my life, our lives, make sense? I’m sitting in a motel room with Dr. Pepper, for Vishnu’s sake.

La Vie Boheme, I guess. It still smells like strawberries.

Travel (Short)

I am travelling again, and watching the road streak by, feeling the distance between home and where I am now dissolve away. The car I’m sharing with my friend (who will be unnamed...sometimes reality sets in and I have to protect identities) is cramped, shuddering from the strain of moving forward and smells faintly of vomit. It’s like a small, mobile promise of the party to come. Just a few more hours, one more night of driving and praying that we don’t get pulled over by the cops. She has no driver’s license. We’re illegal here, my partner-in-crime and I; she’s guilty, I’m guilty of smuggling ourselves in this tiny, rave-marked car and for carrying the contraband we’ve got shoved in the backseat next to the worn, old rave equipment. It’s wonderful. Absolutely, refreshingly wonderful.

The complete foolishness of this—the rash thoughtlessness of it is invigorating. It’s stupid, yes, but how stupid can it be? Logic backs my actions…why would I ask for a ride back home? I couldn’t wait any longer—there are plans that are in the making. A protest-rave that needs to be planned and set up…I couldn’t wait, and it would have been wasteful to ask for a plane ride home. No, this way is best. I’ll be more, anyway, and people may see me: secrecy must be abandoned for the plot to come. It’s going to be great.

Daylight.

Today is a nice day, if you’re a nature person. I can see the sun hanging high overhead like a dragon’s eye, swollen and yellow. It crisply takes in the green of the trees; it makes the brown and black of the bark stand out in stark relief against the few patches where snow clings on for dear life. Sooner or later it’ll realize that its time is up and melt away cleanly, or maybe not. Maybe it’ll keep hanging on until it’s finally torn from existence by the glare of the sun.

Today is a nice day, if you’re a nature person. If you’re like me and crave darkness, cut into with neon lights like knives and seething with the electricity of desire, carefully balanced tension that glitters like honed steel, it’s horrible. Today is one of those days that prove to me that I cannot leave this world; as wonderful as our home planet sounds and as exciting as it would be to go there, I can’t leave Earth. When the sun goes down and it’s dark out it’s fine—I’ve compromised between worlds and can get both the sky and the ground in my life. Now though, in the brightness…Vishnu I wish that today would end already.

I can’t leave my raves behind—even now, I feel the absence of a bass beat thumping next to my heart and miss it terribly. Without the rhythm and the vibration of speakers I am hollow; without the flashing strobes I am hopelessly blind. To be surrounded by color, lights, moving bodies and the thick, steady beat-beat-beat-beat of the music is like a drug to me, and that fact is both horrifying and uplifting. Yes, perhaps I’ll give up another life beyond this atmosphere for a chance at techno and nightlife here, but I’ll make sure that the upper air trembles with my music. Others will carry on my story if I reach them and my story is worth telling; if it isn’t worth telling I am content to keep writing it and living it. Someday it might be memorable then.

There are a few hours left until daylight ends. There are a few more days until I can finally go home. I’m waiting.

Moths, Songs, and Raindrops.

Dreams are coming to me today; dreams that I can’t quite grasp now but that still stick to the back of my head. They’re like moths, chasing the beams of light from my eyes; bumping and flopping against me, their little bodies failing to penetrate the thick glass that separates truth and perception. Maybe when I put the blinds down and go to sleep, leave the window open a crack to allow the night air passage, the moths will get through…for now, I can only observe the ideas and write about the color of their wings.

It must be an exciting life, being a raindrop. You’re formed in the upper atmosphere—if I remember what Jill warbled happily to me, it’s the troposphere—and exist as a loose collection of ice crystals. You form slowly, gradually over time, fragile and yet undamaged because of the gentle quality of your surroundings. Fellow groups of ice shards bump into you and you grow, maturing and changing over time, maturing.

Then, finally, you get too big for your surroundings, too old and weary to the world that surrounds you and you begin to fall, fall fast. Your beauty dissipates; you warp and meld into yourself, structures melting and liquefying as the grayness drops away and the ground sneaks closer. Unseen forces pull at you and you stretch, falling down, down, down until you finally crash against the ground and splatter, far away from your home…

…it should be a tragic thing, the death of a raindrop, but people don’t cry over them. Maybe it’s because we know that the water isn’t gone. It soaks into the ground and nourishes plants and us, by extension; it runs into lakes and oceans and trickles under our feet, deep down in the darkness where rivers silently flow. But even if the rain gurgles in the river Styx, it always manages to make its way back into the sky again. It evaporates and drifts above the harsh, hard surface of the earth, leaving the pollution and the pain behind. It’s only then, when all the pain has bleached you clean, that the process can begin again.

I’ve been alternating between the raincloud and the falling for some time now, but maybe it’s time I went back to the earth again. Sherry’s mentioned classes in the District after Tanukashi finally takes over, and I’ve offered to help out. It’ll be nice to teach something…I think I’ll help with music classes and philosophy classes, if there are any. Probably not right off the bat, but later on there might be. We’ve got to establish a basis first; people have to have the words and the math before they can understand the rhymes and the measures. I’ll wait, and then when things calm down, I’ll be there to watch the newer, cleaner, more hopeful excitement. Who knows…maybe I’ll even help to cause some revolutionary thoughts. That would be something, wouldn’t it?

I wonder what it would be like to live as a song…translated, transcribed and endless, reincarnated through the vibrating discords of foreign throats, braying in unison and sometimes in different keys…

I just finished my first day of basic self-defense training, and I’m left with a sense of how small I really am. I barely reached the shoulder of the poleepkwa who was training alongside me; it’s safe to say that I was much weaker then them too. In a rational person’s brain, this would be mulled over for a while and a conclusion would be struck: “I should learn how to defend myself.” It’s easy, it makes sense, but I really can’t reach that conclusion yet. Maybe it’s my pacifism that’s making this block inside my brain, or maybe it’s fear. It could be half-repressed embarrassment at how vulnerable I really am at times…or it couldn’t be any of those. I’m not sure. The main thing is that it makes sense to the people who care about me, and they’re some of the sanest people I know. It makes sense to them, so I do it, if it’ll make them feel better. The world has too much worry…they don’t need to worry more. You don’t have to worry more.

That little revelation is one of the saddest and truest things that I have felt lately...people shouldn’t be worried but they are. They shouldn’t do bad things, but they do. Why?

Another note: chaos. I’ve been thinking about chaos and order lately—some of you know why, and please believe me when I say that I’m not worried; I’m not scared—and, like my old days in the basement, I turned to a book, and then turned inward for answers. What I’ve found is perhaps not the best explanation or the most logical one, but it’s what I’ve got for now. If you read this, it’s what you’ll have too, plus your own opinions of course.

What defines chaos? In the dictionary, chaos is “a state lacking order or predictability.” Order, it seems, is “a condition in which freedom from disorder or disruption is maintained through respect for established authority.” It can also be a command given by a general in a war, or a formal written letter stating requirements for commerce. Lastly, it can be a body of persons living under a religious discipline. This is interesting…can chaos be a religion all its own? It can be a god to those who wouldn’t have a god otherwise. Perhaps it can be everything to those who have lost everything…

Chaos, however, the idea of chaos, is by its nature indefinable. It’s unable to be measured or predicted. It’s a variable, endless and vulnerable, infinite and already dead. Living by chaos can be living, or it cannot be. You never know, and that’s the problem with it.
If you expect chaos, it will not be there, because it’s chaos, and it can’t be predicted. Yet at the same time it’s predictable in that respect. There’s no order to it, nothing that you can hang a resolve on or base one’s life around. It’s CHAOS—what we truly think of it is nothing but a shallow hint of what it really is. Perhaps a madman can truly tell us that it’s like, but it would be in a language we cannot understand. Come to think of it…that would be why he would be called a madman. That’s the danger of it; those who worship chaos might someday look at their altars and find that their god is dead, or not the god they were worshipping. Either that, or they look back from the altar to the world and see that what they are surrounded by is something they can no longer understand.

