Day 2 of Novel Writing

Worked on my novel a little more between making an epic breakfast, taking care of my sick son, and watching The Bright on Netflix. (Read more.)
 

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/day-2-of-novel-writing

Looked Over "La Bruja" and Designed a Business New Card

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/looked-over-la-bruja-and-designed-a-business-new-card

My business card draft is below:

TASH SULTANA & JOSH CASHMAN - MORE THAN I SHOULD

A Bit More of the Harvest

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/a-bit-more-of-the-harvest3517513

More of The Harvest: A Novel

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/more-of-the-harvest-a-novel

Working on the Cover for "La Bruja del Barrio Loco" and Writing Progress

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/working-on-the-cover-for-la-bruja-del-barrio-loco-and-writing-progress

A Bit More of the Harvest

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/a-bit-more-of-the-harvest

Got Distracted by Pussies

Yes, I said Pussies, as in multiple cats.  We adopted Ninja last Sunday and took her to the vet yesterday. 

She is officially ours, by God!  On Friday, in the middle of my tamale-making party, Aaron brought a second cat home:  A Girl.  Simona dubbed her that, even though I still want to call her Assassin.  (Read more.)

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/got-distracted-by-pussies

Gobble Gobble!

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/gobble-gobble

Be Grateful for Your Love of Words

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/a-little-more-of-the-harvest-and-finally-revising-my-collection

Bomba Estereo: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

A New Character Comes to Town—Ninja

Meet Ninja!  She is our new fur-family member. (We are really dog people for the record, but she is amazing.)

Last Sunday, we bought her from the neighbor who was going to get rid of her.  Ninja kept coming over to our house for attention, and the kids got attached to her.  She is a wonderful addition, and now, we are looking to get her a sister.

I find it fascinating that a new element can add so much to our lives.  Think about that for your plots.

Well, I have to grade, but this morning, I hope to get done in time for me to write a few more pages of The Harvest.  This weekend, I want to devote a good amount of time to writing more of my novel and revising my short story collection.  I also have to nudge my friend, Marcy Rae Henry, to finish the cover of my long short story "La Bruja del Barrio Loco" which is posted in the Antojitos section of my author site.  We have bounced ideas around about the cover, and I hope she will give it some time, so I can post the story in time for the holidays.

Spread some love.  #Resist

Rodrigo y Gabriela: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

Cross Post: More Great Writing Advice and Bits on Social Justice

https://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/more-great-writing-advice-and-bits-on-social-justice

Cross Post: Do Your Thing, Fuck It!

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/do-your-thing-fuck-it

Words of Wisdom about Writing and More of the Beast

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/words-of-wisdom-about-writing-and-more-of-the-beast

Cross Post: Halloween Fun! And More of The Harvest.

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/halloween-fun-and-more-of-the-harvest

Cross Post: Loving the Direction the Novel Draft Is Taking, Dangerous

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/loving-the-direction-the-novel-draft-is-taking-dangerous

Cross Post: Posted More of The Harvest and Also, a Labor Article Draft

Dear Followers, I am sorry I haven't posted in so long.  I have been busy with Union work and midterm grades.  The Union work has kept me occupied with very late meetings and phone conferences, but I am glad because after some intense interviews, we are hiring an attorney to negotiate our contract.  I have also been busy working on reports, the chapter union newsletter, and an article which I am posting below.

It deals with the Janus vs. AFSCME case, which will be dangerous for public sector unions.  I am publishing it to the People's Tribune, if they will take it.  I am also posting in on the union blog:  hwclocal1600.wordpress.com/ tomorrow, after I get some good feedback.

I finally manged to write more of The Harvest, and I am every happy with how the work is blossoming.  (However, as ever, the WiFi is testing my patience and not uploading the MS Word document.  Stupid tech.)  I really like the character 147-Paul, who is someone I hadn't quite fleshed out, but is coming to life.  No pun intended because he is an android.  I hope you enjoy the next installment.

Love your characters. Love your Unions!  #Resist
=========
Billionaires Taking the Right of Unions in Illinois:  What Is Really at Stake in the Mark Janus vs. AFSCME Case?
By: Dr. Jesú Estrada

            “What is Disgusting?  Union Busting!”  That is the slogan I heard so many years ago during the strike of 2004 in the City Colleges of Chicago.  At the time, we were up against a corrupt mayor and a growing anti-Union sentiment.  With little public support, our three-week strike led to few labor victories for City College employees; however, the right to collective bargaining is crucial if we, teachers, firefighters, police officers, are to survive.  Unfortunately, that anti-Unionism is a sentiment that has since devastated states like Wisconsin, Michigan, and Indiana, but now a greater threat comes from Illinois.
            If the Supreme Courts rules in its favor, the Mark Janus vs AFSCME case promises to give public sector unions nation-wide a decisive blow.  Framed as a right to free-speech and claiming that unions don’t represent or speak for him, Mark Janus wants the right for all workers to not pay fair share dues.  In Illinois and across the country, that would devastate public sector unions.
            Bankrolled by corporations and billionaires like Governor Rauner, the bill is being sponsored by the National Right to Work Foundation and the Liberty Justice Center.  These entities fight for corporate interests, not the working class, not for your interests.  Ironically, Janus argues that AFSCME has backed politicians that have ruined the state’s budget, when the root cause is Gov. Rauner who refuses to release funds.
            Currently, members do have a right to not join the Union, but the Union still bargains on their behalf, and dues are used to fund negotiations, as will be the case for our Contract Campaign.  In fact, because of those healthy dues, we are hiring an attorney to negotiate our Contract, Margaret Angalucci.  The Security Guards, likewise, will have Robert Bloch representing them.  Without dues, these hires would not be possible.
            These members who refuse to join the Union and are currently Fair Share are also represented by the Union.  They benefit from all the rights that workers have are guaranteed benefits and protection under the Collective Bargaining Agreement, but unions do far more than negotiate contracts.  They advocate for fair working conditions and in our case, academic freedom.  Unions fight for healthcare benefits that are so necessary in an increasingly difficult economy.  Our Union has historically awarded scholarships to students, both documented and undocumented.  Again, we can do so in great part because of our union dues.
            The Janus case is scheduled to be heard by the Supreme Court, and labor analysts think it will be decided by the summer 2018.  Make no mistake, in the current political regime, we will not win this case.  However, we can get organized.  We can recommit to the Union with the new member forms the American Federations legal team has provided for us.  Your Union officers and labor organizers, in the weeks ahead, will be working very hard to re-card all of our members.  We are also listening to your criticism and concerns, so that we can improve the work the Union does for you.
            Recently at an event, Karen Lewis President of the Chicago Teachers Union, spoke about the threat this case posed for public sector unions.   She agreed that attacks on Fair Share dues would devastate unions.  However, she also said something quite profound that may offer a light at the end of the tunnel.  She said when labor organized historically, it made a big mistake in not lifting everyone else with it.  Perhaps, it’s time that we considered how we fight not just for our rights and benefits, but for the rights and benefits of others in the community.  Perhaps, after the Janus case, unions will have to fight harder for members and turn to more militant actions with full member support to meet our demands.  I hope we can get there without having our unions decimated.
            I have worked in right to work states like Arizona, and the conditions were dismal.  Health benefits were a privilege, and there was little to no recourse if there was a dispute with management.   I was at the mercy of unfair bosses.  Do you want to be at the mercy of your supervisor or management?  Do you want a Union that is only functioning at 80% capacity?  What kind of Union do you want to work for you?
            We all have an important role to play in the days ahead, and whether you believe in unions or are annoyed by dues, one thing is for sure, we are all better off with a union that is stably funded.   

Cross: Be Here and Authentic

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/be-here-and-authentic

Cross Post: Meetings, Meetings, Meetings--Novel, Niet Yet

thttp://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/meetings-meetings-meetings-novel-niet-yet

Cross Post: Got Awesome Editor Feedback on My Story Collection!!!

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/got-awesome-editor-feedback-on-my-story-collection

Networking with New and Old Writers

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/networking-with-new-writers

Cross Post: Te Quiero Mas, Y Mas, Y Mas, a Novel Excerpt and Not so Short Story

I wrote another section of The Harvest. I am pretty happy with it and am developing the androids more.   

I am also revising my long short story, "La Bruja del Barrio Loco, " posted here (just scroll down a bit to the Scrib'd file).  Except for the pacing, I am not sure how to make major changes, which is not a wonderful reality to admit in a blog.  That is why I need an ideal reader, universe!  Send one over quick, before I start more projects.

See, I think I spent so much time working on that story, that it doesn't need radical changes.

Regardless after I finish reading it, I am going to print it and cut it up and stitch it back together.  In fact, my son wants me to read it to him, which I will.  He has a good ear and asks great questions.

Oooooh, and my friend has an awesome idea for the cover.  I can't wait to see it!

Keep at it.  #Resist

Sex and Androids

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/sex-and-androids

Yes, my novel draft posted on the first time!  Woooooh.

So about this next bit.  Well, it wasn't planned at all, but I added another android to the story line.  They will play an important role in how Ashley and Allen reunite, which yes, I have already written in my head.

I am going to explore that age old question:

     Who will save man, or woman, when she loses her humanity?  Will
     they save themselves?

I don't want my answer to be such a fucking downer like some sci-fi novels, short stories, movies, and shows.  You know what I'm talking about.

So, here it is:  The Harvest

On a totally random note, I just discovered Rupi Kaur and was informed about the plagiarism conflict or alleged plagiarism with another Tumblr poet.  I am a noob when it comes to Tumblr poetry.  Regardless, I was introduced to Rupi Kaur by my U.S. Latin American students, and I have to say that I like how she reads and performs.  Young people seem to really like her work.

