The Transfer"Anger," said Father Joseph, "May at times be your ally, as well as your enemy. In fact, there will be times when, as it were, anger could conceivably be thought of as a sort of friend . The tigers of wrath may indeed be..."
There was a mass and approving cheer at the outburst, which faded quickly as the Headmaster's upper lip curled back from his yellowed teeth.
Father Joseph had a pretty good idea from whence the disruption had come. His shoes tocked loudly on the linoleum as he strolled at a frighteningly casual pace toward the rear of the room.
" wiser than the horses of instruction. Anger is an energy. One that God and His servants have employed to great effect since long before dawn of Man. I'm quite certain that you'll have no idea whom it was that I was quoting, do you, Monatague?"
There was no snickering now. Montague, a lanky youth with sallow skin and a pasted-down cowlick, picked at a shard of skin on the side of his thumb in an effort to avoid eye
EveI had a dream, which was not all a dream.
- Lord George Gordon Byron
"Eureka! What luck!"
The light on Karl's helmet flashed toward the shout like a jaundiced cyclops-eye. He clambered over crumpled car bodies, unsprung sofas, wheel-less shopping carts, the smashed shells of televisions. His boots left dark splotches in the crust of frozen brine that covered everything. The remnants of a barren, washed-up world.
"This better be good "
He found Wendell crouched on his heels with a battered soup can clutched to his chest, the dirt on his face streaked with tears, his breath pluming yellow by his own helmet's dim lamp.
Karl moved closer, cautiously. Wendell was not exactly stable at the best of times.
"Right, then. Give us a look."
A trickle of saliva wet his tongue. His stomach twisted at the prospect of something, anything to eat. Tilting his head, Karl peered down into the can. Lit by the helmet's sickly beam he saw something at the bottom. It was squirming. Alive.
ThirteenOne day I'll let her go -
my balloon child,
made of air and stuff so thin
I don't know how it holds her in.
Nor what I'm to do then,
but watch her go, with her string
still attached like a doubt
she's not cast off yet. Not today,
but soon. For now,
she's still my child balloon.
In lieu of flowersThere are portraits, for which she never sits
while I dab with improbable brushes:
wine bottles, wedding gowns. When viewed
with narrowed eyes from a distance, she
appears less ambiguous where blue
might be the shadow of a breast, a lotus,
the ghost of some recent, terrible blow.
Her eyes are the sole constant in a face
which shifts like white sand over shale
in the wind, a slurry of volcanic glass.
They've become quite the host, her many
disparate aspects, best approached alone
and out of sequence. I dread to think
of them lined up in a chronological arc
from girlhood to its distant, mad conclusion,
each cell animated by the one before it
as if attempting to spark a second life.
This is her art, the image which leaves me
crying like a child for its mother.
On my mother's shadowSeeing her now, she's always in yellow:
buttercup, lemon, ripe wheat
in the sun as observed from the screen
of an oncoming car; her hems always
swaying, as if a dress
could capture life. I'd left her, blue
and lost, in the wilderness, far gone
but not far enough to keep her
from tracking a path back to old haunts
with a few jaundiced dreams
and her pockets stuffed with crumbs.
You're not going to believe this. Unzip the folder and check out image 14, number 227. Yes, that's a jugger you're looking at, only ten times the regulation embryo mass. And yes, that is an illegal frontal lobe.
Look at those EEG printouts. That says sentient-level brain activity, or I am a monkey's nutsack. And get this - according the dates, he's two and a half years old? Still in prenatal phase. Oh yeah, and zoom in on that dark spot on the left. #227 also seems to have grown himself an eyeball.
Our whole agenda here just took one giant leap into workable human rights territory. So let Jim know the plan's changed. Getting this jugger out alive will achieve a lot more than just sabotaging another lab.
Security's tight. I'll mail you when I can.
They excised the eye for biopsy. Makes me wonder if 227 is all about the next big WHO s
ExtractionI don't think of him in terms of then-and-now.
Some days he slips past tense altogether
& I wonder where he's gone - out to catch
some air, take a walk around my mental block?
Our intervals are slowly growing wider,
the way teeth spread out when one is pulled.
Sure, I can floss like the dickens now,
but there's always that blank, fleshy space
my tongue can't help but want to slide across.
Half the time, I don't know I'm doing it.
Hookey at the AbbatoirPart of it was the boys, rugged in bloodied aprons, muscled
arms brown where their sleeves rolled to. Tattooed,
most of them, sun blond almost-men, close enough to my age
for flirting. I itched, in the end of year heat, for anything
but that thousand-yard stare, the backs of my legs
glued to plastic seats, history, math, lunch hour grass rash.
Brain death. I wanted thrills. I wanted more to be the thrill,
their slaughterhouse Lolita. Eye candy, where none
had any right to be. The whole place stank of shit and death.
They hid me from the boss. Offered cigarettes, asked me out.
I said no, and I said yes.