"Where are you?"

  "Well you're the one who called me, you should know." 

  "But it's a cell phone." 

  "It smells like a jungle." 

  "Are you saying (i)you don't know(i)?" 

  "I'll call you back." 

  Guys snoring all over the sofa.  Dark kitchen.  Sink water.  Glass hitting against faucet in a (i)scared ya(i).  The voice quiet but loud.  "So you're their woman now?!" 

  "Not sure about that.  Or anything really, after last night." 

  "What happened last night?" Lights flicked on.  Barefeet.  Smooth broadboard floor.  Face being looked at closely.  "I, uh, guess, um, it depends on who you ask." 

  "Well, I'm asking you.  And this is Greece by the way.  It smells like vegetation and air and Sea, not a jungle." 

  "Might smell like a jungle to me." 

  "I didn't ask you that." 

  Silence.  She finished pouring a glass of water.  Strong slender hand brushing spilled water into sink.  Staring.  "Did you want it back in the glass? I know my sons said you're (i)conservative(i)." 

  "I'm in an apolitical couple days." 

  "It didn't look like much." 

  "You saw us?" 

  "Sitting on the sofa all night." 

  "But it seemed like we weren't."  The smooth back of a hand to a forehead.  "Feverish?" 

  "Not really.  We've just done so much traveling together and other stuff and not really, like a break.  Like when you swim all day and are still swimming in bed at night." 

  "Everybody up!" The woman flicked on lights in the sitting room.  The guys came to.  "I like her," she announced.  Yawns.  Scratches.  "Wild dreams." 

  "Maybe because we were talking about the leopard." 

"Whoa." One of the three girl women said.

  (i)whoa(i) said another.  The third, "Big whoa". 

  "Mind blown?" Asked the guy. 

  Nods and one feeling the outside of her head. 

  "What (i)do you(i) think about that?" 

  The man cringed.  "Honestly I think you should all be women of the Bible." 

  "Well, that's not happening.  That was a long time ago." 

  "Yeah, they're not writing anything new in there." 

  "But," one thought hard, "I can't really believe this is all (i)narrative(i) now either." 

  "Should we cancel this?" A subsciption which stood or laid on the table like a bird that had smacked into a glass replica of sky. 

  "Not only that, but, doesn't it mean, like, I mean, everybody writes different right?!" Everyone nodded and eyed the mod Lit magazine.  "So wouldn't that mean there's a lot of versions of the narrative?" 

  One person slightly turned and held on to the back of a chair.  Another dug through shelves for a dictionary.  "Does it mean we're just (i)pretenders(i)?" 

  "Why are the bills still sitting on the table?" 

  The guy looked up over his reading glasses.  "Well, that's (i)their(i) narrative.  I don't feel I owe that much." 

  "Maybe it's like, like, um, like how we all went to war and (i)fought hard(i) but since then, um, some of us don't believe in war." 

  "Okay, I just gotta say, I meet Veterans everyday missing legs and other things, and (i)war is real(i)." 

  "Of course! Not saying it's not (i)real(i)." 

  "What are you saying?" 

  "Maybe.  I dunno.  This (i)is hard(i), especially out loud." 

  "We're not (i)the judges(i)." 

  "What happens in Vegas?" 

  "Like maybe that's what it means." A glance at the sequestered magazine. 

  "Like everybody has an (i)opinion(i)!" 

  "Everybody does." 

"What did your scab say?"

  "Why?" 

  "Well, that's probably what got published." 

  "From the mouth of babes." 

  "Where'd you all come from?" 

  "Derbyland." 

  "Paducah?" 

  "Paducah.  Must've been." 

  "Planeloads." 

  "Of those?" 

  "Disguised as us." 

  "At least (i)on paper(i)." 

"We have to be really careful about

  sharing words," was said amongst work groups.  "What did you say?" A writer/editor type asked as a wrecking ball thwacked the building upstairs.  Someone rolled up the blueprints. 

  "Why?" 

  "Because we're in multi-disciplinary, multi-cultural groups today." 

  "Why's that matter?" 

  "Timing, processes." 

  "Union fighting." 

  "Strike that please." 

  "Why?" 

  "Not allowed to say fighting." 

  "Like not allowed to say God in certain places?!" 

  "Uh huh.  Move your feet, lose your seat." 

  "Lose your seat, it's the freezer or the abyss." 