Gone on a Walkabout.

I am walking on the Milky Way.

Each tiny speck of dirt and sand reflects the moonlight overhead, the brown haze of grime momentarily lifted to reveal a soft glossy glow, like pearls, like ivory left lying around among the silent forms of cacti. No, they are stars—miniature stars, and if I wanted to I could dip my hand own and scoop up a handful of them. I could dig my feet into a galaxy—Vishnu knows my toes are sinking into the gleaming shards. I’ve gotten a bit bigger, a bit taller; I’ve started eating more, and my shell plates fill out better. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel more like an actual poleepkwa then an empty set of shell-plates. There’s a soldier inside this suit of armor. Would He be pleased at that? I’ve heard of control of the palate, reigning in of the carnal pleasures, but for the life of me I can never obey fully. If I can stop myself from eating, I cannot stop myself from drinking, or dropping acid, or acting immature and foolish and transitive. It’s always something that leaks out, something I can’t control or limit. So I take turns, day to week to month.

I think He would be pleased that I’ve decided to eat instead of blowing my mind even further out of my skull then it is at this point. My dharma isn’t to poison myself, I think. Well, that’s what I think now. It changes so very often—more then it should. A dharma isn’t like a shirt…you can’t pick and choose so that it matches your mood for the day. It’s permanent; it forces you to change around it. It’s a purpose. I’d like one of those. They sound nice. Would He mind that I’m wanting one? Does Vishnu take notice of what I desire or does He simply chalk it off as another failure on my part, another instance of my allowing desire to creep back into my life. I don’t know, and because of that I’m scared. If I ever see Him, I think I’ll ask, just to be sure. Of course, by then it’ll probably be too late, and I’ll have climbed my way up and down the ladder until I no longer remember the question. Reincarnation has its own dilemmas, just like a “traditional” heaven.

Everything’s rendered in black and white—there’s the soft glowing of the ground, the lamp of the moon, the velvet of the sky above. Then the dark silhouettes of cacti. Their shape makes me shudder a bit; it’s too human, too similar with arms raised, pipe in hand, or it’s too similar with arms held up in victory or outstretched in a warm embrace. The good and the bad images, and yet both are too real for me to go back and touch right now. Even Jack and Jill are too real, too certain and assured for me to think about right now. Later, perhaps. The crowd gathered here can wait while I think for a bit longer. Not too much longer, though…I wouldn’t want to keep this crowd waiting. No, they expect something, anything. Entertainment, horror, love, real love…anything. They expect something because I’m alive.

The world is rotating around me, spinning on and on and on, and all I can do is watch it twist and turn. Try as I might I can’t get the things to click, I can’t follow along. Is that because I’m moving in a different direction or that I’m not moving at all? I don’t really know.

When will I finally get answers to my questions?

Wow. I certainly have ignored this blog of mine, haven’t I? I believe it’s about time I began writing in it again, and not simply to chronicle the day-to-day events of my life...that kind of thing gets boring after a while. That is not what I set out to do; I set out and created this account and blog to capture ideas, constructs, poetry and memory—yes, memory, but only in its proper course. My life is not interesting enough to exclusively write a blog about, but when you add my ideas…well, perhaps it can be. Anyway, let’s pursue this, shall we?

The Village. Every city has one: an area where the rancid, diseased, scabbed-over aspects of urban life burst out into the open and bloom into something that’s strangely wonderful. A pub, clubs, bars…the pus of society gets drained out in these little triage centers, trickles away, carrying the infection with it. Most assume that this saves the rest of the populace; the poor, sickened souls that inhabit those locations are too far gone to ever recover, to ever survive, and so they’re left alone. We let the drunks and junkies slouch away and simply keep a tighter grip on our purses and wallets when they slide by us. It’s too late for them, poor things, why can’t we help them? They don’t want to be helped…however can that happen? What drives them to stay in the red-light districts and bars?

It’s simple, really. In the cold, bright symmetry of the skyscrapers, the 24-hour days, the glare of florescent lights…you freeze. That fire in your gut gets snuffed out; ice is jammed down your throat, numbing your lips and tempering your tongue like red-hot metal in the waterbath so that argument overcomes words of kindness. Your highbeams get turned off, and you cannot see ahead. But alcohol and laughter, rowdiness and obscenities, the deep bass beat of a good techno song...that makes the cold go away. You warm up to strangers, reach out and touch them and find something real and unbound by a nine-to-five schedule and set rules of conduct. You sing, make stupid jokes, try things you know you’ll regret and laugh it off as it happens. The tentative friendships—tiny heartbreak and comradry to lend more weight to the friendships back home. It’s so personal and impersonal, so dangerous and foolhardy and addictive; it’s better then the mundane. Sometimes it’s better to be transitive. Sometimes it’s better to be out on the street or at the bar; to be irresponsible and id-driven and ready to go out in a blaze of glowsticks and glory.

We need to have a little sleeze, a little disease in our lives. Something cancerous and warped out of shape, to offset the monotony. Sure, it’s dangerous and toxic, and it can build up in your system—I know that. I’ve been nearly claimed by it, and every time I go to the city I’m reminded of the danger by telephone booths, prepositions, the rubbing of cloth against cracks and scarring. I know that it’s stupid to get drunk and show up somewhere and talk with people I barely know; I’ll never see them again, and who knows what their intentions could be? That makes it so much more precious, though! What’s better? Having the time of your life, even if it claims it, bursts it and burns it like powder to match, or burning slowly and emotionlessly? Apathy or annihilation?

Both, I believe. Both.

Crash.

“I’m sorry.”

The words couldn’t help but escape my mouth. Quickly I looked away from the rear-view mirror, stared at Jack, stared at Jill, looked back again. “It’s just—I know—look, I’m sorry.”

Tom raised an eyebrow and grinned lopsidedly. “Déjà vu, isn’t it?”

“Yeppers. I could have sworn I’ve heard this before…” Max chimed in and reached over to pat my shoulder. “So I’ll say it again, Doorbell. We’ve made up our minds, and it’s okay. It really is, man.”

Yes, I’d had this exact conversation with Max and Tom at least three times already. The thesis was always the same—they were making the choice to join ARFA on their own. They’d been thinking about it for a while, it seemed, before I even showed up with Jack and Jill and my own stupid story. I hadn’t forced them to consider it, nor would I ever. It was their choice. It was all their choice in the end, and nothing could—or would—change that.

Still, I kept thinking about the apartment they’d just found, after weeks of searching. The studies that they probably wouldn’t be able to continue now that they’d be employed under ARFA. They had lives already, and now they were being turned upside-down by this newest chain of events. Tom and Max had spent so long trying to find a place to settle down and continue their studies, but now…now they were just going to give that up to help the poleepkwa. Hopefully they’d still be able to have semi-normal lives, but if Jake was any example that really wasn’t likely. The knowledge made me admire them all the more, though guilt still twisted in my gut and my thoughts kept turning to maybes. Maybe if I hadn’t mentioned it, they wouldn’t have joined. They would have found other, less dangerous ways of helping my people, but then again we needed all the help we could get. We really did, so shouldn’t I be thankful they would do this? That they were doing this?