On page the poems may seem obvious and oversimplified, but I like her work.

My friend and poet Todd Heldt, who is not an internet sensation, yet, but has published a number of books created a contest on Facebook to spoof Kaur's poetry.  Of course, as a woman of color, I was deeply offended.  But as someone who likes to have fun, I created the following and am hoping to win the coffee cup prize.

(Rupi Kaur, if you are reading this, which is 100% unlikely, I think you are an amazing woman and an accomplished writer.  Respect.)

Have fun today.  #Resist  (Respect all poets.)

When the Weebly and the WiFi Are So Slow You Want to Cry

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/when-the-weebly-and-the-wifi-are-so-slow-you-want-to-cryfir

I Had an Aha, a Rare Aha

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/i-had-an-aha-a-rare-aha

I Showed Up and So Did My Writing Energy

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/i-showed-up-and-so-did-my-writing-energy

Cross Post: It's O.K. To Be Shitty, First Draft (More of The Harvest)

Editorial toilet paper is coming soon.  Actually, I clean up a lot of shit on my own, but I can't wait to finish this full draft, so I an tear it up and reconstruct it and agonize about that process.

I'm so lucky this doesn't have to put food on the table.

Anyway, I went over some sections and added another page.  I'm taking it page by page.  I'm at 150 double spaced pages.  Yay!  You can read the ongoing draft, here:  The Harvest.

Stop judging your first drafts.  #Resist.

Cross Post: Almost 100% Happy with My New Poem: “True Faith in Unity” Posted

I have a poetry reading with 100 Poets for Change tonight at 7p.m.:
Red Rover Reading Series Outer Space Studio: 1474 N Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, Illinois 60622.

It's my first time reading in this studio and by some macabre twist of fate, I fucked up my knee at the yoga studio on Thursday trying to get into an uncompromising pigeon pose.  The venue is three flights up, but I am still going and taking my son.  I will just do some poetic penance on the way up for procrastinating on the poem.

Anyway, I was going to read two pieces, starting with the first narrative poem I published "Jesucristo Santificanos", but the reading is only three minutes long.

I wrote a whole new piece:  “True Faith in Unity”.  You see, the theme is "Sign of the Times" www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EdxM72EZ94 by Prince, which is a bitter sweet sad song.  If you haven't heard it, the song is deep.  With Trump in office, I am sure many poets will focus on the Trump-post apocalypse.  I decided to focus on hope and vision.

My son is going to help me perform a small part of it from the audience because I included my children and their voices in it. 

Way below is the draft.  I will post it in the Poetry Section when I am done tinkering with it.  Wish me luck!

Oh wait, I was watching Ted Talks to inspire me.  And I caught this good one on writing daemons by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Yes, I read the book:  www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius

She talks about the writing daemon, and frankly my writing daemon, I hope you get off your ass and come back.  I will start showing up to work on my novel and whatever other creative project needs to be done daily.  Let's work together again, but don't clutter my mind with bullshit.  (Watch the video and that rant will make more sense.)

Reinvigorate your writing daemon without booze.  #Resist
=============

“True Faith in Unity”

by Dr. Maria J. Estrada

People say those in power will always eat a gluttonous feast of misery and profit.

The poor will always get poorer.

            They will be with us in the shanties of San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora

Where indias sell harsh mint chicles and Spiderman keychains to American tourists.

           

            In the Gaslight District of San Diego, Califas

Bleeding cardboard casitas and moldy sleeping bags of shame flap in the dry wind street

by street

by street. 

Under Chicago’s viaducts, drivers sometimes share a look of meaningful sadness—between texts—maybe throw pocket change at single mother and prisoner toddler, in her tent. 

The rich will forever gorge on the fruits of that Puritan zeal, anointed by years of

Colonization,

Slavery,

Repression,

Racism,

Misogony, for money

tu bien sabes.

Y toda mi pobre gente?  [ME1] 

Que se chinguen! 

Dreamers?  Que se chinguen! 

In fact, already rounding up criminals forever nationally tattooed gangeros. 

Unions preaching that loving proletarian-arm in-arm, solidarity forever?

 Que se chinguen!

Y Texas, Florida, Mexico,

Puerto Rico,

            Devastated, starving

            Commonwealth like Colony.  Like a Tourist Hacienda.

            You asking for some sustenance?  Quieren pan?

           

            Necesitas agua?  Some Aquafina in crystalline bottles?

            Te hace falta la luz for the hospital?  Para vivir?

Pues Amen.

I look to my children, who fill me with so much esperanza, [ME2] and I a wonder at their different celestial dreams.

Seven year old son, prays every day, “Dear God, Please make Trump a better man.”

My heart laughs amazed at his Faith.

My two year old hijita so sweet, powerfully determined prays, for her friends, the scared,

Los zoo animals, her light-up shoes. 

She knows nothing of Twitter terrorist threats, fake nuclear news against North Korea, China,

the selected Middle East.

Against You.   

Sure,

Let’s pray for our enemies.

Let’s also pray for what could be

That Unity

           

Where the abundance that is now

            The technological splendor that is now

            Will be shared gratis y sin verguenza.

                        Unashamed and free for all to have

            And my children and your children and

We

           

            —We won’t have to pray for their scraps anymore.    

---

 [ME1]Circle arm motion to include all.

 [ME2]Point at Antonio.

Cross Post: Grading and Plotting Future Writing Projects

I took that great shot at the Chicago Cultural Center, where I am currently sitting and grading papers.  So, as you my have noticed I haven't posted for a while.  Unfortunately, I have been busy NOT working on my novel.  I forgot how intense summer school can be, but my students are amazing.  I spend most of my time grading and writing grievances for my union members.

Still, I have been thinking about the ending of the current novel I am writing, The Harvest, and a sequel where the androids play a greater role, but one step at a time.  The glimmer of hope is what has me captivated.  There will be hope in my novel because the characters will grow in that direction.

On a practical note, I think from now on, I am going to come to the Chicago Cultural Center to write because it's relatively quiet and close to work.  (Of course, as I finish this entry, someone is practicing her singing, and it is gorgeous.  I think singers come here for the acoustics.  How wonderful!)

Here is to finding quite places and spaces to write.  #Resist

Cross Post: The Android Are Coming and More of the Harvest Draft

I was watching the news the other day, and they announced the robot priest/pastor.  It can have the voice of a woman or man, and it can bless you with the light of its arms.  Think I'm joking?  Think again.  http://www.popularmechanics.com/technology/robots/a26698/germany-robot-priest/

I told some friends about this news report on WGN, and they thought I was joking.  Food for thought, pastors and priests.  The robots are coming for your jobs, too.  Anyway, on that happy cyber-note, back to my writing.

This morning, I finally spent a few hours working on my novel.  It had been a while since I woke up at 2a.m. to write, mostly because I was tired from teaching.  In fact, I thought the writing itch was dissipating, and it was.  Ergo, I read a lot of literature.  But, I started teaching the summer term yesterday, and I am back to waking up with the drive to write.  Of course the teenagers listening to loud assed movies at 2a.m. helped, and also, my brain is trying to solve union problems.  Nothing like a little problem solving to get the brain-engine going.

Today, I developed the character of 147-Paul a little more.  He will play a larger role with Alan and his new mother, who I am not naming yet.  In fact, I may not until something happens in the plot, which I won't reveal until the end.  She needs to remain anonymous because she is going against the state.  Enough of her.

I have big plans for the androids in the revolutionary process.  In fact, my goal is the humanize the androids, while the women in this setting are losing their humanity with every mod and upgrade.  (And I can't wait to see the Blade Runner sequel!)

Here's a bit more of The Harvest:  A Novel.

Resist the robots if they don't serve us, the people!

Cross Post: Hang onto Your Dreams and More of My Novel: The Harvest

The Harvest:  A Novel.  Mysteries are no joke, and I am finding this sub-plot development to be a challenge. Plus, since my girls, my characters, aren't necessarily PI's, I may have them find the culprit by accident.  Maybe.  I had a thought about the team they just competed against having the enemy in their ranks, like the long-haired girl.  Also, I want to amp up the tension between Jackie and Ashley, and possibly have an irresponsible sponsor leak that a rebel has infiltrated the candidacy process.  (Which the Dean is lying about and has happened before.  That will be a small twist.)  If you're like, "What is Jesú talking about?" consider reading the draft of the novel.
I posted more of the novel draft, and am still grappling with how to find this traitor: 

I was also struggling with what to call the Dean.  I wanted a name that meant power, so I picked Amaranda.  I am still working on that choice.  I also need to rethink Vye and Lisa because even though they have different qualities, I keep confusing Vye with Lisa as I write.  Lisa needs more qualities because she's kind of bland, so I may backtrack in the writing process and draw them and write down their qualities and characteristics.

Anyway, these last few weeks I have been thinking about Octavia Butler, may she rest in peace and eternal creative joy.  One of my indulgent goals this summer is to read all of her long works, none of which I have read.  I started with The Fledgling, a vampire novel, and I believe her last long work that she printed before her early death.  I love her style of writing and admire her writing choices.  I am writing the Ashley section in first-person, present tense because I want the action to be "real".  That makes sense, right?  The Allen sections are in third person because he is less of an agent in society.  I made those point of view choices deliberate.

Butler wrote The Fledgling in first person, past tense.  What?!  Seriously, who does that and creates engaging prose that sucks the reader straight in?  That takes real craft, and I love how she splits up her dialogue, which I am emulating in some of my "he says" or "she says" sections.  Wow, I hope some day, I will be that good!

