Clone story 7
This one comes to you from Marcie Clemensdale of Oat Grove, NM...
I spin out clones on a daily basis and I'm grateful for it. But there are less fortunate people out there that can't get their clones out as quickly as people like me and my ilk. We call these people "morons", and I'm no exception. I hate them. I've only met one of them (not intentionally), and this story is about our clandestine exchange. It was October 1984 and I was doing what I don't normally do : walking around outside at night by myself. I had a large entourage of fresh clones at my heels (many of them crawling, due to the Feet Censures of the era), so I felt well protected and suitably nourished emotionally. One of them, a version identical to me in all ways except an inability to furrow the brow, asked me pleasant questions about the day's events, which I proudly answered. I was distracted and therefore didn't notice the figure of a little boy creeping up the sidewalk towards me. I didn't see him reach a small pincer into my chest and squeeze. The intimate action had a paralyzing effect on me and I froze. My clones, on the other hand, could still utilize their motility; they silently raised their arms (those that had them anyway) in unison. The child shrieked and coughed. It looked weak. In my dazzled state, I concentrated on memorizing the boy's hat signature, knowing full well that urchins were coded and organized strictly within the federal child-bins before release. With the right input sig., this boy could be put right back where he came from immediately. I hasten to add at this point that I fully admit to being a "product of my age". I was 19 at the time and fully living out my socio-cultural role-reputation of a "prejudiced twenty-minus-one".
You can imagine my youthful surprise when I noticed the boy was not wearing a hat! Furthermore, it wasn't a boy at all, but an unusually large insect. The size of the bug confused me until I realized with great surprise that it was not in fact large at all, but actually quite small and traditionally scaled. Further study of the boy allowed me to conclude that it wasn't even there at all, and that I was simply imagining it. Once I had calmed down and could look around me with my senses intact, I could finally detect that there was in fact a boy there in my immediate environs, wearing a hat and squeezing my chest with his outstretched claw-like fingers.
My clones, now with arms akimbo, formed the Barrel. For those not in the know, the Barrel Posture is a defensive measure used temporarily for hunger. One clone can form a Barrel, and more than two can; but not two. Two clones cannot form a Barrel. I was lucky on this October night for I did not have two clones with me: I had a dozen and a half. Three of them, I'll grant you, were my friend Bill, but I count Bill as a clone because of the loose scriptments set forth in the '81 mandates, and also, because I was a young person living alone in China and these sorts of things happen to the likes of me all the time and with no recourse. At any rate, my clones were Barreling and making music. I stood back to let them satiate for the boy. Without warning, the boy spoke:
"Please, marm. Please. Can you spare a clone?"
I reeled back in horror. This boy was not a clone? The thought coursed shots of revulsion through my veins. So this was on of those "morons" that the men liked to joke about at the local bar, I mused. How did he come to meet me here, and why? Perhaps I misheard him. Or was this farce? I tested him:
"Go straight home. Your mother calls you."
He stared at me blankly, looked around him. His face betrayed his confusion.
"No, marm. For I have no mother. I am only twice."
So it was true, I thought, true that a "moron" was talking to me. I did what any sensible person would do, I announced my hatred:
"I hate you. Leave this place."
He did. And I laughed at him as he went. The clones, still Barreling, were appropriately sad. I kicked one of them in the shins and laughed harder. One of the Bills gave me a disapproving look. Later, I reported him to Bill, threatening to call Flat Caves if he didn't get the problem fixed. A clone of me, outfitted with a surger's mask, gave me a high-five and attempted a smile. It pleased me. The other clones would learn from this one. When we returned to my house, I stepped into the parlor, closed the door, and leaned against the wall. I was content. No one would know of my run-in with the moron twice-boy. And yet, what an experience it was.
Years later, I would tell the story to anyone who would hear it. I sewed words from it into my nation's flags and inserted references to it into my poetry and local breakfasts. I am more proud now, as a result. The pride produced no swelling, I am more than happy to report.