I turned around in my seat and faced them. “But are you sure—“

Something must have happened in those few seconds that I wasn’t looking, because a squealing noise came and the car suddenly jerked forward, then back. Metal groaned and screeched; suddenly we were sideways and something collided with the back of my head—my vision went black and stayed black. Nearby I heard Jill warble in fear, and reached out for her. She was fine…no cuts or bruises, but she clung to me along with her brother, voice shaky and warbling. “Olo—what happened? The car’s sideways.”

Tom swore and a slight clicking sound came. “Goddamn seat belts. Hey guys, are you okay? Max? Kids? Olo?” More clicking sounds came and I felt movement. “The fucking car crashed…is everyone okay?” His voice was loud. “I’m going to try to crawl out of the side of the car, okay?” Metal began screeching, and I heard the tinkle of breaking glass.

“Here…holy shit! Oh god. Oh god, oh god—shit!” Max’s voice came from somewhere close to my antennae, sounding hoarse and pained. “Damn. My leg…shit. Shit shit shit.”

“Max?” I turned my neck and ignored the spike of pain the motion caused. “What is it…?” I blinked, first once, then twice. “I can’t see you.” Something wet was leaking into my eyes, but I couldn’t tell what it was. Was there blood in my eyes or engine oil?

“Here—Maxie, stay still. Still, Max. We’re gonna get you out—Olo, I need a hand here, man. Jack and Jill, you’ve got to crawl out of this.” Tom’s voice was steady—well, steadier then anyone else’s—and he guided me out of the car. "Look, we've gotta get out of here."

Rehash.

The conversation was light for the rest of the day; we rehashed the past and joked about old raving escapades while drinking various non-alcoholic beverages—Tom stuck to coffee, while Max and I had cola. We’d arrived late in the day, so no caffeine for Jill and Jack; they drank apple juice from a small carton that had been stuck haphazardly in the back of the refrigerator to cool down when we arrived. On a whim, I logged onto my facebook account and let Tom poke around, chatting with some of my other friends. Max grinned and began telling me what had transpired when I left.

“Yeah. After you left, we packed up and went to college—dorms.” He grimaced and rubbed at his soul patch before continuing. “Yeah, the dorms were bad. Remember the old apartment, the one we used to crash in all the time? The Hangover Hang-out?”

I nodded; how could I forget The Hangover Hang-out? It had been the place where I slept in a warm, reasonably clean bed for the first time, watched television sitcoms for the first time, gotten drunk for the first time. The chaotic, cramped residence was forever fixed in my head alongside the basement—the memories of the apartment, though, were warm and bright, at odds with the cold, blank bewilderment of my basement memories. It was good that I couldn’t forget it...it was really good.

“Well, these rooms made the old apartment look like the Ritz.” Max chuckled and sipped at his cola, shaking his head mockingly at the memories. “We couldn’t stay there—we were already catching flak from some of the jerks who lived there also—so Tommy came up with the idea of getting our own place. Of course, with him getting his chemistry degree and me studying my ass off with all the mythology and psychology courses, it was hard.”

From the other side of the room, Thomas grinned and looked up from the small laptop; there was no conventional computer here. “For God’s sake man, don’t study your ass off. You need it!” He laughed and looked back at the screen, eyes narrowing slightly as he read the text. “Hey Olo…who’s this ‘Thomas Rohrer’ guy?”

“A friend of mine. He works for ARFA—y’know, the Alien Rights and Freedom Association.” Quickly I warded off the impending question, antennae twitching slightly. “I’ll explain it all later, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Thomas nodded and went back to surfing the web.

Max followed that short conversation, then raised an eyebrow and stuck his tongue out at Tom, coaxing laughter out of Jack and Jill. It did look funny, seeing a man in his twenties resort to such an infantile gesture, but this was Max we were talking about. Age really didn’t seem to matter with him, nor appearances. That quality seemed to be in everyone I met…but of course that would be the case. I was an alien, after all, and not many bigoted people would want to be friends with me. Just my luck, I guess.

Sensing the conversation sputtering out like a candle deprived of oxygen, my black-haired friend blinked and rolled his neck. “So anyway…it took a while, but once we got some real free time away from classes, we started scouting around. New York isn’t the best place for people like us, at least when you want an apartment, so we waited until we could transfer together before putting the down payment on this place. Now we’re at the college nearby—it’s a nice place. Copacetic, really.”

Tom held up a fist in the air, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen. “Right on.”

Jack and Jill giggled again before scampering off. I kept track of them out of the corner of my eye—they wouldn’t deliberately cause trouble, but it was still possible that they’d knock something over, mix up a box or two…”

“It’s fine, really. It’s all cool.” He must have caught my expression. Max flicked his wrist a bit, driving away the idea as if it was a mosquito. “Jack and Jill can fool around all they want. They’re kids.” He smiled as my children pulled a deck of cards out of the duffel bag and sat down a short distance away. I gazed at them—yes, they were playing gin rummy. They loved that game.

Quietly I could hear him add, “Could you tell us your end of the story, now? What’s gone on over the past few months?” max didn’t say it out loud, but his quick glance at my scarred plating begged the question: what the hell happened to you? Tom looked up and closed the laptop, picking up that the conversation was turning away from its original trivial subject.

What the hell had happened over the past few months? When I stop to think about it, even now, it seems like so much…too much to have all happened. It did, though—I’ve got the memories and the scars to prove it, tangible reminders that my dreams and flashbacks really aren’t just in my head. They’re real, and they did happen. Slowly I felt myself tip the coke bottle and drink a few sips’ worth. Even though I was moving of my own accord, it was detached. I could have been an observer to it all; an audience member to my own monologue, listening in on my own soliloquy. I just wished that it was better then it actually was; Hamlet’s “to be, or not to be” seemed a whole lot better then my stories of Miss Miss, tripping, meeting ARFA…and the egg trade.

They didn’t need to hear that; I could have easily lied and used my brain—my somewhat talented brain, if I allowed myself the vanity of thinking that—to formulate some other way of explaining my cracked, still-healing frame. I could have fallen down a flight of stairs, or gotten into a memorable barfight, or gotten caught up in a rowdy MNU protest. But no: the story tumbled from my mouth in all of its bastard glory—and the best part? The best part? It was tame compared to some of the other ones I’ve heard. Take Seth Thomas, Sherry Johnson, Gabriel Mumper, Nick Gogan. What I’ve seen is nothing compared to what—

Max was staring at me, horror etched on his features. “You’re…you’re not kidding. You…really did that.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking down and shaking his head. “Just…damn. Damnit. That shouldn’t be happening here. Not in America, or anywhere. Damnit.”

My voice was quiet. “Well…Blue Fly doesn’t do it anymore. We—“ No. I would not tell them what happened to that monster. Let’s save some of their sensibilities, shall we? “We took him down. He got arrested. He's...he's in jail now.”

“But still, there are others.” Thomas tentatively put a hand on my shoulder. The blue cloth of his sweater rubbed against my green plating and I thought briefly of analogous colors. He was complementary, but I was analogous to him. Funny. Ha-ha. Why wasn’t I laughing?

Max chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds, then stared right at me. “We’re joining this ‘ARFA’ thing. If this shit goes on, we’ve got to stop it.” He stared at Thomas, who had moved during my narrative to sit next to him. His voice was softer when he spoke to him. “Right?”

Thomas smiled grimly and flicked Max’s nose. “That’s right, Maxine.” He nodded and blinked at me. “We’re signing up to this. Can you put a good word in for us with the guy in charge? I checked it out…it was some ‘Commander of ARFA’ guy and Ryan Baumgardner, right?”