Until then, I am still pecking along, trying to finish my novel and let it end, when it ends.  It's not that I don't have a deadline in mind, but today, which would have been a great day to write, I am rereading the short stories I want in my syllabus.  I start teaching next week. I decided as I was drafting my syllabi not to keep the same stories and in that order.

I also have to write a report that will take all of my brain power, and I need to focus.  Ergo, the kids are out of the house.  See, it would have been a great day to write, and I will, just not my novel.  (I did write this morning for an hour and read over past segments.)

Today will be a strange day of reading dystopian short stories and political economy, but stimulating.

Stimulate your brain and hang onto your dreams like babies.  #Resist.

Cross Post: Copyedited and Posted More of The Harvest

I am taking a brief reprieve from grading.  Right now, I am going through a pile of fantastic poems by my creative writing students.  I already workshopped them, twice in most cases, so the grading is going easier.  I just have to say grading poetry is really fucking hard.  (Keep reading)

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/copyedited-and-posted-more-of-the-harvest

Cross Post: Still Writing Like a Fiend (And, Feliz Dia de las Madres, All!)

First, of all Happy Mother's Day to all Godmothers, Mothers, Teachers, Aunties, Sisters, Spiritual Guides, Nurturing Creatures, yes, even, stay at home Dads! Without you, society would simply collapse.

I haven't blogged in a while because I have been grading and reading placement essays, but I have a mom victory.  I have been writing like a fiend, and I am well past 1/3 of the novel draft, The Harvest.  I am posting the draft in a bit, and hope to read it on my way to my Mother's Day surprise destination, which will more than likely be a park where we will picnic, far, far away from Chicago (if I know my clan). (Keep reading.)

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/still-writing-like-a-fiend-feliz-dia-de-las-madres-all

Adam Gottlieb, Poet Breathe Now

Cross Post: Still Writing and Making Different Choices for My Novella and Short Story Collection

I know it's been a while, since I blogged.  The Union and teaching has kept me really busy, but I actually have not been slacking off in terms of my writing.  I am back on a regular writing schedule and working on my novel The Harvest.  Plus, I found an editor for my longer fiction pieces, which is a huge step forward in my writing path.

I also have a new editor for my novella La Bruja del Barrio Loco; that awesome friend is Eric Allen Yankee.  He is giving me a "friend discount" for editing my work, like my other friend Adam Gottlieb who is editing my short story collection Down South where the Water Is Warm.

So, I invited Yankee to come talk to my creative writing class about digital versus print publications.  You can see the talk here:  https://www.facebook.com/eric.yankee.90/videos/10213283231220953/

It was a phenomenal talk, seriously.  I hope to bring him back again, so we can do a step-by-step process as many of my students should publish their work.  I learned great information about Amazon and pricing online books.  He had great suggestions I plan on taking.  One was to separate the short story collection into two parts.  In the digital revolution, volume and frequency of publications are the way to go.  He also suggested that I publish a novella every six weeks.  I am up for that challenge since I plan to serialize La Bruja del Barrio Loco stories and already have the second one in the works.  I was also considering putting La Bruja del Barrio Loco in my collection of short stories, but that would defeat the purpose of serializing the novellas.  I am so stoked because I learned novellas are in!  What?!

I suppose that's just a sigh that people are really busy in this modern age.  But that's good for me because I can crank out novellas and tend to write long short stories anyway.

Well, keep on doing what you love and be a kind human being!  #Resist

Cross Post: Someone Will Die in This Novella, if I EVER Reach the End

The other day, I was talking to my friend/editor Adam G. about this novella, and he was like, "It's sounding more like a novel."  But, NO!  I see the ending over the horizon, and even though I normally don't kill characters, someone is gong to die!  I have written the climax and ending in my head numerous times (stop it pervs), but the battle scene is where I need to spend more time.  I mean, it won't be like a Harry Potter scene, but the forces involved should be awesome and terrifying at the same time.

The problem is that La Bruja is quite the foe, and my heroines may not have the magical chops to really defeat her.  At least, she is turning out to be one nasty witch, and she's escalating into a worse enemy than the narrator ever imagined, so I threw her a lifeline.  You can read more about it here:  "La Bruja del Barrio Loco".

On the life front, today, I am bringing three writers to my campus, the authors of Teatro Chicana.  They are coming during my creative writing class, and I hope my students enjoy the visit.  Many of the students have been struggling with inserting a political perspective without proselytizing.  It is not an easy thing to do; in fact, I let any political messages evolve naturally, but I think the mujeres will have some sage advice for my students.

Well, here's to you having a magical day and kicking some ass!  #Resist

Amazing Song: Juan Gabriel - Ya No Vivo Por Vivir ft. Natalia Lafourcade

Sweet sound while writing.

Cross Post: Nearing 100 Pages of My Novel Re-write!

I am at 95 double-spaced pages of The Harvest:  A Novel.  I also shrunk the margins to 1 inch all around.  That may seem like a small victory for some writers who spend hours and hours writing (I am jealous of you fuckers with all that time to write).  However, the project is coming along and is mapped out better than the two times I wrote it in the distant past.  OK like 20 years ago.  This time, I am processing the novel, as a novel should be processed.

That is to say, I am practicing what I am teaching in my creative writing class and learned in past writing classes, which is why this meme of one of my favorite writers is so appropriate:  Nothing Works Until You Do.  You have to put the work into the thinking, brainstorming, mapping, writing, editing, revising, or else nothing gets done well.  Sure, you can draft a novel, and believe me, I have written some crappy ones in the past.

I wrote one about a boy who was possessed by demon and was being helped by a Wiccan bookstore owner, which is so cliché.  But, I killed the main character because no one could save him.  Who does that?  Poor planning.  I also wrote a horrible novella one time about a medieval princess who became a zombie and was in love with a prince.  Terrible, terrible.

Also, you have to kill the publication fantasies and write because you love the craft or find some other motivation to write.  I really think I am finally getting work done because I am writing out of love and have nothing to prove.  Plus, I have a steady job and don’t have to hustle to make a living, like some writers I know.  I respect them and love their work, but if I had to feed my family on writing, my family and I would be on the bread line constantly.  This doesn’t mean I will not hustle to sell books in the future, if I ever get anything in print, but that whole starving artist bullshit doesn’t work when you are my age with two small kids.  You also don’t need to be starving or sell a story for a bottle of gin to craft good work.

Writing, like everything, is a process and motivations vary.  I am trying to teach that to my students.  Enough preaching.

Yesterday, somebody asked me why I changed the main character's gender, and the truth is that I am not entirely sure why.  It just felt right.  I think it's because I wanted an internal point of view in the post-apocalyptic world I am crafting.  I also thought the conflicts and struggles would be more interesting coming from a girl in a matriarchal society.

Today, I also mapped out the genetic modifications in the novel, which is probably the more original aspect to the work.  I sent the ideas to my little sister who is one of my avid reader, and she gave me some great suggestions.  My sister is also my go to person for fight scenes, and I have an arena battle coming soon, but not yet for Ashley, the main character, because she is too young for the arena.

This week, I also got some more encouraging feedback from Adam, the editor of Down South Where the Water is Warm the short story collection I finished recently.  He got so scared from reading "La Bruja" that he is treading slowly into the next short story of the collection.  The truth is that one is the scariest story, and is maybe a little too influenced by Stephen King.  The rest of the stories, even the horror ones, are really about the connections people make and their struggles.  No matter if there are zombies or supernatural creatures, human beings are the most frightening beings and do the most horrific things to each other.  Still, I can't wait until Adam reads the zombie stories and werewolf story (which should probably be a novel and may very well be.)  You can read "Paranoia: The Corrido of Andrea Quinta" in my Current Work link which was published before in a zombie zine.  I also added a funny poem to the Poetry Section.

Well, with that, I’m off to make my bread.  I have been sick and fell behind on my work, work.  Plus, I spent most of Friday hacking up a lung while attending long meetings.  Now, I have narrative drafts to respond to and a pile of short stories to review!  I am so excited to read my students’ work.

Love what you do.  Enough said.

The Netherlands welcomes Trump in their own words

Cross Post: Staying True to My Writing Goal: No Writing, No Social Media

I haven't blogged for a while, not because I haven't wanted to blog or had something to write about.  I mean, so much is going, and we need to respond against stupid ideas.  No.  I have been true to my writing goal of not blogging or getting on social media if I don't work on the novel.

This week, I have been reading short stories because I have to for my creative writing course, but I have been analyzing what other writers do well along with my students.  Today, I took a closer look at "Speech Sounds" by Octavia Butler.  In that story, she did an amazing job of using the third person, and still had a great deal of action.  (As I write, the kids are making noise.  One is climbing on my arm.)

I have been thinking about character development, but I really just need to spend time thinking about my story and writing.  Yesterday, I had a chance to write for a block of time, but I made homemade pizzas instead.  What the hell.

On Monday, I also gave a talk on "Alternative Facts".  As I was working on the presentation, it just kept getting longer and longer.  Other speakers spoke about water protectors in South Dakota and what to do next.  Really, the last one spoke about the history of fascism and the historical  moment we find ourselves in.  The event was well received, and I hope more students will attend in the future.

I imagine a lot of people are speaking and writing against fascism right now, even one of my heroes Stephen King who has a wide audience.  His Tweets area funny, but true.

The struggle will be ongoing, but I will try to refocus and get back to the novel on a regular basis, while still actively resisting.

Write, write, write, and always #Resist.  The times call nothing else.

