I suppose the pain in my lungs is a sign that I needed more rest.  Alas, I am going to work again and eating a big "I Told You So" if I get pneumonia again.  Actually, that is what it feels like I am getting, but it all ties in to my writing.

Given my current state, in my nerdy novel mode of thought, it occurred to me that in the post-apocalyptic novel I am writing, that is how Alan breathes all the time, labored, painful, with no relief.  That also puts low-class boys at a disadvantage when they fight because obviously they can't exert themselves like the girls who have been genetically altered, if they can afford it.  This all sounds like a bunch of gobbledygook (I had to spell check that one), but it makes sense within the context.

I have also been so busy with the holidays and now packing and moving like a maniac, I forgot to reach out to the editor of Down South where the Water is Warm.  I should really pay him half of what I said I would to motivate him, and I have the funds to do so.  I can’t wait to get his feedback, but he has most of December anyway because I have to grade and unpack.  He is either commenting on the stories as he goes, or he is going to read the whole thing and then comment.  Either way is good for me, but I suppose both ways of reading have their merits because I am not opposed to rearranging the order of the stories, except that the first one has to be first because it is the title of the collection.   I also plan on keeping the Realism and Magical Realism/Fantasy separate. 

Well, that is all my lungs will allow.  If you have time, read my novel excerpt from my previous post and offer thoughtful comments. 

Here’s to life and real crisis.  May both enrich your art.
 

Well, I am feeling much better today.

I had two feverish nights, and I feel almost 100%.  That’s a lie:  In comparison, I feel much better.  Unfortunately, I didn’t get any awesome novel ideas, but in my feverish state I did think to myself, “The real purpose of life is right here, to nurse your baby.  This is the real fight for humanity,” or something like that.  Except I kept repeating it over and over with a great deal of conviction and mental assurances that my analysis was correct and love, of course.  Fevers. 

Today, we all woke up late, so I didn’t have time to work on my novel.  (Why not get an alarm clock?  Great question.)  However, this morning I was toying with the idea of having Ashley, the main character, be introduced to how to work surveillance, partly for her sponsors to see if she has aptitude for it, but also to instill the idea that the State is always watching.  Except for the slums.  I am still working things out because it’s not like they can’t watch the slums.  It’s just that they don’t really care what happens there.

Anyway, using the surveillance is how she is going to find the street urchin she used to haggle with.  I am rounding this male character out, but I will have him just go for thrills, not because he is defying the state.  In fact, he may be a true believer who turns on her, but I need to flesh him out more. 

I also thought that Ashley needs to be more mixed character.  On the one hand, I want her to keep lying to herself about her feelings towards Alan, though her actions betray her from time to time, but also be wooed by what she sees when she gets patroned.  I think that can happen too.

It’s like students who are oppressed who go to college among the dominant group and start to believe the ideals that are taught.  Something like that. 

In the other novel I wrote, Alan was adopted by a woman with a genuine conscience and love for her husband.  I may have Ashley fight Alan’s mom in the arena and have that be a major conflict with Alan later on.  Much later on. 

Since I haven’t blogged in a while, here is a longer excerpt.  I do believe people are reading it because I only come here twice a day and my unique visits are healthy.  Curious to know who pops in and pops out.

Here’s to fleshing out characters. 
========== The Harvest pp. 1 through 11.

The Harvest[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 Ashley wants to trace that deep indentation with her 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 our 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 because she too is too old to be productive anymore.
            “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, it 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 playful, 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.”
            I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J.  Intact.”  Almost everyone I have seen harvested is 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. 
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 loudly, 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 her 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 pregnant 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 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 my street, 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 wafare.
            “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 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. 

*

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

Yesterday, I spent the day packing.  At 4p.m. out of nowhere I started getting really sick and lost my voice.  By 6p.m., I had to lie in bed.  I have never gotten so sick so suddenly ever.  There were no symptoms at all.

All this to say that my head is killing me, and no ideas are flowing in today.

But, i do remember Stephen King having a similar situation where he was sick with a fever and got a great idea for a short story.  I don't remember which one, now.

Here's to making the best of a shitty situation.

Today, my hands are sore from mixing tamale dough.  My guests and I had such a great time making tamales together!  However, I mixed both batches, and I am paying for it now.

I was so glad to be able to use the lard correctly (thank you YouTube chefs), and my green tamales were pretty tasty.  It was my first time making the sauce; good thing I had my mom as a lifeline on the phone.  What was amazing is that three pots later, we had a small amount left, but folks did take half a dozen or so home.