****
Marcie Clemensdale is an old lady for the Parmesha Transfer.
I spin out clones on a daily basis and I'm grateful for it. But there are less fortunate people out there that can't get their clones out as quickly as people like me and my ilk. We call these people "morons", and I'm no exception. I hate them. I've only met one of them (not intentionally), and this story is about our clandestine exchange. It was October 1984 and I was doing what I don't normally do : walking around outside at night by myself. I had a large entourage of fresh clones at my heels (many of them crawling, due to the Feet Censures of the era), so I felt well protected and suitably nourished emotionally. One of them, a version identical to me in all ways except an inability to furrow the brow, asked me pleasant questions about the day's events, which I proudly answered. I was distracted and therefore didn't notice the figure of a little boy creeping up the sidewalk towards me. I didn't see him reach a small pincer into my chest and squeeze. The intimate action had a paralyzing effect on me and I froze. My clones, on the other hand, could still utilize their motility; they silently raised their arms (those that had them anyway) in unison. The child shrieked and coughed. It looked weak. In my dazzled state, I concentrated on memorizing the boy's hat signature, knowing full well that urchins were coded and organized strictly within the federal child-bins before release. With the right input sig., this boy could be put right back where he came from immediately. I hasten to add at this point that I fully admit to being a "product of my age". I was 19 at the time and fully living out my socio-cultural role-reputation of a "prejudiced twenty-minus-one".
You can imagine my youthful surprise when I noticed the boy was not wearing a hat! Furthermore, it wasn't a boy at all, but an unusually large insect. The size of the bug confused me until I realized with great surprise that it was not in fact large at all, but actually quite small and traditionally scaled. Further study of the boy allowed me to conclude that it wasn't even there at all, and that I was simply imagining it. Once I had calmed down and could look around me with my senses intact, I could finally detect that there was in fact a boy there in my immediate environs, wearing a hat and squeezing my chest with his outstretched claw-like fingers.
My clones, now with arms akimbo, formed the Barrel. For those not in the know, the Barrel Posture is a defensive measure used temporarily for hunger. One clone can form a Barrel, and more than two can; but not two. Two clones cannot form a Barrel. I was lucky on this October night for I did not have two clones with me: I had a dozen and a half. Three of them, I'll grant you, were my friend Bill, but I count Bill as a clone because of the loose scriptments set forth in the '81 mandates, and also, because I was a young person living alone in China and these sorts of things happen to the likes of me all the time and with no recourse. At any rate, my clones were Barreling and making music. I stood back to let them satiate for the boy. Without warning, the boy spoke:
"Please, marm. Please. Can you spare a clone?"
I reeled back in horror. This boy was not a clone? The thought coursed shots of revulsion through my veins. So this was on of those "morons" that the men liked to joke about at the local bar, I mused. How did he come to meet me here, and why? Perhaps I misheard him. Or was this farce? I tested him:
"Go straight home. Your mother calls you."
He stared at me blankly, looked around him. His face betrayed his confusion.
"No, marm. For I have no mother. I am only twice."
So it was true, I thought, true that a "moron" was talking to me. I did what any sensible person would do, I announced my hatred:
"I hate you. Leave this place."
He did. And I laughed at him as he went. The clones, still Barreling, were appropriately sad. I kicked one of them in the shins and laughed harder. One of the Bills gave me a disapproving look. Later, I reported him to Bill, threatening to call Flat Caves if he didn't get the problem fixed. A clone of me, outfitted with a surger's mask, gave me a high-five and attempted a smile. It pleased me. The other clones would learn from this one. When we returned to my house, I stepped into the parlor, closed the door, and leaned against the wall. I was content. No one would know of my run-in with the moron twice-boy. And yet, what an experience it was.
Years later, I would tell the story to anyone who would hear it. I sewed words from it into my nation's flags and inserted references to it into my poetry and local breakfasts. I am more proud now, as a result. The pride produced no swelling, I am more than happy to report.
****
Marcie Clemensdale is an old lady for the Parmesha Transfer.