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/staying-true-to-my-writing-goal-no-writing-no-social-media

Cross Post: Busy, Busy, Busy Organizing? Do Your Soul Some Good

This morning I was feeling some angst and guilt because I have not been able to write or blog every day.  Then, I realized, I just have to write in any gaps I can, again.  Even with all the time constraints and increased activity, I am being faithful about writing before blogging or going on social media, which can be a huge time sucker; it takes discipline, but the work flows better.  The writing also heals my soul a little bit or adds some needed armor because creativity is a great dose to social stupidity.  In short, writing, even just a page (which is what I produced today) makes me happy, clunky and embryonic as the work may be.  (Keep reading.)

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/busy-busy-but-do-your-soul-some-good

Cross Post: http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/writing-can-be-resisting-write-on-brothers-and-sisters

This post is meant for the writers in my life that are getting demoralized and discouraged.  Writing is resistance, and The Real Resistance needs you.  (The same goes for those of you who are shutting down and don’t want to discuss all the craziness going on.  Putting your head in the metaphorical sand won’t solve the problems at hand or the attacks on us.)  I’m not saying writing is therapy, though it can be, but if we don’t get our ideas out, whether it’s through art or our other writing who will?  They will with their fascist alternative-facts and rhetoric.  Their campaign will be perpetual to get even more support for a fascist demagogue. (Keep reading.)

I also posted two new pages in my novel draft:  The Harvest.

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/writing-can-be-resisting-write-on-brothers-and-sisters

Gap Time and Boredom

As much as I use technology, I wasn't really familiar with the term gap time.  I haven't read The Shallows, but now I want to read it, after the long list of books I want to get through.  Well, I was listening to one of my spiritual CD's, and the author (whose name eludes me now) said that boredom leads to creativity.  (Keep reading.)

http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/gap-time-and-boredom

The Best Intentions--A Full Harvest Draft

I want to write about the best author intentions I set this week, which went south.  I have more to say about teaching creative writing, but later on this weekend. 

So, I decided to post the file of my novel The Harvest to make it more viewer friendly.  It is an ongoing draft, and as some of you know, the third rewrite of a novel I have been grappling with for a while.  I posted it on my author site under the Current Work tab.  The page looks bad ass on the computer, and I was proud of myself because that style is less cumbersome than a long stretch of online text.

Today, after the Women's March in Chicago, I was having lunch with some friends, and I decided to check it out and show it to them using my I-phone.  Yeah, I was bragging.  Guess what?  You can't fucking read it on an I-phone.  I was so mad!

I am waiting for my husband to come home with his android, to see if it works on his device.

I guess I will have a separate tab for the text draft.  It's not a big deal: I just wanted it to look legible through all venues.  In fact, I am going to complain to Weebly, and they are probably going to blame Scribed.  

Enough whining and procrastinating.

Happy Resistance!  Now, back to work.  The kids are riding around with their dad, and I need to evaluate diagnostics for all my classes.  I would love to write, but work comes first today. 

Cross Post: The Internal Editor Must Die!!! And an Excerpt from The Harvest pp. 1-20

From my author site:  http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/the-internal-editor-must-die-and-an-excerpt-from-the-harvest-pp-1-20
Today, I taught my first creative writing class.  I haven’t taught creative writing since 2008, but I wanted to teach it again since I am writing on a regular basis now.  Plus, I needed the space and reason, or excuse, to read about creative writing theory, again.  Working full time, running a union chapter, with two small children can often be a challenge. 

In class, they did a number of activities.  One of these was to have them meet each other, while I called them up to the front individually to get to know them better and to memorize their names faster.  Already, there are some budding authors, but there are also the students who are struggling with serious writing challenges, the kinds of challenges that kill projects before they even start.  Some students can’t produce more than a couple of sentences.  Others have severe internal editors that block the flow of ideas.

I spent a good number of minutes talking to one young writer, who said the internal editor prevented him from getting any ideas out, yet he had so many.  I really felt for him because I could see the desire to produce and the angst. 

I essentially told him to kill that editor, metaphorically, with a large metaphorical gun.  I told him that severe editing was mistimed and that he needed to save it for the end of the writing process.  I gave him some exercises to do, like to write, just write, for ten minutes without stopping and grow from there.  I even threw in some sage advice from Jack Hirschman, poet laureate from San Francisco, who once said to me that in order to write, I needed to “Take a pencil to paper and start writing.”

He is one of my favorite poets and translators of Latin American poets.  The man is also an amazing performer, but I hope this metaphor helped this pupil.  I also encouraged him neither quit nor drop my class. 

All to these students have the potential to write and to love writing, and I can’t wait to read their work. 

That is all I have.  I have to read a number of diagnostics and evaluate them thoroughly. 

Below is an excerpt from the novel I am drafting for the third time and posting in chronological order again.  I am not sure if inserting a file into the blog is better than copying and pasting text.  I haven’t seen the last post on my phone to see what is easier to read, and no one has really said anything, not even my #1 fan, my sister Diana.  However, I did get a lot of Likes on “Little Horny Bird” from some colleagues and poets I respect.  (I respect all my colleagues, but some have more street cred than others.)

Here’s to growing that love of words and helping each other along the path. 
=================
An excerpt from The Harvest:  A Novel, pp. 1-20, single spaced.

The Harvest:  A Novel[ME1]

