New Title 2 by Thomas Jeffrey

Author:Thomas, Jeffrey [Thomas, Jeffrey]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Dark Regions Press
Published: 2010-07-09T07:00:00+00:00

- EIGHT -

Because he was hungry and had nothing in his fridge, but mainly because he had felt that his small flat was getting smaller and smaller, folding up like one of his pellets, Specola walked down the street to a Choom deli for a sprouts sandwich and a side of fried dilkies. Sitting at one of its few tables, directly in front of the window, he alternately watched vehicles pass in the street and customers queue up to the counter. A pretty college student wearing a T-shirt that featured the popular music star Del Kahn, both of them Earthers like himself, bought a salad and took it to a table not far from his. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, staining it lightly with flourescent orange lipstick, and lay the half-crumpled napkin to one side. Specola shifted his surreptitious gaze from her pretty face to the stained napkin. Only Del Kahn seemed to be watching what he was doing.

The young woman didn’t notice that the napkin was missing until she wanted to dab her lips again. She looked under the table briefly, then simply plucked another one out of a dispenser on her table.

Specola sensed the tightly folded bit of paper inside him. He imagined his astral fingertips could feel the paper’s texture, even the waxy residue of her lips, despite the tightness of the package. But when he began to pull it free, so as to unfold it, so as to materialize it beside his own plate, it wouldn’t come. Just wouldn’t come.

Was it more than just the insect, he wondered? Had it complicated matters that Angelika added his blood, his spit, bodily fluids to his paints? No: expired cells. Specola was sure that dead skin cells, oil from fingertips, had marred every object he had ever internalized. No: it was that butterfly. That poor, damned butterfly. First trapped by Gulag. Now trapped by himself, even more cruelly.

The college student left and he left shortly after her, though they walked in opposite directions, and when Specola got to the lime-colored tenement building he found two men sitting on its front stoop drinking coffee from disposable cups. When they saw him coming, one nudged the other and they stood up. For an insane moment, Specola thought he should turn and run in the direction that the young woman had taken. Instead, he fought to keep his step regular and casual, and he even smiled when the two men moved toward him. He recognized them now as two more of Mr. Coelacanth’s cadre; the taller man, with his eyeballs dyed metallic blue to match his metallic blue afro, was Jerly Bonsu, and the short muscular mutation with the ugly tapir-like snout and lidless, runny eyes was Jack Happy. Bonsu smiled—such friendly people in Mr. Coelacanth’s little family—and maybe the snort from Jack Happy’s little trunk held a similarly affable meaning.

“Hey, Fritzie,” said Bonsu in greeting. “We were worried when we saw you weren’t home. We thought you’d jumped a tube to the Outback Colonies or something.

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