Apparently, I am supposed to continue this tradition, according to my author friend Laura Garcia because she has stopped doing the annual Christmas tamale parties.  I guess she stopped in 2008.  To emphasize her point, she gave me an enormous tamale pot that makes mine look like an adolescent pot.  Ha ha ha.  It is a gorgeous silver pot and could easily fit four dozen or more, depending on what leaves we use.  (I prefer plantain.)

Anyway, I was glad to have a type of farewell party with all my wonderful friends.  (If you couldn't make it this time or missed the event or weren't invited this round, we are having a housewarming party and Mass in our new home next year.)  Now, we are off to pack the middle room and really donate things we don't need.  My beloved husband still thinks we can move by this Wednesday.  We will see.

Today, celebrate all of your victories, especially the unexpected ones. 

We all have them.  Some fucked up relationship issue that is permanent or temporary.  For me, it was the anger I had towards my older brother.  I didn't talk to him for years; now, it's my older sister who I blocked out emotionally, really, because we got into a fight over a stupid text a few Christmases ago, which was patently absurd.  I sent a picture of my daughter and accidentally sent it to her son's estranged wife.  I wrote my sister off just like I did my brother and haven't really talked to her since then.  She also doesn't apologize and rarely does my brother, which didn't make the reconciliation easy.

That is a spiritual snake.  Life is too short to live like this, so, sometime today, I am going to give her a call and at least leave a message.  I may lift the texting ban, but I doubt it.  Besides, I have seen the nasty texting wars my siblings have, and I am Switzerland. 

Anyway, I just need to get this off my chest.  This post is really about how broken my husband's family relationships are.  He hasn't spoken to his parents in years, since he was like 15, because frankly, it is the genuinely correct thing to do.  Sometimes, you just have to break away from family. 

He got adopted by people who didn't love him or treat him well.  (Why adopt a foreign child, then?  Who knows?)  In fact, he doubted he could be a good father because of how he was raised and mistreated, and he was quite wrong, thank God.  My husband is an attentive father and devoted husband.

However, he does have a sisters he gets along with, and I was talking to my husband this morning because technically her kids are our kids' cousins, and they should be together more often.  It makes me sad that when my son refers to his cousins, he is talking about the ones miles away in Arizona or his cousin in the suburbs that he rarely sees. 

Of course, my side of the family is very loving and affectionate towards Antonio; they always have been and equally so with Simona, but we are Mexicans after all, and frankly, all my family spoils my kids because they are little.  All my aunts and uncles love him very much, but they, too, are way out on the west coast. 

In Wisconsin, we have a Great Granma that sees our kids the same and has always been very kind to us, and also, an aunt and uncle that have taken on the Granma and Granpa role, but we see them maybe twice a year.  That is not how it is supposed to be, and it is on us to go see them and to call them because the drive here is too far for them, plus we're not really their kids, and our house has been such a mess.  We haven't had them over in a very long time.  I haven't invited them over to the house, really for their sake.  They would not be comfortable in our living space. 

I hope when we move, our new place will be more acceptable for visits from them or by anyone. 

To that end, I am off to clean and cook.  Today is our first-ever, post-Thanksgiving tamale party.  As events have developed, it is a is also a farewell to our house, seeing how our husband is having us move out by this Wednesday.  (He is fucking dreaming, but we will make it happen because we must.)

Enough ranting and reflecting. 

Kill the spiritual snakes in your life and liberate yourself. 
 

 

The Snakes in My Life
Yesterday, I listened to Mathew Kelley who is a Catholic inspirational speaker.  I have listened to his CD “The Best Way to Live” over and over and over.  However, the other day, I heard the story about a Native American boy trusting a snake, even though he knows he shouldn’t.  The boy is starving, and the snake is lost, so the snake promises not to hurt the boy if the boy will lead him down the mountain, since the boy knows the way.  In the end it betrays the boy, which will lead to his death because that is the nature of the snake, and the boy knew that.  In the CD, Kelly asks, “What is the rattlesnake in your life that is going to strike you down?” or something like hat. 

The conclusion I came to?  Leaving loose ends at work.  I don’t like not finish my work, regardless of what it is, so that is something I am going to work on.  Really work on because I carry such an insurmountable amount of guilt when I don’t get my work done.  I know I am very busy, but I have to learn to be more efficient with the limited time that I have.