            My mother hands me an old gallon container; this one is grey without a filter.  I look out the window and see no Red Guards on the street.  No Guards means no Harvest, most of the time.
            “Now, Ashley,” says my mother, as if I haven’t been doing this run since I was six years old, “Don’t talk to strangers.  Don’t stay out in the sun too long.  If you hear the sirens, run to the old bunker.  Just last week, Mrs. Lopez’s boy was harvested right before he got to his safe spot.  You can’t hide here during harvest.”  Her faded grey eyes are still beautiful, and I want to trace that deep indentation with my finger, but caring too much is a sign of weakness.
            “Mom,” I sigh looking at her weary face.  She is leaner than I remember with ever graying hair and perpetual orange stains on her hands and face from the processing plant.  Her hair is a knot over her head with nothing holding it tight but a wispy strand of her own fading hair.  I want to give her a biting remark, as really, I should outrank her because I am more productive now, but instead I smile and say, “Don’t worry Mom.  I’m the fastest runner in my class and besides, there was just a harvest yesterday.”
            Mom hesitates like she wants to tell me something, but even plant workers are not supposed to talk about their trade, and I am always suspicious of the packing plants.
            “Just be careful,” she gives me an unusually long hug, “Remember-“
            I clamp my hand over her mouth like I used to as a toddler and say in a robotic tone, “ ‘Be productive.  Be accountable.  Be safe.’”  But safe doesn’t mean from the Harvest, but dangerous anti-government ideas.  I take my hand off her worried face, “I got the red ribbon again this month.  I will be safe.”  It’s true.  I have gotten the red ribbon award for being productive, accountable, and punishing those who are not true patriots.  I am safe.
            I step out into the harsh glaring sun wearing a large Panama hat.  Panama was once a country, and that is all they tell us in school.  I walk confidently because running is suspect, but I manage to walk 3.5 miles an hour like I have purpose, when my only purpose is to get clean water.
            Half way down the street, my heart freezes.  The sirens begin softly, like an old song you can’t forget, and then the sound rises to a near immobilizing pitch.  I check to see if guards are around and run, making sure not to drop the gallon.  I wonder where everyone is or if someone got an underground notice I didn’t.  I crash hard into an old man.  It’s the homeless man who has been avoiding harvest since I was a little girl:  Old Hope, I call him.  He’s too old to be processed, but I always wonder what they do with old spare meat or old people in general.  I don’t ever want to find out.
For a moment, we both have the same impulse.  Though I am only twelve, I am strong and lethal.  I have learned fifteen ways of killing someone, two with my bare hands.  I could maim him or at least stun him, so he will be left behind.  But instead, we both get up and run in opposite directions.  I guess we are not productive citizens after all.  I head down Victory Road toward the retiree compound.  She will be waiting for me, my old friend.
            I look quickly to my right and see a red squad beating a young boy down.  He is unusually fat for the neighborhood and is overburdened with water jugs.  Water jugs!  I only carry one, and although I can lift 40 pounds easily, the empty container seems to weigh more than anything.  To my left a grey volunteer emerges out of nowhere and grabs for my arm, but I offer a swift punch to her throat and easily scamper away into Mrs. Jenkens’ apartment.  Maybe she will get it, even though she volunteers.  I despise volunteers.  They are normal women who can’t afford genetic modifications, unfortunate women who couldn’t find a sponsor.  Still, that doesn’t give them the right to harvest us.  Especially not me.
            I am a girl with high prospects.
            I look for any squad member that might be lurking about.  Hiding from the squads inside your own home if you are on the streets when the harvest starts is illegal; that tracking is possible because the census software at home tracks your arm-port; one must be accountable.  Being hidden in others’ homes is frowned upon, but Mrs. Jenkens doesn’t care what the neighbors think.  She doesn’t care if she gets sent to the processing plant.  I really don’t think she cares about anything but our weekly meetings. 
            “Thought I was going to have to get out there with my shotgun,” chuckles the old woman.
She sits by the window, unafraid of gunfire.  I know she has been waiting for me because she is holding the old history book in her hand, the one with all the pages in it.  There is the familiar smell of green tea and black market biscuits.  I spy them on the table and besides the adrenaline rush, I feel a strong surge of hunger.  I wonder how much they cost her; in the market, non-meat products run astronomically high.  Last week, I traded a whole leg of dog and two bananas for mom’s sanitary products.  Mom never said where she got the leg; dogs are also rare and bananas even more so.  I give Mrs. Jenkens a sincere grin, and know better than to pester her for details.
            “Oh please,” I answer catching my breath, “You wouldn’t last a millisecond.  Out there,” I point, “With your broken hip,” I aim at her hip.
            I try not to stare at the bright orange shawl she wears that matchers her orange feline fur, “Or that ‘kill me’ flag you have on.”   Only Mrs. Jenkens favors them over the military style uniform retirees wear.  Today, the woman sports a knee-high pink dress which makes absolutely no sense and clashes against her intense blue eyes.  Her cat like ears flicker back, although I know they are her playful ears.
            “Hmmm,” I admonish with mock-disapproval, “Trying to get arrested with those clothes?”
            Taking my gallon, she walks with the step of a young girl into the kitchen, despite her slight hobble “Bah, no one cares about a woman over fifty.  I don’t taste good anyway.”  She winks at me and swishes her tail.  It is long and graceful, like the tails on our neighborhood cats that run rampant.
            “Don’t you mean sixty?” I say.  A loud bang makes me head for the kitchen but not too quickly.  After all, we are trained to be unafraid of death.
            When I enter Mrs. Jenkens has the gallon filled to the brim.  I never ask how, but she always has water.  Always has enough, but then, she lives alone.
            “Two liters, not worth the risk,” says the woman, “You should go out on Sundays and with your escort.”
            I snort, “Mom sold it.  Besides, she doesn’t have the money to have me engineered, again.  Not that they’ll take me,” I pause and look over my should, “I still can’t eat government protein.  I tried again this morning.  Doc B says it’s the enzyme, but she hasn’t reported me.  She can’t run the test to figure out what is wrong with me.  It costs too much money, and mom is already so in-debt from the internal mods I have.”  I stare at her, longing to have fur on my skin and some day, claws, “Mrs. J, are you sure the meat doesn’t come from the harvested?  Is it human meat?  Tell me, honestly.”  I always ask her the same questions, and she always answers the same.
            “No way, that’s just a rumor to keep people more afraid.  People are harvested for organs and whatever the government needs.  Most people are intact and become servants., especially children.”
            I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J.  Intact.”  Almost everyone I have seen harvested is a bloody mess.
            “Beatrice is a good woman,” she says switching the subject, “She was one of my students once, before all this—” she says, “You’re so tall.”
            “What?” I ask.
            “You’re so tall and smart.  I’m worried someone will want to patron you, sooner than  your finals” she looks out the small kitchen window, “Then, I won’t see you anymore.”  That is rare; patronage starts when a girl is 16, usually, but some girls are more adept, and I have been hiding some of my skills.
            I give her a knowing look, “No one will take me.  You know that.  It’s too expensive to feed someone who can’t eat government meat.  Anyway.”
The sirens end and the announcer reports, “There will be no more gatherings for thirty six hours.  Be productive.  Be accountable.  Be safe.”
“Liars.  Liars.  Liars,” I say in the same robotic voice, “This is the third harvest in two weeks.  Do you think we are gong to war again?”
Mrs. Jenkins gives me a squeeze, “We’re always at war.  Now, go take this to your mother and come back.”  She hands me a small pouch, “Plant this in the rooftop like I taught you.  Be sure no one sees.”
            “Ah Mrs. J, everyone has a rooftop garden hidden under solar tarps—“
            “Yeah, but not for girls.  Now hurry along!” she yowls at me playfully.
            I know she is right.  The gardens are to grow food for boys, the lucky boys who have brave parents.  My mother jokes that the extra food is to fatten them for the harvest, but she is bitter having lost two sons by the age of sixteen.  I never got to meet them, so they don’t mean much to me, but she still mourns them, even though truly, she doesn’t know what became of them.
I walk nimbly, avoiding strangers.  No telling who might steal my water or worse, says Mrs. J, but I am not sure what worse is, yet.  I have seen young boys being raped in the alley and dead people starved or shot by regular citizens.  Once, I saw a woman selling her male baby on the street corner, and I held my tears all the way home.  We are not supposed to cry for boys.
            “Hey,” says a raspy voice.  It is Guadalupe Ramirez or as I like to call him Alan.  Boys are given their mother or a matriarch’s name and father’s last name.  It’s cute for most mothers to do that,  but his mother hates him.  That is part of the reason I call him Alan, after his father.
He is my age and in the same class.  He has the most brilliant smile with strong white teeth.  It’s the only thing that is strong in his body.  His hair is cropped short with highlights from overexposure to the sun.  Most boys in the neighborhood have dark skin and black eyes.  He has unusually blue eyes, and I wonder if somewhere along the way, the gender got botched up.  His smile warms me to the core, and for a moment, I forget the ugly harvest.
            I wave, then think better of it and scowl, “Carry this for me, boy.”
            Alan snorts and takes the jug, “Humbly, oh great one.”
            We both giggle, and I pace two feet ahead of him, which isn’t hard because today he is wheezing so loud, you can probably hear him way down at the processing plant, which is three miles away.  He wears an ugly shirt with some red flowers and patched up blue jeans.
            “Glad you weren’t harvested,” I say pointing at his shirt.
            “You and me both; mom dressed me this morning, even though I could barely breath.  When the sirens went off, I hid under the old resistance bunker. ”
            I am instantly furious.  Even if he is sickly, she has no right.  Boys, especially lowborn boys, are not allowed to wear red.  That is a color of honor, one I wear often but am not partial to.  Everywhere you see red:  red cameras, red advertisements, red screen ads.  Red sidewalks.
            “Next time, lose the shirt and say some girl tore it off your back,” I urge him.
            “And get sun burned?  Then, I’ll wear red all the time,” he hands me a jug, bows gracefully, and continues onto his flat.
            “Hey, boy?!” I ask, “Where is your shit suit?” because I just noticed he has not protection.  Most Girls’ skin is genetically modified to bear the sun’s deadly rays, but not boys, at least not boys in our neighborhood.
            He shrugs his shoulder, “Mom sold it to buy lard.”
“See you at school,” I say.  I turn back to look at him; he is walking with a limp on his left foot.  I gaze upward and note how the hair on the back of his head is near white, bleached from the sun.
            I hurry up to see my mother, “Mom you here, or food?”
            “Not roast yet,” she jokes giving me a big hug.  As a plant worker, I suspect she knows what happens when people get processed, but she has never talked about her job, and I wonder if she is conditioned not to say anything.   She comes in to hug me but thinks better of it, and yanks my ear.  “What have I told you?  Do not consort with that boy.”