I could only stare at them, moth agape and mandibles hanging slackly. Their remarks…they were in English, perfect Tom-and-Max English, but for some reason their meaning refused to be processed. If I was a computer, I’d still be displaying the ‘Windows Is Loading’ pop-up.

“What?”

Reunion.

The trip to Max and Tom’s place wasn’t that hard, or long. One of them—I think it was Tom, since he tends to think of things like that ahead of time—sent me a set of directions through the email system that would get Jill, Jack and me to their apartment without a great risk of being spotted. Still, it was painstaking and methodical travel, especially when Jack and Jill wanted to look at and draw/analyze everything new they saw. They’re like miniature energizer bunnies; they’ll keep going and going and having a fun time doing it.

Finally, though, we were able to sneak up to the apartment and knock on the door. Jill and jack hugged my legs, blinking around silently at the somewhat dingy hallway. Hopefully nobody would see us…or whoever saw us wouldn’t care enough to alert MNU…

“Who is it?” I recognized Max’s voice, but it sounded…different. Less stressed, with an almost laid-back tone; from those three words I guessed that the college life had been treating him well. The question was, how much had he changed since I’d last seen him?

I shuffled my feet uneasily; Jack and Jill disentangled themselves from my legs. “It’s Olo—”

It immediately flew open. “Olo!” A man with black hair stood there for a moment, blinking at me, then letting his eyes travel down to Jack and Jill. I blinked in surprise myself; Max had changed his appearance since I’d last seen him. He’d let his short Mohawk grow out and actually had a soul patch-of-sorts. Good old Max…his expression was the same as I’d imagined it—full of good-natured surprise and happiness.

“Hey man—it’s great to see you again! Come on in. Tommy’s just straightening out a place for you guys to sleep.” He pressed himself against the door frame, allowing us passage, and closed the door behind us. After a few moments of silence, he grinned. “So? What do you think? We’re still getting settled in, but we’re nearly there.”

“It’s…wow.” They’d quickly described their apartment in the various emails we’d exchanged in the past few days, but seeing it in person was so much different. The walls were a nice turquoise color, while a green carpet was halfway spread out on the floor. One side was still undone; grey cement winked at us like the sidewalk at the edge of a lawn. Boxes were scattered around the place, pushed up against the walls and stacked on top of each other to make makeshift tables and work surfaces. We seemed to be in some form of kitchen, but there was a sofa and a small coffee table in here as well. I remembered a remark from the last email: it’s not a huge place, so we’re combining some rooms. It should make for an interesting layout. It sure did.

Jack scampered away from me, heading towards another room that was adjacent to the one we were already in. he turned and fled back to me as a figure exited the space and stopped. “Yo.”

My mandibles twitched, then froze in surprise. This man…this man couldn’t really be Thomas, the same Thomas that had admittedly “tried to rock the nerdy look, and failed.” He’d gotten different glasses—these were rectangular frames, a far cry from his old circular ones—and he had to have grown at least four inches. He’d even gone ahead and dyed his hair…it was a brilliant orange color that contrasted with the blue sweater he wore. That at least hadn’t changed: Thomas had a knack for wearing warm clothing even when it was roasting out. The guy was permanently cold.

“Oh hey there. You’re Jack and Jill, right?” Thomas scratched his head and looked down at the two little poleepkwa.

Jill nodded. “You’re…you’re Thomas?”

“Yeppers.” Tom grinned and knelt down, so he could be at eye level. “You can call me Tom or Tommy, though. Thomas sounds so formal.” He made a face; Jill giggled and Jack smiled. Straightening up, he gestured with his head at the duffel bag I was carrying. “You want me to get that Olo?”

“Uh…sure.” I handed off the bag to him, and he walked off with it. Thoughts churning, I turned to face Max, who was still smiling. “We have an awful lot to talk about, don’t we?”

"Yup. You could say that."

old friends.

I rarely, if ever, check my email; the last time I checked it I had over three thousand notification emails from facebook and other spam sites. So when I logged on to my email, I expected nothing but hordes of pointless spam messages that I would have to systematically rifle through and delete. Of anything, I did not expect a letter from a friend, especially a friend that I had not heard from in a while.
Maxie and Tommy—the two college students that had found me and taught me the rules and ways of the rave. Quite possibly, the two first nice humans I’d ever met.

Hey Olo! Max here.
Long time no see. Or talk. Or message. Or rave. :( It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Hope everything’s been going well in your little universe. I got your emails a while ago—sorry that I haven’t responded. It’s just been so chaotic with the moving around and college and all of that. Can you believe that it took us over a month to get an apartment? Some people just hung up on us when we said we wanted to lease an apartment for two men. They were jerks…oh well. PLUR, right? ;)
Anyway, when are you coming over to visit us with those little kiddies of yours? I’d LOVE to meet Jack and Jill, and I know Tommy would too. Let me know ASAP, bud! It would be great to meet up again!
-Max, the magnificent.

The epitaph made me smile a bit. Trust Max to use that nickname I’d given him so long ago…how long had it actually been since I’d seen them last? Months, at the very least. I’d been with Miss Miss since September, so it had been months. Too long, much too long; it would be nice to meet up with old friends again. Quickly I typed up a response, grinning wider with each tap at the keyboard.

Olo the Doorbell here.
Sounds like a great idea! Just send me the address—it might take a while, but I’d love to join in the housewarming pleasantries. ^,,^ Jack and Jill send their regards. See you two soon!

The Cat Came Back (Remake)

Old MNU had some troubles of his own
He had a yellow cat which couldn't leave his home;
he abused it and he used it, since it couldn’t run away,
one got back to the mothership and flew far, far away.

and the cat came back, the very next day,
The cat came back, they thought it was a goner
But the cat came back; and then they all got away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

The grunt around the corner swore he'd kill the cat on sight,
He picked up his cattle prod and went out to start a fight;
He waited and he swore that the cat would not return,
He was never heard from again; oh, won’t they ever learn?

and the cat came back, the very next day,
The cat came back, they thought it was a goner
But the cat came back; and then they all got away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

He gave it to a blue fly, with a dollar note,
He told him to take it ‘cross the ocean in a boat;
They tied a rope around its neck, it must have weighed a pound
Now they search the docks for a blue fly that was drowned.

and the cat came back, the very next day,
The cat came back, they thought it was a goner
But the cat came back; and then they all got away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

He fumed and he swore when the cat met with UIO,
he tried to say it wasn’t true when it told its tale of woe;
But then a voice cried out in rage, and said “this won’t go on!”
The faces turned to the podium; alas, the cat was gone.
and the cat came back, the very next day,
The cat came back, they thought it was a goner
But the cat came back; and then they all got away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

Jack.

Jack springs up as soon as Jill is finished, pushing her over to the seat he occupied and shuffling his feet. “Okay…um, um here I go!”

I grin and let Jill clamber up onto my lap; she seems intent on using me as a pillow so I make no attempt to ask her to move. Her head briefly blocks my field of view and Jack’s face is obscured—I move my head to the side and he reappears from behind Jill’s grayish plating. “Sounds good, Jack. Whenever you’re ready.”

“O-okay.” Jack scratches his head and breathes deep. He stares at his feet, blinks at me and Jill, goes back to analyzing his feet. It’s normal for him—Jack tends to think over what he says before he says it, which makes his words that much more endearing to me. Jill speaks her mind and dredges up ideas like a volcano coughs up obsidian; Jack’s thoughts take time to reach the surface, like turquoise or amethyst, but shine in another, wonderful way. Smiling to myself, I continue the metaphor: I would be bronze—different ideas and concepts combined and heat-treated. Not exactly the best thing out there but still useful at times.