The other snake would have to be my hot temper, which really doesn’t help anyone.  Now, there is such a thing as righteous anger, but I learned from my father who used to be an alcoholic to go from 0 to 100, fast.  Most of the time when I raise my voice, I shouldn’t be raising my voice.  No one is about to get hurt or die.  This aspect of my life is one that I am dealing with by asking priests for constant advice and support, talking about this shortcoming with my husband, and I make a concerted effort not to be that person, especially in the mornings.  If I start off my day right, most of the day goes right.
Still, despite all my shortcomings, and they are many, I have a lot to be grateful for.

Thanks for Everything
I have an amazing family that is intact.  My kids are a constant joy, and I couldn’t have asked for a better husband (even though he just informed me that we have to be packed and moved by this Wednesday. I had an angry moment when I found out.)  I love them very much, and when I am having a rough day at work, I remember that I am supporting them. 

I love my job, students, and colleagues.  Thanks to my union work, my job is never, ever boring.  Enough said.

Finally, I am doing the one thing I have always loved, and that is to write.  Even if it’s this dinky blog, I write every day.  After so many years, I finally finished my short story collection and am seriously working on this new novel, The Harvest.  The third draft is shaping up nicely.  I guess I am in that, “I am in love with my writing mode.”  Ha ha ha.  This week, I may not get to write on it too, much, but I have goal to work on it at least 30 minutes a day, which includes thinking, researching, and writing. 

Doing what you love elevates all the other aspects of your life, and my life was already pretty darned amazing (despite the snakes).

Today, be grateful for what really matters.  *FightForward

Today, I am not feeling what Junot Diaz stated in This Is How You Lose Her “a pelagic sadness.”  In fact, I am feeling awesome!  I am not sure if it is because of the work I did yesterday along with a student to make our college and District campus a sanctuary for undocumented students.  We got over 150 signatures.  That was some of the most positive work we could have done, although there are other solutions to upcoming struggles.  It just felt great to see that solidarity with students and colleagues and community members.

Also, today, the tamales I was so vexed over taste great!  You would think I would get tamaled out, but nope.  That part of my Mexican culture I live very well.  I can eat the same thing for days straight, sometimes three meals a day.  Tamales, pozoles, gorditas.  It doesn’t matter. 

So, I am going to sit with this near-euphoria and enjoy it and spread it.  We could all use more love and joy in this world.

Today, is going to be a busy day in preparation for the holidays, and I am going to shop at one of my new grocery stores that is really like shopping in Mexico:  Armitage Produce.  The butchers are all Mexicans, men, because I guess women can’t be butchers (what???).  The cashiers are almost all women and super friendly.  Yes, the stereotypes don’t allude me.  The items are amazing.  You an find cassava, next to plantain leaves, next to Mexican consome. 

Yes, I love to shop there because they have everything I need for my party, and the prices are quite low.  I can’t wait to buy the pork, too.  Trying out new recipes in the kitchen is always exciting for me, and pork tamales are on the menu this year.

I guess that’s a lot like writing.  You have some guidelines and veer from them, although some elements must be there, but no recipe is ever exactly the same.  You have to learn the writing basics first, and then, you can diverge.

I will write more later because I plan on taking a writing break today.  I haven’t had time to think about any aspect of the novel, as I spent most of the time talking yesterday, so stay tuned for a double blog with another excerpt? 

Today, experiment to find for real joy in your hobbies (keep it clean and safe for yourself and others). 
 

This morning I am having my victory dance tamales.  I worked my butt off last night to finish them, and I was so excited to try out the ground corn masa from El Milagro that we bought on Sunday.  Well, in an unexpected turn of events, the damn masa was gone.  Maybe I threw it away in frustration on Sunday because I couldn’t finish the tamales I started, but I suspect my better half accidentally chucked it.  The verdict is out.

Instead, I used my usual bucket of masa.  This one was quite bitter with that yucky preservative flavor, so I boiled tomatillo leaves and anise seeds into the chicken broth that goes in the mix.  That usually does the trick, but it was still bitter, so I added salt.  In my hurry, I forgot to save some red chile mix to cut down on the flavor, and I didn’t have time to mix more.  (The kids had to go to bed by 8p.m., and I finished at 8:30p.m.) I also used lard for the first time in tamales.  It didn’t do much to the flavor, as far as I can tell, and it was easy to work with.