            “Mom, he’s in my class, in my group,” I lie.  All boys and girls are put into groups until grade nine; he is in my year, but not my group.  I am glad, because after eighth grade the divisiveness starts.  Boys become the focus of teachers’ scorn.  They get segregated and made to be the practice targets of kicks and punches.  Alan has been my best friend since we could walk; the truth is I have few friends that are girls because they are so competitive and would surely turn me in knowing about my defect.  Luckily, I have always been a recluse, a sort of genius slotted to be patroned for engineering, so I can play the snob and be detached.  Girls aren’t supposed to love boys anymore, but I care about him, a little.
            “Too bad.  You should be in a private school for girls,” my mother rubs her hands together, “Not going to school with that boy.”
            “Awe, mom, it’s OK.  Some day I’ll go work in the Center and buy you a new apartment where only women live.”
            Mom laughs.  Her parents refused to modify her, although she claims they had the money to do so, but that is a story all low class women tell.
            I go into my room and hide the seeds behind the bedpost.  There is a hole I carved there when I was five, where I used to hide small trinkets.  I am not the only one with one of these, but people need some kind of escape, some way to feel they are not totally controlled by harvesting laws.  I pull something out and hide it in an inner pocket.  I look up to the ceiling.  My dad inserted a panel in the below the grubby chandelier.  For someone supposedly of average intelligence, he did a job even a Red Guard couldn’t see past.  That is where I keep my book of short stories and gun, just in case.  I run back to Mrs. Jenken’s street.
            Up high on a reinforced communications poll hangs the body of someone who will never contribute again.  That is the worst kind of punishment, someone who will never nourish society.  I wonder what he did.  He could have liberated some men or worse, killed a woman.  But, that crime is rare, unless it’s harvest time.  It’s not knowing, what people fear the most. No one knows what ever happens to those who are harvested.  Some say it’s a gimmick to control population.  Others that they are sent to war.  Few that their meat is actually government protein, but I know eating human flesh has dire health consequences.
            In fact, last month a woman three blocks down actually ate her little boy.  It made the national news, and as her punishment she was fed to the Pit.  Even though human life has little worth in the slums, cannibalism is highly frowned upon.
            My arm-port lights up and there is an advertisement for a new mod I can’t afford, “Tiger Teeth,” not the most creative ad.  I shiver at what those teeth could do on the playground.  It would be so easy to list who was harvested with our technology, but the government doesn’t share that list.  Instead, it lists the names of all the girls being patroned that month.  I hit “Like” on a few; two went to my school.
            On my way back to her house, I almost step into a large red pool.  A long blonde hair dangles in the breeze.  I suck in my breath and think of Marcia Goodwin.  She is the only girl I talk to on at school, a plucky girl who always scores low on her monthly tests. I think her mother did drugs when she was pregnant because Marcia doesn’t even have the minimum internal attributes like agility and intelligence.  But, then genetic engineers are not gods.  I look again and imagine a volunteer or worse a Red Guard beating her down because her name has made a list of someone who holds no promise.  Marcia Goodwin would never be truly productive in society, and I am not even sure that she is safe from anti-establishment ideas.  One day, I spotted a book that was peeking out of her pocket, but her, I didn’t report.  I think she even knew that I saw, and she could have used that information against me, but Marcia also has a weak heart.
            Blonde hair is common I tell myself, knowing instantly that long hair is not.  Even I sport a short brown bob, so I don’t waste water when I wash it.  I turn to look at the stain one more time and run right smack into a Red Guard.
            “Watch where you’re going citizen!” she barks.
            I look up; it is a slender, graceful woman with expensive Siamese grey skin and flat pointed ears.  Her eyes are an unusual emerald underneath her crimson visor.  But I notice she is relaxed and not poised to attack.
            “My apologies lieutenant,” I say confidently, “Be productive.  Be accountable.  Be safe.”
            “Be productive.  Be accountable.  Be safe,” she answers with a slight smile on her face and marches on.
            I can’t resist taking a look back.  This guard hasn’t done the full transformation, or she can’t afford it.  Her butt is perky but flat under her uniform.
            What’s the point if you can’t swish your tail? I wonder.
            When I walk into Mrs. Jenkens’ house, the teacup and biscuits are still there.  I put my hand over the items and let the warmth seep into my hands; the tea is a rich Earl Grey, my favorite, and the biscuit is an insta-biscuit, but Mrs. Jenkins has stuffed it with butter.
            “Gift?” said Mrs. Jenkens automatically holding her hand out, “And don’t tell me what you did for it, dear.”
            “Nothing perverted,” I say handing her the red velvet pouch.
            “Oh my,” says Mrs. Jenkens, “What a treat!”  Mrs. Jenkens picks a pinch of white gold and lets the granules roll between her fingers and back into the pouch.
            I beam at her, “It’s real sugar.  Real sugar, not some synthetic knock off.”
            “How?” asks Mrs. Jenkens, showing genuine admiration.
            “I helped the Lister girl pass her midterms.  She may be modified with the best, but she’s a total moron,” I smile triumphantly because that is partially true; the other truth is that I had to beat someone up at the playground who had upset her that day, “Her family is so filthy rich compared to us, and Lister kept bringing chocolate and other treats.  Of course, she never shares, but just the sight of them made me think her family had to have sugar. . .  I was right, but . . . how is that possible when the islands are gone?”
            Mrs. Jenkens snorts, “You still believe everything you read on the vid-screen or your arm-port?  Ha!”
            “But there were storms and famine,” I answer.
            “Sure, but man has a way.”
            “Don’t you mean woman, you dissident?!” I ask in the authoritarian tone I heard earlier.
            For a moment, Mrs. Jenkens looks at me uncertainly, and we both start laughing.
            “Let’s drink our tea and eat our biscuit where no one will see us,” heading to the basement, she urges me to follow.
            Mrs. Jenkens always makes sure all the doors are locked; she sets the wall vid-screen at a high volume with the national channel blaring.  Today, they are televising the arena but not a single famous woman is fighting.  No doubt, these women are just parading for show, so they won’t fight to the death, just maim each other.
            I walk into the basement, which is always cold, but the old woman asserts that helps a person think and stay alert.
            “Today,” announces Mrs. Jenkens, “I’m going to tell you about China. . .”
            Almost every day it is the same thing.  Old Mrs. Jenkens, once a respected member of the Old Guard tells me impossible stories.  Families used to have more than one child and celebrated boys.  People ate animals like cows.  I can only imagine times what these were like and can’t conceive anything being herded but citizens or criminals.  Today, she is talking about the flue, a disease that has since been eradicated but nearly wiped out all of the Chinese population.
            “Was it biological warfare?” I ask habitually because it’s always biological warfare.
            “Well, that is one theory,” says Mrs. Jenkens, “You tell me girl, when has there ever been a virus that only affected one area of the country?  Or one part of the world?”
            I think long and hard, “Never, but then why was no one else in other parts of the world infected?”
            “Well, some say it was the government itself that spread it through food.  Others an errant corporation that did not properly test its products.”
            “But,” I ask, “Weren’t most Chinese products exported?”
            “Ah, that is the mystery,” she says looking out the widow and assigns, “Try to figure it out, and we’ll continue next time.”    
            For the next few days, I analyze the problem.  Was it the food?  No, most of that was exported.  Was it medicine?  No, most of that was exported.  Was it a virus?  But, there were no reported cases elsewhere.  I research the historical archives, yet there isn’t much text left, just images and a few articles that support the Red Guard.
            I look at the images carefully.  They are advertisements with beautiful women, at least I think they are beautiful because their skin is pale and their eyes the color of burnt earth.  There is not a single modification on them.  I look up at the window and see my reflection; I am tall for my age, nearly 5’ 7” and although I am skinny, my instructors tell me I am all muscle.  Mrs. Jenkins says my face is sweet, the shape of a heart, but I don’t see it.  My hair is honey colored, and I hate to see the day it has to be turned a deep, unnatural red, because if I am lucky, I will join the Red Guard.  If I am lucky and manage to eat government meat.
            No.  I look at the ads and see one for make-up.  I can’t imagine modifications without engineering, but people used to change their looks like a chameleon.
            Make up.  Definitely not.
            Then I notice a magazine from 2032 and spot something interesting at the bottom of the page.  It is in the August edition, and I haven’t seen that mysterious ad anywhere else.  I scan through other pages.  I smile contentedly.
            “Well, well my little friend.  Whatever could you be?”
            I scan other international magazines, but find nothing.
            I take a snap of the ad with my arm-port and go to see my history teacher.  I mutter to myself, “I know it’s cheating.”
            Ms. Loop, my history teacher is one of the few women I can talk to without feeling measured and assessed all the time.  Part of the reason is that Ms. Loop is so uncharacteristically plump.  She had the full genetic modifications, but she is so clumsy that no one admires her.  Here light grey fur is luxurious to say the least and her amber yes, I really want a set some day.  I come in quietly and see her full bottom hangs over the small government issued stool.  Her tail is sticking almost straight out; sometimes I think it has a mind of its own.
            “Ah,” says Ms. Loop with joy, as she sips a cup of something, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
            I spy a clumsy rivulet of blood trickling down her expansive face.  Showing blood while you eat or drink is seen as a sign of low-class starvation.  Blood must never show.  Hunger must never show.  Although we are always hungry.
            “You have a little. . .” I inform caressing my own cheek.
            “Oh!” snorts Ms. Loop, spilling more blood onto her desk, “Who cares anyway?  It’s not like no one knows.  Government blood is the best for optimal performance.”
            Startled, I look around, but we are alone.   I want to ask her if she thinks it is human blood, but that is a terrible insult.
            “Would you care for some?” she says reaching for a cup, “It’s fresh.  I believe this is goats blood.”
            “No thank you,” I say although I am feeling treacherous hunger pangs, “Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me what this was?”  I show her my arm-port.
            Ms. Loop analyzes the image and smiles approvingly,  “I see.”
            “What year was this?” inquires Ms. Loop.
            “2032, I think.”  She knows no one has assigned me this work, but she never asks why I am asking questions because she is ever delighted that I do ask questions.  The other girls avoid her and make fun of her behind her back.  Once someone drew a lewd picture of Ms. Loop being done by a dog.  Of course, I beat up that girl and erased the image; no one has drawn stupid pictures of her since.
            “And what was happening in 2032?” she presses on.
            I answer uncertainly, “Well, a series of earthquakes in China, tsunamis in Asia which hurt their economy, and most importantly, loss of crops with dramatic weather changes,” I add in a joke laughing, “You know people used to not believe in Global Warming?  Now look at us?”
            She laughs heartily, “Stupid men with too much power.”  She snorts and little blood oozes out of her nose, which causes us to both laugh.
She regains her composure as most women do, instantly, “How many people died in China that year?”
