"Of course it does," an

  Impact Zone person started by answering a frantic question from a young person, "Does global order change?"  

  This was back when the Soviet Union was weakening and coming apart.  Geopolitical entities can and do change.  And so relationships change. 

  "Changes happen because of natural disasters, wars, epudemics, drugs," the man looked down and just briefly far away.  Grief.

  "What should we talk first?" The world leader who'd managed to survive "a purge" of existing establishment, spoke.  It seemed like a "miracle" to a lot of people.  People who'd walked side by side people trying to survive a lot of change.

"You KITties coming up with

  a comprehensive summary?" An Executive asked. 

  A middle-ager not anything by association had done an "awake overnight" to quick-read a bunch of stuff.  "Well, history does show that the team touched on all the key points about an economical picture." 

  "And we don't seek to erase 

  "Or revise 

  "Our 

  "World 

  "history," they'd finished the sentencing together.  Another young person let a binderfull of paperwork crash to the floor.  Bitterly frustrated, someone mouthed.  "Perfect.  You're all just perfect.  To the point of finishing each other's sentences and," stood up, nobody flinch, flipped a tie up off a breast, "So matchy-matchy." 

  "Point is," the little like-minded knot in the stream of just talking kept on, "Even in the Revolutionary War days there was a not-greatly-publicized separation of powers before 

  "Different unifications as the battles happened." 

  "Wouldn't that have left people, sometimes, feeling very lonely?" The frustrated person asked.  "Come sit," said the middle-ager.  "Make room," said people who'd been forging skills at steely boundaries.  "And isolated," the middle-ager said holding up a Blackberry like the one the frustrated person had turned to grab before joining the talks.

Shuttle buses, cabs, and more flights

  for the American public piece-mealed by education-type and rank.  Young and middle-aged "baby boomers" accused of not caring were alive with an Americanism that tended to let Ozzie and the Beav play on, for Dad.  While they were fueling their passions for democracy IN A republic. 

  "Their coming out of the woodwork!" A young person in the 1990s didn't really complain. 

     "Anyone else's ego need feel better?" A personal trainer asked aboard one flight.  This was after kindofsorta a loss-win which perspective was helping people to understand.  But it was before there was much open discussion of private influence on the public.  "Can I get a massage?" A tight-muscled from precipice stress asked the seat in front of him. 

  "There are barely adult children in my book funding themselves and America's missions as National Guardspeople.  I don't give a rat's ass about egos and tired people." A woman's voice settled that flight into working trip right away. 

  Lawyers deciding which cases to pop and which to display on shelves quietly detailed major issues and sticking points.  While some people snored and drooled. 

  On the way to and from the bathrooms people leant an ear and gave little pieces of advice.  There was agreement about keeping eyes on the ball, and, state of play.  There was also acknowledgments aboard, "I don't know enough about that to say at this time," and, "Let me do some digging." Hard won confidences in a hard world put forth hedges like I'll find out; means I'll have to be in touch with so-and-so; I can do that. 

"We don't need to have a cock fight about this," said

  the only Reporter who'd made it out of a scorch.  No one could believe it.  The fire-fighting had re-directed all traffic further from safety zones in the territorial disputes over the California land. 

  Every car we'd mustered was promptly shot to shit.  We'd managed to crawl through choking smoke only to wind up on a "pot farm", get shot at some more, and tricked into respite from jumping off a cliff into a ravine. 

  "BE THE ONE WHO GETS AWAY!" A Communications Officer ordered and then kicked any still standing.  They scrambled, clenched, scraped, tumbled and rolled towards...something. 

  A world-renowned journalist expected Overseas hours before mocked the whiner.  "Nobody told me it was this bad.  Nobody told me to find out.  Nobody told that fine, that means it REALLY IS a WAR on everything!!!  Waaaaaaah.  Git!!!!". Back towards abandoned mansions. 

  "No." A person stomped both feet and threw fists at the ground.  "I'll shoot you."  

  "Shoot at me then.  But if you don't miss MY HUSBAND WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND," made the slit your throat gesture.  "Are you threatening me????" A shot went off and the person didn't move.  "We DIDN'T GET CHANCE TO DO THE THING SIR," someone else hollered. 

  "What thing?  What fucking thing?" The Officer yelled into the roar of smoke-filled air while looking down at the survivors in the ravine. 

  "We've been working multiple stories Sir and it's why we were coming in from the battlefield Sir.  Because the criss-cross can be devastating." "ARE YOU GOING TO LECTURE ME ON MY PROFESSION????????" 

  "NO SIR NO.  IT'S JUST THAT WE HAD THE FOOTAGE OF THE ASIAN ROBOTS BUTCHERING CONDO RESIDENTS, ELIMINATING EVIDENCE INCLUDING PEOPLE SIR, AND ACTING 'NORMAL' OUT FRONT OF THE condo, sir," lightheaded woozy took over the person.