  Dust clouding the street air, coating thrift store outfits and hardhats.

The tales of the 1990s decade

  were some scattered, some lost, and some as reminders of the complexities of cultural, land, and resource warring. 

  At points throughout there wasn't hardly anyone who wouldn't affirm, (i)this is all warfare(i).  "It couldn't be," both peace activists and strategic deniers swore.  Behind closed doors and in gravely serious tones there was concern. 

  At the same time (i)adherence to values(i) was hammering on the shield of unity.  It wasn't that American unity didn't exist, but the greater forces were swirling most issues into "gray area" and so, posing much of realism into opposition.  In the Arts, Letters, Medical, and Military most issues became cases, and then the arguments of "What are you? A special case?" 

  There was vehemence to social justice especially as what had been a democratic Republic corporatized.  Stalwarts defending the USA, USA were often left wondering about (i)homeland(i) and which jurisdiction "the issue" fell into.  Whichever, thwarters to the success of the Country (i)for everyone(i) found purchase in institutions and attending processes which could be jolted in various ways and even disrupted. 

  "Our propaganda isn't holding up Cap'n," techies were on the brunt end of conversations about (i)How could this happen?(i). But like churches assuming they just weren't "outreaching" properly, the world was shifting quicksand.  There was an (i)all hands on deck(i), (i)put your thinking caps on(i) sentiment to the camps and groupings, but also derailments.  And plenty of bulldozing and occupation too. 

  "Since when did Intellectual become an Occupation?" A blank stare, been-at-the-office-all-day person asked a pauper who filed anyway.  No answer; such was the churn of "crazy" running its courses.  Physical bodies displaced by ideology and ideas/monies.  (i)Nothing new(i), the poor shrugged it off...one more day and...

  "(i)There are rules(i)," people manning anything smacking of "community" warned.  A lot of ambitious people took that as the thing to fight against.  Some (i)within reason(i), many no holds bar, and intriguers bothered to lie. 

  "Let's just do our own thing," was a sort of "Don't tread on me" that was mostly fun and games (i)until(i). 

  "You gave him all dah money?" 

  "Money's not real real." The credit bills mounted and the debt rose and rose and rose. 

  "Can I have a pair of pants?" People in Services asked.  "You may buy a pair," most were told.  "It's the same thing at Staples." 

  Joining Services was made an impalpably heavier weight in decision-making despite the Sterns reminding, (i)Three square in prison(i).  By that time ex-cons might quip, "Yeah two pieces of white bread and something called bologna." 

  "How do we re-find (i)our sense of(i)..." an interpreter named group feelings because of "fine print" attached even to Happy Meals. 

  There were a lot of (i)interim phases(i). 

  At a Salvation Army shelter... 

     "Are you really going to go?" 

     "To the women's group?" 

     A terse nod.  "Hell no.  My man be coming up.  I saved $6.99 for a Big Mac we gonna share." 

  The younger girl making mental notes of every word, every expression, every breath.  A ranked woman coming along.  "Is the gab work-related?" 

  "No m'am." Eyes sinking lights. 

  "Then I suggest you zip it." 

  "I am." Another woman called out. 

  The younger girl hiding a sudden look of astonishment.  "Her hair pretty too." 

  "It is," said the bigger sister type.  "Why don't you find out her beauty secrets." 

  "Seems stacked against us." 

  "It does." The man, newly salaried, immovable on both working. 

  Inside a van..." technology" cramming every inch/centimeter...

  "Bloody farthead! Show me that friggin' thing again [an atomic clock counting down to nuclear wasteland] and I'll, (i)I'll(i) 

  The stock photo flashed again. 

  "Gimme that joystick," one man to another.  Text moves on one monitor enabled a grenade launcher and (i)whoooosh(i) the man verbally penned the sound into a microphone.  A guy a half a world away grunted an (i)Oy(i) and literally put a moped visor in front of a videocamera that had written lettering that read: 

          SPLAT 

  "Welcome to the postmodern world superimposed on everything we thought we knew." 

"We'll let you opine then."

  It was a long way until then. 

  "It's more like the end of that book," an eye glance in the direction of a knapsack's contents.  "At least, right now, there, like a tide went out." 