            “Uh, over 800,000.”  I still don’t see the connection, I admit I feel really stupid.
            She never judges, “And how did they die?”
            “The virus.  Well, one of them,” I stare at the image, “I don’t understand.”
            “Saliva,” answers Ms. Loop.
            She looks at the advertisement.  It is a cute cuddly creature, a cross between a cat and a gerbil.  The eyes are a disturbing red with hints of green.
            “These were government issued companions.  If you were stressed, if you were lonely, if you were poor, the government issued one of these pets.  Free.  They are nothing like the android companions of today, but they served the same purpose.”
            I am stunned, “How many?  How many were issued?”
            “A little over 800,000.  How did they not get out of the country?” she says guessing my next question.  “They were banned from airports and honestly, they had a very short life span.  Just enough to bring the population to a controllable number, and even then, well. . .” Ms. Loop.
            “Could they do something like that here to control the population?” I ask.
            Ms. Loop smiles, “My dear, they don’t have to.  Our system is near-perfect.”
            “Of course, thank you,” I say bowing respectfully, “Be accountable, be productive, be safe.”
            She smiles wide and tweaks my nose, “You be safe, my dear.  Important people are coming.”  I want to ask more, but I leave wondering if she just threatened or warned me about our ideas.
*
            The playground is the one place I hate to be, but we all need to be there.  The boys sit on the bleachers and watch, some of them jealous of us.  They can’t run as fast or do some of the flips we do.  On occasion a fight breaks out between the boys and girls, but the teachers let it go just a bit, especially when potential patrons are around.  Today, there are two potential patrons lurking about, so the fighting will go on longer than usual.
            That stupid redhead, June Lister, gives me a smirk; I know she’s jealous of me because I outscored everyone in math, although not perfectly. Usually I do just above excellent, but never the top.  That day I was just so distracted with the thought of mom and Alan’s raspy cough.
            “Hey Starving Trash,” she says nastily as I walk past her.
            I can’t ignore her or that would be seen as a sign of weakness, “I see you got new shoes,” I comment before she attacks me.
            She shows off her shiny leather shoes.
            “I guess you got tired of wearing your mom’s heels.  The cheap whor—“
            I don’t even finish the sentence before she strikes, but I’m ready for it.  I lower my body unnaturally nearly touching the ground.  She claws where my face would have been; shots to the face are not allowed.  I do a back flip back and strike, get into pose 1, and strike her with my left hand across the ear.  That is a sensitive spot on her since her level 3 mods; she has soft grey ears cat ears with fur that peaks over the edge.  She yowls, and I grab her hair.
            It’s slick, far more slick than I imagined, which must be a new mod because it feels smooth and slightly oily.  She slips away and does a double back kick clipping my chin.  But I have been kicked harder before.  My head doesn’t even snap back, and, and I suck in and lunge forward.
            I knock her to the ground and punch her repeatedly, being careful not to hit her face.  I punch the side of her pointy cat ear, the one I struck before, again, and she screams trying to hold back tears.  I punch her clavicle and hear something pop.
            My h[ME2] omeroom teacher, Mrs. Aspen blows her whistle and slowly pulls me off with one arm.
            “Ashley!  You are not supposed to fight with level 3 mods.  You are at a severe disadvantage,” she says angrily.
            “Clearly,” says Ms. Loop laughing heartily.
            This infuriates June, and she strikes my face.  I know she has cut me deeply with her claws, her absurd level 3 mod claws that are not necessary in our age group.  The blood is streaming down, and I have to close my left eye, so it doesn’t get drenched.
            “Now girls,” says Mrs. Aspen, “The fight is over.”  There are rules to engagement, and June Lister has done the unthinkable:  She has acted like an animal.  It takes a moment for her to realize what she has done, and she tries to strike one more time despite the coming punishment.
            Reflexively Mrs. Aspen grips her in a headlock and takes her away like a rag doll, while she whines about her broken clavicle.
            Ms. Loop escorts me to the nurse, “Come now. I have Med Creds, just enough to fix up that wound.  Put some pressure on it before everyone wants to lick your face.”
            The thought is repulsive to me, but I see a fourth grader staring at me intently.
            I look at her and the rest of the kids.  Some of them are giving me smiles of approval.  They love it when a level 3 modified girl gets shown up, especially by a lowly level 2.  I look at my feet, then, at Ms. Loop, “I think your wrong.”
            “What?” she asks fumbling wither her account module on her arm-port.
            “I think you’re wrong about animals being at fault for the flue,” I say sighing heavily, “It’s always people that do the worst thing.  Always.”
            Ms. Loop gives me a warm look and escorts me to the medical wing.
            There must be some important women there today because a girl four grades above me has two of her fingers severed.  They will be repaired if she has enough credits.
            “Wow,” I say to myself, “She must really need the money.”
            Ms. Loop snorts, “Or she got what she deserved.”
            I look at Ms. Loop.  Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, let alone students they don’t like.  All girls are equal and honored in our society, at least that is what they tell us.  Still, teachers tend to favor their wealthier students; though, no one would admit to favoritism.  She smiles at me, “You should have gone to a privates school.”
            I smile at her weakly as the pain in my head grows stronger, “People tell me that.”
            The nurse is in a cranky mood, “Shit.  I’m running out of supplies.  Three sponsors are here!  Imagine.”  She grabs my face and looks at the cut.  The scanner checks for a concussion and for good measure she scans the rest of my body.
            “You need to eat more meat,” she says, “You’re borderline anemic.  No sponsor wants that.  Hmmm, no menstrual cycle at all, yet?”
            I shake my head and try to divert the conversation, “Why sponsor then?  They’re supposed to help needy girls like me.”  Ms. Loop chuckles.
            “Cheeky girl,” says the nurse.  With one sweep, she takes her silver machine.  I smell burning flesh, and it burns cold.  In seconds, the cut is gone.  I touch for a scar and there is none.
            “Good as new!” says Ms. Loop cheerily, and escorts me back to class.  By then everyone has been talking, and Alan gives an imperceptible thumbs up.  I go to the front of the class where all the girls are seated.  The boys sit in the back and usually just tune out when the teacher talks.  The teacher is overly enthusiastic and almost bouncing, and then I see her.
            She wears an uncharacteristic silver outfit, tight around her body.  I look carefully and realize it’s the Red Guard I ran into before.  She smiles at me, and I stare at my desk.  Could she be looking for me?  Sometimes the selection is so arbitrary.  Sometimes it’s premeditated, and no one ever knows what happens to the girls until much later when they are unrecognizable.  The teacher asks questions, and I answer well, but not exceptionally because I can’t afford to be sponsored.  Productive citizens must consume, especially the government issued rations and that means eating government meat.
            On my way home, I think about China for a long time.  When I reach Mrs. Jenkens, I feel more confident about the answer.
            “Well, did you figure it out?” she watches me closely.
            “No,” I answer, “I thought at first it was these . . .”  I show her the image of the government companions.  “But, that didn’t make sense because not just the poor got these pets; the president’s daughter also died; that’s why China issued its first modifications of girls.  Resistance to this disease.  I think the pets got infected first somehow, and then the people.”
            “Good work,” says the old woman, “Most people thought it was these animals, but the so-called experts were wrong.  Those men.”
            “Well,” I say waiting for an answer I know I won’t get by just asking, “What was it?”
            Mrs. Jenkens clucks her tongue, “You haven’t figured it out yet?”  She pulls out another ad.
            There is only one full-page ad, Nutri Pills, Your Pathway to Top Health.
            “Nutri pills?” I don’t believe it.
            “The first ones,” answers Mrs. Jenkens.
            “But, they weren’t starving in 2032.   What was in them?” I ask staring at the ad.
            Mrs. Jenkens shrugs, “Who knows?  Political prisoners?  Herded people?” she chuckles mocking my humans are food theory, “The product was patented, and only top scientists knew what was in them, but I suspect they were compliance pills.  Once the Chinese project failed, not much else was heard about Nutri Pills until fifty years ago, when we developed our own.”
            “Wait!?” she asks, “How do you know it was the Nutri Pills?”
            “Because my father helped re-issue them,” she answers.  I can’t tell if she’s sad or just pensive, “He was a great doctor, just like me.  Just like me.  And that is all for the day.”
            I stare at the clock, we have an hour left, but I walk home anyway.  I think about my father who was a no one.  I often wondered if he killed himself, because he was ever so clever and was too smart to get herded.  Some men just do that; they kill themselves.  One day two years ago, he never came home.  No government papers came to report that he was processed or imprisoned anywhere.  In fact, for months, Mom would search the streets and ask around the black markets.  He looked for cannibalized parts there, too.  An eyeball on a disfigured face or his unusually thick black hair.  But, it happened that way sometimes; people would just vanish.  My fear was that someone we knew just harvested him in some basement, processing unit and actually consumed him, selfishly with no accountability whatsoever.  Though illegal, some basement processors existed, but the penalty was worse than death.  At least that is what Mrs. Jenkens tells me, and I am not sure what is worse than death.
            “Hey your majesty,” says a familiar voice.  Alan is sitting at the doorsteps looking depressed and weaker than before.
            I sit next to him and take out my homework pad pretending I am showing him how to solve a complicated math problem.  We are better off than boys, but girls shouldn’t always be cruel.
            “What’s the matter?” I ask.
            “Mom says I have to go outside and play for three hours,” he answers bitterly.
            “That bitch,” I glare back towards his house, “I should report her.”
            “Who would care?  They only care if girls are mistreated,” He nudges me with his foot.  It’s his way of warning me or questioning my judgment, “What you got there?”
            I show him the picture of the government companion, “They were issued in China.  You would most definitely get one.”  I laugh, but he doesn’t get the joke, so I tell him, “I mean you’ve got such bad luck.  You’d get an infected one.  They spread the First Flue in China.”  That only makes him unhappier, and I want to tell him the truth about Nutri Pills, but know truth is dangerous.
            “Want to go rat hunting?” I say cheerfully.  He goes to grab his stick, and we head down to the water channel.  The water channel is not off limits, but if you are caught there, there is nowhere to hide.  Only the rats are big enough to go into the small openings.  But they are starving too and roam the channel.  If you’re quick enough, like I am, you can bash a few over the head.  Rat hunting happens to be one of my specialties, and it’s one of the few types of meat I can eat.
            Today, I fake being dead.  I have this talent for being still for a long time, and my heart rate drops to a near coma.  I always wonder if the doctor messed up my engineering, but it helps out.  I lie still, and when the rats get close to my eyes, I grab one by the body and second by the tail.  Before they can wiggle off I bash them in the head against the concrete.
            “Two down,” I say triumphantly.  Now, I run after the scampering rats and grab for one, but miss.