  Fainting caught by the resistor to leaving.  And confirmation, they do it in hospitals and hotels the world over, long time now. 

Ordered: STAY

  Eventually, the batteries in the connective tissue radios died.

 

  Somewhere in the mix, back then, the power of sticking together, visual and written correspondence; art and writing, momentarily became a lethal deficit. 

  Some had been shoved behind enemy lines all over Europe because of the timing of policy and treaty filtering to the ground.  A spy nest happened to be where sudden infantry (moments before, pedestrians) "holed up" for as long as possible before having to follow, follow, move, move. 

  A strange thing had happened before being chased with flame throwers put people over that edge of truth is stranger than fiction.  A miniscule in the big geographic picture morning cook fire had drawn "locals" from a wooded area.  Only these had been staved from sudden death by being shown the photographs of professionals somewhere out there.  The place where the locals came from, a simple house, was then commandeered. 

  Before people were even shaking rest consciousness a person in a sheet came behind an innocent and slashed at throat.  Blood dripped through the frozen fingers of the hand that shot up "to feel" what was that.  The sight of a dropped folding knife with blood on it and the sound of footsteps in leaves, running away, explained what had just happened. 

  Not very long after gauzing the abrasion the group was shown the dozens of photographs, a hit list.  And the cut person's eyes welled with tears.  "That's not even me.  That's my sibling." 

  Eventually tackled and quartered the onis for "the botch" still fell on us.  Some of us lifelong friends had been in training together our whole lives.  And had, at different times, sworn before God and community, to uphold The Ten Commandments.  Thou shalt not kill, being one of those forced us to be clever.  Resistance, self-defence were set at the top of our priority lists with correspond.  A dis-arming "conversation" was all it took to break down warmode since the Arctic.  Seeing someone familiar before big-group clarification of tasks and goals had most likely significantly contributed to the mèlee that morning. 

  Although the debates about factors and instantly the past's actions are forever the skirmishes of history, in or out of a battlefield it is the God-given directive to survive.

"Hi! The Cherokee brought me."

  "Well, welcome to Durham," a highly clad in medals Salvation Army person stuck hands in pockets and propped out an elbow.  

  "Glad you could come," a more casually dressed person said from behind.  "Is that what that stance means? I mean, Are you interpreting?" The Salvation Army person broke into a grin.  "It's flu season.  I've a lot of elders in my territory, I mean community." 

  An elbow bump. 

  Inside some people seated at a round table.  One Forest Service person rose asking, "Did you meet her?  The Cherokee Delegate to Washington?!"  A man put a spiral-bound notebook in front of his face, balanced a laptop on his knees, and put his front teeth "bridge" into his mouth.  Notebook down.  "I need to see I.D. please." 

  Someone else explained, "In our State we databank Driver's Licenses." The man scanned the Identification.

  "You think young men are hard to pin down personality-wise, wait 'til you watch this," a female Reporter held up a videotape.  "Young women?" A Police Officer asked.  The Reporter nodded and said, "But I'm not sure how to describe what they are, uh, were doing." The officer didn't take the tape but instead said, "Let me get two other Observers." And left the area. 

  "Did you get to meet her?" The Reporter asked just as a man in dress pants and an all-black hoodie came into the room.  "What are you doing here?" The man looked over both of his own shoulders.  "We're, uh, trying to get permission to film something." 

  "Really?  I would've thought your people would've heard by now."  The man took a very compact Dictionary from the "kangaroo pouch" of his sweatshirt.  Handed it to the woman who flipped through the pages to get to the "M" section.  A very well-manicured fingernail made an indent on a big word. 

 

Stopped short of leaping into his arms.

  "That's a big smile." The military man noted out loud. 

  "Haven't seen you in a while Sir." 

  "And that makes you happy?" 

  "Not that I haven't seen you, but here you are in the flesh and blood." 

  "You don't have to call me Sir." 

  "Okay." Men normally in long pants and shirts and ties dashed, strode, and just appeared in through doors of the gymnasium.  "Why not?" 

  "Still friends right?!" 

  "For life." 

  "What is the purpose of this exercise?"  A tall man in tiny shorts asked above heads. 

  "Just an icebreaker," the military man who was obviously short stood on toes and threw his voice in response. 

  "No whistles," a door moderator told a group of personal trainers moving as a group towards entering. 

     Grimaces, sighs, yelps, and grunts as the men warmed up.  Good overall health, a woman in a jogging suit commented.  Other military professionals mixed themselves into the room of stretching.  Each with a soft, strip of beans in fabric, brightly colored and long enough to forge a little perimeter around their selves. 