  Physical bodies sitting on a train of a building's second floor.  Might have been a split ranch mall, but had been some sort of palace.  A diversity of writers and editors, videographers, documentarists, movie makers, visionaries and fact finders.  Minds flying around to (i)make sense(i) of it, (i)war(i). 

  "How do you think I feel?!  You've used me as a, a thumbtack!" 

  "Do you mean pushpin?" 

  "I mean," the woman looked around at the enormous walls of the place, "I mean to say that all my life I've (i)reported(i) these things, (i)NOT(i) established frontlines." 

  "At least there weren't flamethrowers." 

  "You keep out of it." 

  "How can I? It's literally all around us." 

  "Don't catch the fever!  It's madness." 

  "Is she angry?" 

  "She has an actual deadline." 

  "What is it?" 

  "It's supposed to be a fish.  I paid for a fresh catch du jour." 

  "Honey, nothing is fresh here this time of year."  A man gently smacked the nightgowned woman on the duffer.  "Oooooo, except the men." 

  The brown paper tied with a bakery string was put on a table.  Carefully opened.  Newspapers and a handgun. 

  People milling about made espresso and started reading the papers. 

  One from the States had eyeholes cut in the print.  People carefully opened each newspaper.  A column missing here, a column glued beside another column there. 

  "There must be one from every country here." 

  Another woman barefoot padded into the kitchen. 

  "She doesn't have her glasses on," someone narrated. "Get my purse," she ordered as she stuck a used tea bag in her mouth. 

  "It's not ON THE BOOT." 

  "Do you feel kidnapped?" 

  "Is there an island, uh, south of the boot?" 

  "Several." 

  "Keep looking." 

"Sit in (i)that(i) seat."

  From the jumpseat then, letting the overwhelming "feelings" still in camera shots explaining "what's up?".  

  "Hopelessness is despair." 

  "Despair is a sin.  It's disobeying God who sent us Jesus." 

  Flags curtly wagon-circled. 

  "It was the civilians," someone explained to (i)needed to happen yesterday(i) elders, (i)greatest generation(i). 

  "They're freaking out 'cuz they don't (i)believe(i) there are all those troops." 

  "Take the photos." 

  "But you don't understand." 

  "I understand very well." Diminished light from another room caught the woman's face in a sort of pinhole.  The rifle butt bruise taking on a shape bigger and more serious than the hockey stick shape being fought about as people may have fought over an only log cabin on the Old West frontier. 

"In many ways," the palm-sized hologram explained,

  "All this started with your father and I trying to understand our own mortality." 

  Leaves falling, little snapping sounds of stems broken by hardfrost. 

  "We gotta go," said one of the young men in a formal club sportcoat. 

  "I'm not ready," another admitted gently. 

  "We can talk about this more, later." 

  "But it was all I had." 

  "They can see the ring in the face shield!  And (i)those(i)," yet another young man held up a scrap of shredded clothing symbolizing which group, "Are on the square perimeter, on foot." 

  "Commander?" 

  The text layer over the hologram of the long lost mother was a see-through countdown of self-destructing. 

"Break out the dimes."

  The man's wife found somebody she trusted and gave the box emptied of sweets but filled with dimes to the person.  "He's the trucker our group is sponsoring," the woman said.  "Does he bring the milk to the school?" 

  "Different kind of truck," she said while pulling a sandwich bag of beef jerky out of her little purse.  "Why don't you want to see him?" 

  "It's not that! But, I, we, me and the kids want him to feel, uh, (i)better(i) about his role as Dad." 

  "Oh.  And why dimes?" 

  "The gas went up nine cents overnight!" 

  "How'd you guys know that?" 

  "Grapevine." 

  Lights on the semitrucks were starting to come on after wee hour naps. 

The mother turned the TV off.

  "Hey! What are you doing?" 

  "Whaddya do that for?" 

  "Aw.  Bye Raymond." 

  "Maybe that's what's (i)dumbing us down(i)." The mother put the remote in a drawer. 

  "We're not dumb." 

  "Are we?" 

  "I'll be in my room.  What kind of world is this? Our own mother calling us (i)dumb(i)." 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the room hushed.

  "I will now, I would like to, introduce y'all to America's first All Black newspaper since the NorthStar graced the peeping eyes of those who could read, (i)those who DARED to read(i)." 

  People looked around to see who might be embodying such contraban in the Old South. 

  Tuxedo'd servers outlayed cloth napkins.