“Oh! Then I see Queen Mab hath been with you!” Jack’s shout startles me out of my revere. The little poleepkwa has punched at the air with his fists and voice, eyes wide and flicking back and forth. I can tell that he’s going to be outspoken for this one…maybe I should have closed the door. No, no—it’s best if people hear this. It’s going to be interesting. “She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes in a shape no bigger than an agate-stone on the fore-finger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies over men’s noses as they lie asleep!”

He cocks his head, points to nothing in particular and squints. “Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, the cover of the wings of grasshoppers, the traces of the smallest spider’s web, the collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash of film. Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat, not half so big as a round little worm pricked from the lazy finger of a maid.” He makes a small circle with his finger and thumb and peers through it, smiling at me and Jill and illustrating the insane tininess of the thing. His sister squirms and laughs a bit; I smile and nod in encouragement.

“Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, made by the joiner squirrel or an old grub, time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. And in this state she gallops—” He jumps, actually jumps up, and lands back down on his feet only to start up again and run in place. “—night by night, through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight, O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees, O’er ladies ‘ lips, who straight on kisses dream,”

With each repetition of the word “o’er” his antennae flick; the words and their meaning seem to be vibrating through every scrap of his plating, energizing my usually-quiet child and goading him to speak louder and with a note of jollity in his voice that even I have rarely heard. This was why I wanted them to read Shakespeare, I muse: the fact that words hundreds of years old could excite children today. Maybe, one day, something that we write will do the same—maybe hundreds of years from now people will be reading works of literature by those of us born here on earth and marveling at them the way we are now. Maybe—enough with the maybe. Jack is speaking…I have to listen.

“Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit. And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail, tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep, then dreams he of another benefice: sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon drums in his ear!”

He’s so excited now that he’s stumbling over the words, spitting out the syllables like they’re hot food that, no matter how tasty it is, has burned his tongue. Jill picks up on his energy—how they can do that, I have no clue. Is it a remnant of our species’ hive mind or simple understanding?—and jumps out of my lap, grabbing his hands and hugging him.

“At which he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted swears a prayer or two and sleeps again—merf. Merf…eef.” Jack giggles and returns the hug, cutting off mid-sentence and bursting into laughter. It’s apparent that he’s not going to continue, but it’s fine; he’s happy, Jill’s happy, so it’s—

“You say something! You gotta say something!” I barely manage to hear Jack’s words before he and Jill catapult into my lap.

It’s wonderful.

Jill.

“To be, or not to be--that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.”

How strange it is, hearing a voice so young utter words so old. Shakespeare is much, much older than Jill…almost fifty times her age, when you think about it. Yet here she is, eyes closed, antennae swishing to the rhythm of the soliloquy, flicking at the end of each line as she unconsciously clenches her hands tightly on the book; the words are slipping, it seems, and she must grab them else they fly away.

“To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.”

They aren’t escaping, though—they’re fluttering about like tamed birds, the tentative quality of her voice only adding to the hesitant nature of the words. Hamlet isn’t sure of himself when he’s saying this in the play…quite the opposite. He’s anxious, confused and afraid of how his life may continue—or end. Can’t she see that she’s mastered it? She’s remembering it perfectly, every last word. I am so proud…at her age, what was I doing? Compulsively measuring cracks in a wall. Not memorizing famous speeches, not reading up a storm, studying science, excelling in art. My children are, though, and it is amazing. Where will they be when they are my age? What will they be able to do?

“There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong…the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?” Jill pauses to giggle—she always laughs when she says “bodkin”—then presses on, her voice grave and sad. It’s not an act; she knows exactly what she’s talking about and how it relates to life today. The emotion is real. I feel guilty…why did I suggest that they memorize separate speeches from Shakespeare? I should have seen this coming…but no, even then it wouldn’t amount to much. Life is full of reminders of how bad things can be—after all, D10 is still here, people are still dying…perhaps it’s best that this reminder is less direct and beautiful in its own right.

Jack is sitting next to me, nodding off against my side and clutching the copy of “Romeo and Juliet” close. For a second I wonder if it’s smart to let him sleep and read his snippet of Shakespeare later, maybe tomorrow when he’s more rested; I shake my head at the thought immediately after. No, he’d be upset that he didn’t recite his soliloquy right after Jill, no matter how tired he was. As if in affirmation, Jack stirs and blinks over at his sister, smiling a bit and looking down at his book. His mandibles move silently as he reiterates the words. My antennae flick and I focus on Jill again.

“Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will…” Jill pauses and stares at me, eyes wide and a blank expression flickering across her features to be quickly covered by fear and embarrassment. She’s forgotten the words.

I give her a few moments to try to find her place before prompting her with the next few words. “And makes us rather bear…?”

A small spark seems to light up her eyes and she continues the sentence, stumbling over the words and going back to her original rhythm.

“Bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action—Soft you now, the fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!”

Rescue, part 1.

I spent the rest of the day hiding from the runners, ducking into dumpsters and hiding under cars whenever I heard footsteps come near. That sort of routine had been beaten into my brain already from my time in the egg trade; it was only a matter of slipping back into that old frame of mind. Judith found me much later, sitting on top of a demolished cardboard box in a dumpster.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She wrenched the top of the dumpster off, ripping it open as if it was a piece of tin foil. Her black face peered down at me and her eyes were narrowed.

I swallowed and hoarsely spoke—my throat was dry from lack of water. I’d used the single bottle of water I’d brought to rinse out the burns on my hip, which was pointless now that I was hiding in a garbage pail. “Not planning…hello Judith.”

“Can you walk?”

No. I chewed back the retort and tried to get up. “Umm…I don’t know.” Judith made a small noise of discontent and grabbed me, lifting me up out of the dumpster as if I weighed nothing. As I had predicted, my hip screeched with pain and I winced, balancing on the uninjured leg. “Thank you…”

My rescuer towered over me, at least a foot taller, if not two or more. Judith’s voice was underlain with a growl, though her face betrayed no expression. It was as if someone was standing behind her, speaking with that rough voice while she stood there, seemingly unperturbed. “Who did this to you?” Her antennae swished a bit and she glanced at my blackened plating.

“Just some runners. I pissed them off…it was my fault.” It was my fault—if I had taken the time to at least cover up the Blue Fly logo, I wouldn’t have been burned. Of course, they would have cornered me for the absence of a tag as well…damn. I guess I shouldn’t have ventured out on this wild goose chase at all.

Causally, Judith lifted up a lapel of the overcoat she wore to reveal the shiny metal of a shotgun barrel. Immediately I hissed and looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Put that away! Put it away, before anyone sees! They’ll kill you!” She couldn’t be serious…she wasn’t actually intending to take revenge. No—this was a backup weapon, in case something bad happened. It had to be, because nobody in their right mind would go up against a runner or a dealer.

Judith snickered and smoothed the fabric of her jacket out. “I’ve been in worse places.”

“Maybe…but they’ll still kill you. They’ll rape you, take the gun, and blow your brains out.” Trying to ignore the stabs of pain from my roasted, heat-warped plating, I hobbled off further into the alley. “We’ve got to hide—”

I was stopped by Judith’s tight grip on my shoulder and pulled back like a mouse being tugged out of a hole by its tail. “What fucking side are you on?” She sounded disgusted with me, and her mandibles splayed out ever-so-slightly with each word.

“The side that doesn’t get me raped.” I wrenched my shoulder free from her grasp.