  Pretend we are in Outer Space, the leader of the exercise announced.  One younger man busted into a moondance.  "Pretending," another said with eyes shut.  "Looks dahchk," someone else described.  The military professionals donned hats, each with a NATO flag on the top. 

"We split it." The kid said

  of the one banana.  Repeating what the grownup had said.  Perfect mimicry although the child didn't know English.  Each person had a copy of the U.S. Constitution to ponder.  Little hands tried to re-assemble the banana in the now limp banana peel.  But the fruit was gone.  Trying to imagine the banana back in its peel didn't make it really there. 

  "So maybe it's like, uh, like..." The lifelong fisherman pretended he couldn't think of anything so the ladies would think of stuff.  No one wanted to or knew how even to just talk about it.  "You make a beautiful poem," another man spoke in English, each little word like a little box with a bunch of stuff in it.  A woman re-capped a thermos of tea.  Wiped the tiny forks and sugar cube tongs.  Folded a cloth napkin.  And put the items back into the backpack basket.  Then she sat.  Young body, weary countenance. 

  "Like the little fishing boat caught in the flotilla." She said almost sternly or with a gravity of understanding situation.  "We can use these! No?!" A man held up a Constitution. 

  "No one knows what's going on," a young teenage boy said of the busy port.  "Of course they don't," the father said heartily.  "Or maybe they do," the son said.  "And they just don't tell us?" The mother asked.  "Maybe everybody just knows what to do for themselves," the father said as he reached into a pocket for his wallet. "What if they forget?" 

  "What to do?" 

  "They default." 

  "To what?" 

  "To just breathing and I don't know," the father looked around at everything larger than little humans, "Just be amazed." 

  "Not much luck," a batchelor emptied a breast pocket of crumpled receipts and an un-neatly folded map.  The stewardess ticked off flavor of soda on a small sheet of choice.

"There are always dead bodies," a more senior

  Coroner was explaining to a wide audience about his profession.  

  The world's eye on protests had brought a generic potential-to-see-truths to many locales.  People with histories of gathering facts for newspapers, the legal system, and works of writing and art milled about on the periphery of what was largely and loosely being called disturbing the peace. 

  "Disturbing the peace doesn't explain this." A woman held up photographs of various bodies on the ground.  "And, these."  People turned from the Crime Scene Investigators still prepping supplies and gathered around the woman with dark undereyes and skin seeming to slip away from bones.

"It's poppycock!" A man stormed off.

  "A load of hogwash!" Another man declared equally as strong-voiced.  But he stood there. 

  All manner of pre-shower'd young people had formed a line in the street.  Low talking, coughs, reeking of alcohols.  The only way "out" was through a collapsible tube that looked like a sewer pipe or giant Slinky. 

  The propaganda had been a blitz.  "Mindfucked!" A tall boy spoke for those around him since he'd said that several times and nobody else argued.  "They are crushing our innocence!" Someone else in the line announced.  "Honey I've seen you in action for the past week.  YOU are not an innocent," a drawly voice lobbed a truth to the announcement. 

  Eyes darting towards any and all movement on the sidewalks.  Body heats melding as one vibe of stay strong.  "Like we can stay anything of ourselves.  This world is ripping us apart," someone said with a seriousness like entering a church. 

  Sets of parents began perusing the line, spotting mines and there you ares.  Some handed things to theirs.  Wallets and ties and jackets and clumps of money and shoes and whatever paperworks had been left behind in the call to stick together.  "So we can all get clubbed at once?" A firm-boned, hazy eyed young man in a filthy oxford shirt hiccup'd and assertfully asked.  Others otherwise in good general health retrieved stashed sachels and backpacks from behind counters and stuffed on shelves of books and pottery.  "Are we going home yet?"  Males and females acting incuspicuous about romance were timing near each other as they casualized a near-desperate search for schoolmates and knew 'm ats. 

 

"It's only an Anarchy between

  the haves and have nots." A book Publisher had a list of contacts.  "I'm not that old, but it's the same at the start of any warring." 

  "It's a gutfest," said a bubbly drunk on beer guy whose tee-shirt was shortening over his roundening belly.  Some guys were smashing their guts against each other.  "Like a beer brotherhood?" A young woman asked.  "Eggzaxly!" 

  "Where are you coming from?" A nurse asked people as they filed in and out of what was still open in Greenland.  "What news?" 

  Some Belgians and French were seen huddling together.  The young wives informed of scientific prize, "seed money" for startups and investing, and crates of stolen military equipment.  "They don't have these," a plain clothes U.S. military service person rattled the few bullets left from hunting food in a thin cardboard box.  "Does he have a gut?" A young lady asked a woman.  "What kind of question is that?" 

  "There's a bit of a beerfest in there." Was said and indicated by a slight turning of the body.  "Why I'll..." the wife stalked towards the keg room.