            “Hmmmm,” says Alan, “Guess you must be tired today.
            I grin at him, “I’d like to see you get at least one.”
            He chuckles a false chuckle, “Thank you for dinner.”  We walk back together.  Alan is always nervous.  Thus far this year, he has been out during four harvests, but he has managed to survive them all.  He is lucky.
            “Don’t worry, if the sirens go off, I’ll protect you,” I say.
            “I know,” he says blushing, “I would always protect you.”  He blushes near purple, and I try not to make a big deal about it.
            I start to laugh but bite my tongue.  I pat him on the back, “Alan, I wouldn’t want anyone else fighting by my side. . .Except for Mrs. Jenkens.  Maybe my mom, with a large gun.”
            We both laugh, but we disengage as soon as we near other people.
            “I hate this,” I say under my breath.  When I was five, I was a scrawny little thing.  I could run, but Alan was always faster, stronger.  One day a hungry Rottweiler started chasing after me.  He was a ways away, but I knew he was after me.  I tried running into my unit, but I forgot the code in a panic.  I saw it running closer, and I thought it was the end.  Alan came running out with something long and heavy, too big for a boy his age to handle.  He bashed that Rottweiler over the head, over and over.  By the time the Red Guard showed up, the dog was dead.  We had roasted dog for four days.
            Now, Alan wheezes as soon as he takes a step outside.  His skin is overtanned and his whole head turning blonde in odd patches.  He looks forward and pretends not to hear me, “I’m sure you’re not the only one.”  Alan winks at me before he goes into his flat.
            I want to say more, but what is there to say?
            The trumpets blare, and I tune in with fake interest.
            “Attention citizens, there will be a special challenge at 8:00p.m. tonight broadcast on all channels,” the broadcast ends, “Be productive.  Be accountable.  Be safe.”
            It’s not law, but everyone will tune in to watch the challenge.  This means two high-ranking women are going to battle, sometimes over trivial matters, often just to make us crave what we can’t afford.  I don’t really want to be genetically modified any further.  In fact, unlike most people, I like my body.  But, the challenge also means there will be no harvest, so I will be able to haggle at the market.   Today, we need soap, but I also want to trade for a mouth filter for Alan.  I have a harmonica my dad left me, and even though no one can play it, the piece is old.  Someone is bound to trade for it.
            The market is also not illegal, but people with real goods are rare.  Most items are banned anyway, like old books or old music.  Sometimes old paintings are banned, and if the Red Guard catches you, you’re pretty much processed.
            I look for Alex Carpenter, an unusual name that could be a boy or girl’s name; he’s not much older than I am, but he’s the best scavenger in the market.
            “What’s up squirt?” he says hugging me from behind.
            I try to disengage.
            “Guess all those genetic mods can’t always save you!”
            With that, I flip over him unnaturally and give him a solid kick on the ass.
            I smirk triumphantly as he lunges forward.  The people in the market stop; there is always the chance that a genetically altered girl could go feral.  It has happened before with illegal mods, but mine are genuine.
            I laugh good naturedly, “You were saying, boy?”
            He turns and grins, “Where’d you learn that?  You’re too young for that type of combat.”
            “Please,” I snort, “You’re never too young for any combat. .  .I watch government battles.  Beside, they lowered the age, again.”
            “Well, well, soon you’ll all be fighting in diapers,” he says.
            “Watch your tone,” I say, not because I am offended, but because someone might overhear and turn him in.  And who wouldn’t for some extra rations?  That is the reward informants get, but if the Red Guard finds the person has lied, he too becomes sent to the plant or wherever.
            His face darkens, “Don’t worry squirt.  No one here’s gonna say anything. . . .  Enough fucking around, what you got?” he holds out his hand.
            I hold back, “Please.  Do you think I started trading yesterday?”
            We go back and forth like this for ten minutes.  I ask for high priced items I won’t buy, when I really want that filter.  He shows me dehydrated coffee.  I show him a rat pelt and rat jerky that I gladly trade for soap.  He shows me an apple, and I wonder where he got that from.  I don’t want the apple, but I managed to save some sugar.  I trade for five aspirin tablets for my mom’s headaches and joint pain.
Finally, I ask, “Do you have a filter?  A mouth filter?”
            “What do you need that for?  I thought your lungs were already modified, you being a girl and all,” he says.
            I have no comeback because anything I say will give me away.  A girl wouldn’t be trading for a boy, especially not one outside her family.  I hold up the harmonica and give him a steady look.
            I try not to look around to see if anyone is overhearing.  I know he wants it because the left corner of his lip involuntarily curls up every time he sees something he really wants.
            “Quit being an asshole, Alex,” I say ending the banter, “Trade me already. . . . Please.”
            He pauses and stares for a moment, but he won’t just give up the filter.  He has to make me sweat; I think it’s his way of putting one up over a girl, any girl.
            “I have this pretty pair of silk underwear,” he says holding up a pair big enough for a hippo.
            “Got plenty,” I lie.
            “Or, how about this nice buck knife?  I bet you could use one of those to skin your rats.”
            “Don’t use them,” I start to grow impatient and start looking around.  Someone else could have it, but I don’t trust anyone else.  He sees me lose focus on him.
            “Well, it’s an awful trade,” he says pausing, “But, here you go.  I’ll throw in the knife.  Just give me three, no five, of your next kills.”
            We shake on it, grab my package, and I run without thanking him.  That is rude, but girls never have to thank boys.
            When I reach Alan’s home, it’s dark.  His mother is watching the vid-screen along with some other neighbors.  I ring the bell five times.
            “What?!” asks his angry mother.
            “It’s me,” I say.
            She opens the door.  I want to laugh because Alan’s mom now has cat ears.  I can’t tell which one because it’ dark outside.
            “Uh, is Al—Lupe home?” I ask looking past her.
            She gives me an angry look, “He’s gone.”
            My heart stops, just like it stops when I hunt rats.
            “What do you mean?”
            “I mean he’s gone.  He hasn’t come home,” she says finally without a trace of sadness or remorse.
            I want to ask more questions, but she slams the door in my face.  I stand there motionless, stuck between a sob and a scream.  On instinct, I run to Mrs. Jenkens’ place, and I don’t care.  Maybe he’s there.  Maybe he decided to leave his lousy home, once and for all.
            I don’t even bother to knock and let myself in.  Mrs. Jenkens is wearing an outrageous flower print dress.  I would normally mock her, but she sees the frightened look on my face.
            “What’s the matter?” she asks.
            “Alan? Is Alan here!?” I yell not caring who hears.
            She shakes hear head no, and I do the thing girls are never supposed to do.  I run to her and cry.
            Between sobs, I tell her the story about how sick he has become and my trading.  She purrs a low purr and strokes my head.  When I finish emptying myself out, all she says is, “Good friends are hard to find, even if they are boys.”
Most women would admonish me, and tell me not to care, let alone some sickly, skinny boy.  Instead, she makes me a strong cup of mint leaf tea.
            “Did I ever tell you about the Mayans?” she asks.
            I hold onto my warm cup of tea and let the warmth seep in.  I sit and try to listen, and images of Alan being hacked by a dirty axe invade my mind.
“Like us they too killed to sustain their society.  But, they made sacrifices, so the world wouldn’t end.  We kill because the world is ending, and there are not enough resources for everyone,” she says.
 I almost start crying again, wondering if someone in the neighborhood was desperate enough, but who isn’t?  I choke on my tea and look at the vid screen for the first time.
            The images of two women show up and I ignore them, until I realize one of them is the sponsor is school, Ms. Way Warrior, the Guard from class, but I don’t care if she gets her throat ripped out.
            I think about what the days ahead will be like without Alan.  I will have no one to talk to after school.  Even ratting will become dull and more dangerous.  No one would ever harm a girl, not usually.  People who are so hungry they wouldn’t care if they were strung up alive along the wall.  I walk home in a daze.
            Then things get worse.  Eight days later, I come home and see the slick black car with red wheels outside our door.
            I grow frightened.  Has someone noticed I can’t eat government meat?  Have they come to investigate the garden?  I enter using my most confident walk.
            It’s her, sitting on the couch.  She has short red hair and a swishy tail she seems to be enjoying.  I look at the tail, and then at her.
            “Lieutenant?” I stretch out my hand.
            “Captain Warrior can’t have children,” says an officer standing next to her, a man, “She has seen your young girl and checked her fighting statistics.  Her intelligence may be below superior, but that doesn’t matter to her.”
            “I suspect that is an irregularity,” says Captain Warrior, enjoying her new title.
            “Why do you say that?” asks my mom nervously.
            “Because statistically, she shouldn’t be missing the same exact percent of questions each time,” answers the young captain, “The mistakes are patterned.”
            I grow stiff.  I didn’t think I was that obvious; I was just always careful to miss a certain percentage of questions.
            “Is that true?” asks my mother faking disdain and alarm.
            I know two things for sure.  (1) I will be evaluated and (2) I will be injected for optimal performance.  I won’t be able to lie.              “Yes,” I say keeping my head up.
            “Why?” asks the official, an old greasy haired man with thick glasses.
            I answers as honestly as I can, “Because we’re poor, and I didn’t want to be removed from my mother.  She needs me, still. ”
            Captain Warrior nods her head knowingly, “I grew up in Junk Town . . .You wouldn’t know it.  Now.”  She stretches her slick arms and smiles at me.
            I smile at her; there is no point in being rude.
            “You will be evaluated tomorrow morning with and without enhancement.  Be ready at 7:00a.m. and bring only one school issued bag.  Here is a list of what you can and cannot bring,” with that they leave.
            I look at my mom, but I have no more tears left.
            “Where were you?” she asks getting that nervous tick in right cheek, “I was worried sick!”
            “I was with Mrs. Jenkens,” I answer, “Alan got taken away.  Or worse, Mom.”
            “Always that boy!  Don’t you know your place!?” she comes to me and hugs me tight because she once loved her boys too.
            “Mom,” I say not caring if anyone hears, “Tomorrow I may be processed.  They’re going to find out.”
            Mom holds me tighter, “I don’t have any suicide pills.”
            “No Mom,” I say horrified, “You’ll be processed too.”  Women’s suicide carries the penalty for all family members.  Sometimes maiming, but since mom is my only relatives, she would be killed for sure.
            I pack my bag meticulously.  We can only take arm-port cards, a spare change of clothes, and one memento.  I take a picture of my mom and am careful to fold my dad’s image behind.  It’s old and will look like a sign of prestige.
That night, we play cards until 1a.m. and drink black market tea.  Mother should be alert for her job, always.  Any mistake, and she could be punished, but this may be the last time I see her for months and months or ever.
            I lay in bed, unable to sleep, but when I wake up, it’s 6:30a.m., and I am not exhausted.

 [ME1]Running notes:  Have a scene where the boys are fighting each other pathetically.

Putting the cannibalism back in, for the people living in the margins.

 [ME2]Introduce this teacher earlier.