Calmly, Judith took out the shotgun and tapped it against my chest, knocking at my sub-arms with the barrel. “It looks like that would be my side.” She snarled. “Now get it through your fucking shell plates—it’s either you or them.”

Memory briefly overlapped with reality; as if in double exposure, I saw Sirius standing there, a crowbar in his hand and safety pins in his mandibles. The pain in my hip and leg was from a pipe, and the distant honking of cars was the ringing of telephones. You ain’t got friends here, Rigel. You just got people who haven’t conned you yet. You get over before they get over, or you won’t last a night. Hear me?

“Do you want to run away like a scared little prawn, or do you want to fight for your freedom?” The brief image melted away and it was Judith again, the shotgun now cocked and ready.

I sidestepped it. “I want to stay alive.”

“You're afraid. You're weak. You won't take revenge for yourself! Your kids are fucked if this is how you defend them.”

Easy for her to say. She had training, experience with ‘warriors.’ The egg trade had no rules, no matches, no wins. Just losses, and the occasional chance at delaying your loss and pain. “You don’t get revenge here. You just dig yourself a deeper grave.” I felt my mandibles splay out. “And leave Jill and Jack out of this.”

Judith’s voice was cold and furious. “You never give in. You never submit. You fight! That is how you live, Olo.” When I said nothing she lowered the gun and flicked the safety on. “You know, maybe your kids are better off with you dead. Perhaps I should take over as their parent. Because you are obviously too weak...to protect anyone.”

Judith, taking care of Jill and Jack. Just a month or so ago I would have denied that and protected them all the more, but now…she was right. I was weak and unable to protect them, whereas she…she wasn’t a call-prawn. She was better than me. It made sense.

“Yeah. What are you going to do about it? I’m going to take custody of your kids and you’re going to stand there looking sad…”

My eyes widened, but everything just seemed dimmer. “It would be better.”

Judith looked confused for a millisecond, but quickly masked the expression with a bitter tone and a flicking of her antennae. “Oh, that's great then. I'm going to be able to start them on their military careers early then. Private third class Jack and Jill. Two good little soldiers, but remember that if they make any mistakes…” She pantomimed smacking something, backhanding the air and grinning. “…they get hit like the rest of the recruits.”

Jack—Jill—hit? They shouldn’t be abused; if this was where this was going…I didn’t know what to think. I responded with the first thing that came to mind. “Don’t fucking say that.”

She ignored me and instead snickered, something like glee in her voice. “Jack and Jill went up a hill I told them not to go up. Jack gets smacked down and Jill gets put in her place.” Laughing, she turned and began walking away. “I like it.”

No—I numbly snatched up a half-empty bottle of booze and broke it against the wall near me. The wet glass slid in my grasp, but I didn’t tighten my grip as I held it out as a makeshift shank. “Shut the fuck up. You can beat the living shit out of me—rape me if you even want to—but you never talk about Jack and Jill like that.” It was true; I couldn’t care less at this point what happened to me, but if it determined my children’s well-being then maybe I should start caring. I would never let them be hurt.

The other poleepkwa nodded slightly and the cold tone leached from her words. “Good. Now, are you fighting the dealers or not?”

Fighting the dealers? Impossible. You couldn’t kill Blue Fly, or a runner, without signing your own death warrant. They were stronger, more equipped, and more versed in street-smarts then I. Vaguely I noticed that I was making tiny, choked noises and shuddering.

A hint of encouragement reverberated in Judith’s voice. “You've already got a weapon. You've got inspiration. And I know how to signal the dealers. Heard a call prawn do it when I was searching for you. She gives a low whistle, the signal.” She twitched her mandibles and made a loud whistling noise. “Now they’re coming Olo. Your friends. Time to figure out if you're worth the life you've been given.” She stepped back into the shadows and vanished from view.

The runner ducked into our alley before I could say anything. She scanned the dark alley and raised an eyebrow when she saw me. “’Sup, squiddie? Finally decided to make things golden?”

There were only a handful of options right now. I could cry out for Judith to help me, but she would most likely stay hidden and that would only alert any other runners to my presence. I could try to overpower her, and get shot—the small lump of a salt-and-pepper gun could be seen at her waist. Unlikely that she had any big bullets in such a tiny gun, but even a small bullet could cause big trouble if you got hit in the wrong place.

Which left only one option, if you could call it that.

“Y-Yes. I have…” I limped towards the runner, dropping the bottle and hunching over. I tried to make myself look even smaller and weaker as I crept closer to her. “I-I’m small, but I’m experienced. I’ll sell for a lot. Just—”

“Shut it, grillo.” The runner held up a hand in a combined fuck-off/shut up gesture. “You’re gonna come with me, get Oro’s tag, and then we’ll bring you to the breaker. ¿Entienda?”

I was within range. I reached out and grabbed her, yanking her to the side and hissing as my hip screamed. She reached for the gun—it fired, but I felt no pain. Her neck was closer, so I grabbed hold of it and pushed my hand forward, dashing her head against the wall where the stain of beer from that bottle still dripped down. Breaking the skull wasn’t like breaking the glass, though…it took a few blows for her to stop moving. I stepped back and turned away, bile rising in my raw throat. What had I done?

“Great, Olo. Half the fucking neighborhood could hear that smack.” Judith mumbled from my side. I whirled; she was standing next to me with an irritated expression. “Let’s hope they didn’t…”

“What the hell?” The other runner was here now, along with several others.
Still reeling from the crack of bone on concrete, I snatched up the pepper pistol and pointed it at the small group. I had no clue how to use it, but maybe the bluff would do the trick. “Clear out—clear the fuck out, now!” The New York slang came naturally and I whispered to Judith: “The neighborhood won’t care. if we can get over on these guys, we’ll…we’ll be clear.”

“Alright.” Judith drew her shotgun and blinked. “I’d listen to the prawn if I were you.” She cocked the gun and pointed it at the nearest man’s head.

“You can’t fucking get us all, grillo.” They drew their own weapons, and for some reason I was reminded of Act 1, Scene 1 of Romeo and Juliet. ‘You bite your thumb at me, sir?’ ‘Draw, if you be men!’

Judith snarled at that. “Slavers! Fucking die!” She fired, clipping the first man’s shoulder and moving on to the next one. Somebody flicked their safety off; she threw the gun at them. It knocked them down and he lay still on the pavement. While one of the still-standing runners took off running, his partner aimed and fired at Judith.

“No—” She didn’t need my warning. Judith leapt up into the air and avoided the rounds, landing catlike in front of the lone man. She crunched down on his head, mandibles scratching at the flash and cleaving bone; blood sprayed lightly on the wall and the stench of death spread out like a fog. As a last gesture, Judith simply grabbed the man’s wrists…and ripped his arms out of their sockets. Simple as that—he could have been a paper doll. The corpse fell to the ground and made an awful thudding noise. No, that wasn’t paper. That was flesh, torn, bloody, dead flesh.

Judith wiped blood from her face and smirked at me. “That’s how you kill humans, Olo.”

Burned.

Seeing my foster parents was unnecessary; as soon as I got into the city there were signs of the dealers’ presence. Spray-painted tags that had sloppy poleepkwan writing concealed within their designs, numbers written in the insides of public telephones and bathroom stalls. “For an out-of this world experience, call XXX-XXXX;” “got shrimp? Call this number.”

It was dark when I arrived in Flagstaff, and early in the morning. The night life was out and about, stalking fresh meat for the market and piling their “wares” up and down streets and in the few buildings I managed to sneak a peek into. Like the docks in New York, I wasn’t noticed—I stuck to the alleys and other undesirable locations, and the few people that saw me could care less. What’s the point of reporting a prawn here? Better to jump him if he looks like he’s got something worth stealing and leave his twitching corpse for the fuzz to find.