Anyway, the inside tastes pretty good, but some of the masa still has that yucky flavor.   To the non-tamale aficionado, she won’t know the difference, but like most Mexicans say, “Me fallo la masa.”  The masa mix failed!  Argh.  They are nice and moist and meaty, but to me, the masa is prime. 

And that is all I have for today because I am going to drop off my kid at school and give his hopefully non-tamale expert first-grade teacher from Ireland a few of my creations.  She is really from Ireland with her accent and everything.  Watch her be vegan. 

Here is to experiments that fail.  May your creativity flow in all aspects of your life. 
 

Last night, I was trying to experiment with ground corn to make masa for tamales like the ones above.  Well, as it turned out, Aaron accidentally drove off with the leaves (which were not plantain because I forgot to by them at the store.  I was using corn husks just to test out the dough).  I have used the masa buckets but don’t like having to remove the flaovr with boiled anise and tomatillo leaves.  The powdered masa from the store is fine, but the buckets are better.  Essentially, the closer you get to ground corn, the better.

I was gong to test ground corn. 
           
When my husband got home, I already had my chicken all shredded with a thick red chili sauce, which was too hot, I might add.  I have to discover which one of the pods was the culprit.  Then, my wonderful daughter would not be placated no matter how long I nursed her, so that put a stop on the whole process. 
           
I will see if the dough is good tonight, or else I will have to send my husband to get a bucket from the corner store. 
           
I was thinking about this chain of events because most of our life runs smoothly, and when it doesn’t, we have to find a solution.  Just like life, good conflicts make life exciting, well-crafted, believable conflicts make great plot lines.  I was thinking about the main character, Ashley, and how easily her defect was fixed with the technology from the more affluent characters, and I don’t think it should be quite that easy. 

She is also shaping up to be a little dishonest because she won’t admit that she cares for Alan and that she enjoys participating in the violence at school, which she is supposed to because that is what the girls are taught.  Both of these internal struggles need to be fleshed out more.   
           
Anyway, that is all the time I have because I want to drop off my kid at school this morning, and I have to think more. 
           
Finally, if you would rather I post a *.pdf instead of this long text excerpts, let me know.  I think the long chain of text is easy to read on the phone.  (???)

Here’s to conflict + struggle = resolutions, no matter how annoying.

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The Harvest[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 Ashley wants to trace that deep indentation with her 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 our 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 because she too is too old to be productive anymore.
            “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, it 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 playful, 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.”
            I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J.  Intact.”  Almost everyone I have seen harvested is 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. 
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 loudly, 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 her 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 pregnant 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 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. 

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

This morning, I actually wrote for over an hour on my novel, The Harvest, thanks to my wonderfully supportive husband who woke up on time.  I decided to paste in a continuous excerpt to the blog; after all, I have few fans and may get some feedback.  In terms of this rewrite, I like the flow of the piece, but I do have a lot of research to do on fights.  I also should watch images of cats fighting as that is a premise in the novel.  The women are genetically modified as felines. 

The characters are also coming along nicely and having them fleshed out does save a lot of work.  I am not one for over planning the novel, but it helps a lot. 

This morning I have time to really think about this work because I will be packing and cleaning.  I want to shape up the character Alex Carpenter a little more; I purposely gave the character a gender-neutral name because he should be named after his mother and take the last name of his mother’s profession.  That is something I decided to do with a characters a couple of days ago.  I mean, if the society is a matriarchy, albeit a twisted one, there should be aspects of naming that correspond with that. 

Well, today, I also hope to meditate and pray as I work; I have a goal of putting in a day of prayer and meditation as I go along my day.  It was a recommendation from a priest to spend an hour in prayer and two, according to St. Gregory, when you are really busy.  The busy Christmas season is upon us, and for me busy, is always the order of the day.  That type of meditation is really hard to do and fit in my day, but today is Sunday, and I feel that spiritual work is in order. 

This entry is going to be shorter than usual because I have to clean and pack and generate a grocery shopping list for Friday.  (Oooh, a government feast day should be in the novel.)

Here’s to planning and mapping our creative work and creative lives. 
 
==========================
A Novel:  The Harvest
            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 Ashley wants to trace that deep indentation with her 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 our 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 because she too is too old to be productive anymore.
            “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, it 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 playful, 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.”
            I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J.  Intact.”  Almost everyone I have seen harvested is bloody mess. 
            “The 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.