Something worth stealing…like a backpack. I realized my fatal flaw as soon as the calling started.

“’Ay. Grillo.” Strangely, this voice was feminine; the smug, boisterous tone of a runner was unmistakable. “’Sup?”

Tentatively I turned and stared at a wall just past the woman’s ear, not directly looking at her but analyzing what she looked like. You never look a runner in the eyes, or a dealer. It’s disrespectful, and more than enough reason for them to kill you. I didn’t want to get killed or seriously miamed, so instead I averted my gaze and croakily spoke. “What?”

“You’re pretty far from your stable, ain’t ya?” She pointed to my lower torso. “I see that tag you carryin’. It ain’t ours.”

“Urm…yes. Yes, it’s not yours, but I’m just passing through—” Fuck! If they thought I was trying to sell to anyone here, I was dead. I still had Blue Fly’s logo embossed on my hip, which when coupled with the fact I was sneaking around made me look guilty.

“Bullshit. You’re turning tricks, ain’t ya?” A deeper voice cut in from my left. It must have been another runner, or maybe even a bodyguard—this guy was tough. Silent alarm bells went off in my head as the man walked in closer. “Ain’t ya, camarón?” He pinned me against the wall with a forearm. “I asked you a fucking question.”

I whimpered and felt the dull crinkle of bills through the cloth of my bag against the wall of the alley. “I…don’t want any trouble…” This was too much like all the times I’d angered Blue Fly, all the times I’d done or said something wrong by mistake and paid dearly from it. “Please j-just let me go…please please please…” I could almost hear the phones again and feel that pipe bashing against my skin. Vishnu, this was it…world-wide, this was it. New York, D10, Arizona…it’s like this everywhere. Where could I go where I wouldn’t be raped or mugged by someone?

“Nah. I don’t think I will. Hey chica, get the light. Let’s put some shrimp on the Barbie.” He held out a hand; the woman put something into it and stepped back, grinning. I met her eyes this time—she glared back and I looked down. The man smirked and shifted his grip on me; he held a lighter. With sickeningly deft moves, he smashed it against the wall and let the clearish liquid drip on the section of plating that the logo was painted on. It was as if he’d practiced it; I tried to squirm free as the other runner lit a match and held it to my soaked hip. The lighter fluid ignited immediately, and it felt like someone had decided to rip my plating off.

I failed. I’ve done nothing except get myself hurt and make it worse for any poleepkwa in the area. I’m so sorry everyone...please forgive me, or at least overlook this transgression. I haven’t gotten anything done…

On The Road Again...

“Promise you won’t be gone for a long time?”

We were curled up on one of the couches in the rec room, oblivious (for now) to the tiny tears our exoskeletons made in the fabric. You could tell which chairs and sofas were preferred by the poleepkwa who worked at the base—after a while they looked moth-eaten and gnawed by the small puncture wounds unknowingly produced by spines.

Jack, Jill and I were all huddled together in a collection of shell plates, warmth, and comfort. Jack blinked up at me with wide eyes as Jill tugged at my vestigial arms playfully. His voice was wavering. “Promise you’ll be back soon?”

A small brown knapsack—borrowed from ARFA’s locker room—lay at my feet; my tattered overcoat (found in a trashcan in d10) was on my back. It was the little things that broke apart the happiness of the moment, the tiny indications that no matter how wonderful this frame of time was, it would have to end soon. Sighing, I wrapped my arms around them both and smiled wanly as they snuggled in close and warbled quietly. They were always so happy if someone hugged them, even if they were worried before...it’s as if that simple embrace has the power to erase the worst of fears and anxieties. Vishnu, they were my little angels, love and intelligence in poleepkwan form. The sentimentality is well-deserved for them—I don’t lie when I say that, or think it. It’s true, every single word.

Quietly I spoke, eyes darting around to check if anyone was listening in. Nobody should know ahead of time what I had planning, except my children. I didn’t want to cause unnecessary worry or goad someone into coming along by accident. Quickly in, quickly out, and it would be over; ideally that was the way this was going to work out. “I promise. I’ll be back Monday, maybe even sooner. I won’t be gone long.” My grin grew in earnest. “Hey, we’ll even watch a movie when I’m back here. How does that sound?”

They were enchanted by the idea, and began babbling excitedly. My practiced antennae managed to pick up their individual statements even when they spoke at the same time.

“Ooh—ooh—can it be the Jungle Book?”

“Can Judith watch too?”

“And Jake?”

“Jake’s got a lot of bruises, have you noticed, Jack?”

“Yeah. I think Judith’s—“

“I’ve got to go…” Carefully I moved them to the side, off of my lap, and sadly hugged them one last time. “I’ve got a train to catch.” I broke off the sentence there…they didn’t need to know that I’d quite literally be doing that. Better for them to think I paid for my ticket, or was given a ride.

Jill and Jack watched me leave the room, clutching onto each other with the space I had occupied still between them. I was strangely heartbreaking to watch—as if they would stay that way for the rest of the weekend, waiting for me to return and slide back into place so everything would be normal and happy. Secretly a part of me hoped that that was true, and they would wait. They’d wait, and know without a doubt that I’d come back.
_______________________________________________________

“Six-fifty. Damn, you’re far from home.”

I grimaced and jotted something down on a notepad: ‘you could say that, but I’d rather you didn’t. I won’t bother you. I just want the food.’ I didn’t expect anyone to understand me here, so I’d had the foresight to bring along plenty of pens and a pad of paper for communicating. Pulling the crumpled wad of bills from my backpack, I held up seven of them and passed them over to the tanned, weary man. Luckily he didn’t object to their ratty condition. Vishnu was on my side in that respect—I’d had no time or means to tidy them up. His wrinkled face split oven in a gap-toothed smile; money was money, and I’d given him more then he’d asked for. Good—that meant I might actually get the beef jerky I’d been eying.

The old man grinned and pocketed my money, then passed over the bag of jerky, winking at me with a slightly filmy eye. “Who’s going to listen to an old guy like me? Go on, mister alien. I won’t tell a soul. There’s no-one here who’d believe me anyway.” He croakily laughed and swept an arm out to encompass the dry landscape. “’Cept maybe those folks in that building east of here. I reckon you’ve heard of them.”

Was he talking about ARFA? Hopefully not. The base was supposed to be secret. I shrugged and bolted, stuffing the remaining money and jerky into my backpack. Now I had food, and therefore one less worry.

I caught the train later as it sped by. It’s a simple method, albeit dangerous. You jump up, grab onto anything you can get at and climb onto the top of a boxcar, keeping your grip against the howl of air moving past you as the train speeds ahead. It’s terrifying, it really is, and I hope I don’t have to do this very often. I read about it from books written during the Great Depression, though it’s a lot easier said—or read—then done. Vishnu granted me another boon today: there was an opening in one of the boxcars that enabled me to drop in. Right now I’m huddled amidst boxes of I don’t know what, typing away at this little phone and watching the service indicator in case it runs out. There are two bars left out of five, so I better hurry this up.

I’m fine; I’m about to cross the state border and go into Arizona. My destination is Scottsdale, though I’ll end up in Flagstaff beforehand. There’s been…well, I’ve gotten word from my parent, about my parent. The people that owned me finally decided to contact me via email (I guess they read the blog) and say they’re willing to point me to the guy they bought me from. This is, quite possibly, some of the stupidest things I’ve done, I know it, but if this turns out good…I could at least learn about my real parent, if not see them.

One bar left. I’ve got to go. Good night, everybody, and see you Monday.

They seem to think that I've been saving people in District 10 all this time, that I've done good and liberated the oppressed. Apparently someone told Jack and Jill this, and it grew in their minds as ideas can only do with children. It's an amazing thing...leave them with a simple explanation and they craft a mythology in your absence, substituting the real flesh that isn't there at the moment with words and ink and dreams and hopes and aspirations. Wonderful, simply incredible; it's horrific, because their Olo isn't the Olo that I am. I haven't done the things they think I've done because I can't. I couldn't have done it--I have none of Sherry's drive or Seth's strength or Jake's tenacity or Christian's intelligence...for the past week or so I've been the trashcan prawn, the call-prawn who sold their own flesh for empty promises. Not a "hero."

I...I want to hold them close and just tell them flat out, whisper it to them: Vishnu has made you too good for me, or I have made myself too low for you. Either way, it isn't as nice as you think it is. I'm not the hero you seem to think I am, and as much as I try I will never be. Don't you realise that? Don't you see that, you wonderful, amazing, enthusiastic fools? I love you two with all my heart, and yet that heart is breaking because I will never be good enough. You need--you deserve--someone with a heart of gold; mine is pewter and fired ceramic.

I don't speak the words; they claw up my throat but are beaten back until they retreat and tear at my stomach and lungs. I simply move on and walk through the base. It helps, somehow, to be in motion...like the air moving around me will carry away some of these thoughts. Sharklike--stop swimming and you die, you asphyxiate. Somewhere in the back of my head I visualise pipes and tarp, hear the faint echo of a telephone. Do I really deserve this life, or that one? Who made that decision?

No. That question no longer matters...whoever or whatever decided, decided. What I'd like to know is how they made that choice, and why. Vishnu has His reasons, and I've been content thus far to rest easy with that knowledge. But now, I'm not. Out of all those killed in the egg trade and d10--this entire crisis and war--I wasn't. Maybe I should have been, if that meant keeping the greater, kinder, more deserving ones alive. So many have died...the innocent, the oppressed. They died, but I haven't; a call=prawn hasn't died. It's almost laughable...such a rarity. But why? Why have I lived when the better ones haven't? Why?

Solicitation.

“Hey, prawn.”

That used to be an insult or a warning—when I heard that I would tense, look around and brace myself for danger, altercation. Now it isn’t; it’s a call, a request that’s closer to a demand but still tentative, still polite in the uncertainty of the outcome of this situation.

I could do two things in response to this; acquiesce and submit, or deny and flee. What I have to offer is too valuable, too sought after and rare in its deplorable quality, to risk being damaged…they wouldn’t shoot at me. There’s always the chance, though. They might, if they think that they’re getting blown off or stiffed. Destroy the thing that refuses to obey…that’s the reasoning behind D10 it seems. Grunts appear to think like that when they bring the cattle prods to touch our plating, when they stomp down with heavy boots and squash our flesh into the dust…

Out of fear alone—or is it more? Is this just the life drive, pressuring me to remain alive and aware, or am I seeking death, and becoming unaware? Does it even matter at this point?—I halt, turn around and plaster a masklike grin onto my face. This is my protection…I have no weapons or strength, but only deceit to defend myself with. You know nothing of what I’m thinking, human. You have no idea what I could be planning. I know what you want, but do you know what I want? No. You don’t, and you never will. I’ll sooner die then let you penetrate my brain along with the rest of me. “Yes?”

And then we’re grinding away at it, flesh roughly scraping against flesh for no reason other then the rand note. The rand note…it’s nothing but a slip of paper. Its worth is assumed…you can’t eat money, or drink it when you’re thirsty or use it as a coat when it gets cold. It’s a promise, a chance at getting the things you need; a chance, nothing more.

Is this why the other person enjoys it? Do they think that they’ve won something—they’re getting instant gratification while I must wait to receive mine? I have nothing to show for this, while they’ll walk away flushed, a smirk on their face, delighted and tingling. I have a scrap of printed paper for my troubles.

What the john thinks is immaterial. We’re both filling out our end of the deal, and we could care less what the other thinks. For something supposedly so intimate, sex is cold and detached. I’ll be gone soon enough—he won’t have to look at me again or worry about feeding, clothing, caring about me. If he wants, I’m just a walk down the street, a phone call away. Available, but not always there. All play, no work.

Maybe that’s what they want: detachment. They want it, but without the intimacy, or the work of caring about the thing you’re screwing. I’m not a living, thinking, feeling being to this man—the only part he’s interested in is the bit there between my legs. The rest of me could be rotting, ravaged, wet with decay and he wouldn’t care. He’d still keep grinding away, sending wave after wave of pain spasming up my spine, lengthening the splits in my plating with unconscious rocking motions. I could die and he wouldn’t care.

They want to get something for nothing. That will never happen, though—there’s no such thing as a free lunch, or free love. You have to work, or give something up, if you expect to receive something else in return. It’s a fallacy to even trust that you’ll get anything at all; things don’t turn out the way you want them to.

When the john is gone, I find a pen and scrawl his name on the rand note. He’d like to pay me off and let the world forget what’s happened here. I won’t…I will remember this. For as long as I have this blood money in my possession, I will look at it and remember where it came from and how it came to be mine. The rest of the world may forget—he may forget—but I will not. I cannot.

Erie Canal.

I've got a mule, her name is Sal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.
She's a good old worker and a good old pal.
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.

We've hauled some barges in our day
filled with lumber, coal and hay
And we know every inch of the way from
Albany to Buffalo.

Low bridge, everybody down
Low bridge, for we're coming to a town
And you'll always know your neighbor, you'll always know your pal
If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

We better get along on our way ol'gal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.

'Cause you bet your life I'd never part with Sal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.
Git up there mule, here comes a lock,
We'll make Rome about 6 o'clock
One more trip and back we'll go, right back home to Buffalo.

I wish I could fully describe the feeling that throbs in the back of my head--pry open my torso, peel back the cracked plating and show you my heart. It's right there, that pewter little bit above the coiled loops of intestine and below the scorched dip of windpipe. Can't you see it--oh, it's gone? Forgive me; sometimes it does that. It disconnects from the center and travels to places elsewhere, crawling away from threats like some obscene jellyfish, some primordial thing crying lamely out for an escape from vague, dully sensed threats. You can try to grasp it and shove it back under the rock from whence it came, screw it back into place like a broken lightbulb, but it still wanders. A crusted, crumbling thing, not close to diamond or gold but more like metal, like copper conducting sparks of something great but never knowing it, never actually being it.

I must have left it behind at one of the trash piles. If that's the case then I don't need to worry; it'll turn up eventually and I'll get it back someday. Nobody's going to steal it...what good is a heart in D10? If there is an afterlife, if there is a hell, then this is the closest allegory to it that will ever slash at the face of this planet. Things happen every day that you could...couldn't even imagine. Values and morals take a backseat to the id, the ever-demanding id, and the life and death drives are shredded and clumsily melded together.

Better yet, it's with Jack and Jill, in America...I hope they're okay. I hope they understand why I can't talk to them, and that they know that I'm not abandoning them...I'd never abandon them. Every night, I can only imagine what they are doing, what they're learning and what they think about it. Jill, my little scientist: what have you analyzed? Have you figured out any answers to your questions, or have they only multiplied and formed into a theory, a hypothesis? Jack, my artist and poet: are you in touch with the tune of things, as you say? What have you made--has it made you?
My kids are growing up, day by day, and I'm not there...