A Facsimile of Spring by Mike Lee, strawberry milkshake

 

1979

 

“Don’t dawdle,” her mother had told Irene since childhood. It was far back in her life. Mom may have said it the day she was born. In their teenage years, Mom would come home from graduate school, usually say a quick hello to Irene, working on homework at the dinner table before moving on to the bedroom. She closed the door and stayed there early evening, even after Dad came home.

Dad had a study, off in the back, facing the garage. He went inside, usually only beyond saying, “Hi, pumpkin.” He rarely asked how his daughter’s day went—at least that was as far as she could remember, teenage memory being all that. Irene’s childhood years consisted of locked compartments.

Relationships with parents generally set the pattern for the future, or so several therapists and scuffed-up friends who meant well told her.

Meant well, for Irene, remained mixed. Being told what was wrong with her, even at its most gentle, made her mad.

Yet that would be years later. After Irene’s father closed the office door, she munched on some baby carrots while struggling with Algebra III.

Night fell. Irene turned the kitchen light. Dad left the office and went into the bedroom. He rarely says good night unless he is in a good mood. He hardly feels the latter.

Irene was used to his behavior. After finishing her Advanced English Composition homework, she covered the carrots in plastic wrap. After placing them in the fridge, she gathered her things from the desk and went to her room.

 

1984

 

“How Soon Is Now” was playing. It was mid-October, cool enough for Irene to wear her navy sailor midi dress. The Smiths 12-inch single on the turntable and this song on the B-side is everything Irene had felt since rebellion was about dawdling. This was better than spinning about of control, which some of her friends seemed to do.

Irene was done with college. The following summer, she bussed tables at the downtown hotel and made enough money to leave the family home—closed doors and all.

The night after Irene finished her move into the house in Clarksville, she wrote in her diary that it was hard to miss people who were not there, to begin with. Yes, there were times she fondly remembered, but her parents were so distant. This was hard for Irene to explain why. She summed it up with her parents were who they were. The bills were paid, and she was well-fed.

She stopped writing to put the needle back to the song’s beginning. The cacophonic burst of the tremolo from the guitar filled her room. Her roommates, Belle and Sherry, were at a show at The Beach watching their respective boyfriends’ bands, so there was no banging on the stripped-to-bare wood walls in the frame house built into the side of the hill.

Irene wrote of where she wanted to be. The direction she should take. After college, her friends talked about living in the velvet rut. After a degree in hand, most of them step off the stage to wait tables, work in bookstores, and while away the nights at parties, see more music, dance at gay bars on ten-cent Corona nights, and do morning swims at the lake.

Tonight, Irene wrote about that. Having lives in stasis and calculated alienation. We do not suffer, she wrote, but we are not particularly happy, either.

A month later, President Reagan was reelected in a landslide. After stepping out of a bookstore across from the University campus, a stranger—a woman perhaps a year younger than herself—turned to her and shouted, “We’re all going to die in a nuclear war!”

That night, Irene wrote again in her journal and asked Sherry about the wait position opening for weekend mornings at the restaurant where that cute boy worked.

 

1985

 

The cute boy, Eddie, was with Irene, sitting on the cinderblock wall on the side street behind the nightclub where Sherry’s boyfriend was opening for Camper Van Beethoven.

It was their first date.

It took several months of working shifts together, counting checks and money at the bar, and talking before one could ask the other out.

Eddie was kind, alternating distance with caring kindness akin to a cat. Irene could relate and felt comfortable.

Her parents remained distant; they seemed even more unapproachable now that she was out of college. They gave a whiff of preferring their daughter had returned home instead of living apart.

She wondered if she just wanted her to come into a box with them, and upon climbing in, hunkering down to her knees as her Dad closed and locked the cover, leaving them in silence and darkness.

Irene shuddered. She looked at Eddie and asked what he was doing after the shift.

They sat on the wall while the first band played. Irene was wearing a different Laura Ashley dress, white with blue flowers, and as she got comfortable, she wrapped her leg between Eddies.

Eddie put her arm around her shoulders. Irene grasped it. His fingers were long, not hard or soft, but warm, and she felt the energy within his fingers.

“It sure is hot,” Eddie said. “We didn’t need our jackets tonight.”

He talked about what made him happy, and Irene moved closer.

While Irene and Eddie spoke about what made each other mad, Irene suddenly kissed his neck with closed lips.

It felt warm and inviting. Trusting.

Irene linked her fingers with his.

He stared at her. “You have something to say.”

Irene said, “People in my life close their doors, but I’m ready to open mine—just a little.”

Eddie nodded, “I hear that. Where to?”

Irene smiled.

“Ice cream.”

 

About the author

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in CafeLit, Drunk Monkeys, and others. In addition, his story collection, The Northern Line, is available on online bookselling outlets 

 

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Sunday Serial, The House of Clementine by Gill James, orange juice,

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

As far as Kaleem could tell the voice was coming from outside of this building.

"Help. Is there anyone there? Help. Can you find me?"

The voice sounded familiar. It was definitely that of a female though he couldn't quite remember whose.

"Keep on shouting. I'll find you."

"Who are you?"

Kaleem hesitated. Should he reveal who he was? "Don't you have a communicator that works?"

The woman laughed. "That stopped working a long time ago."

He was now half way along the corridor that led to the outside. The voice was getting fainter again. So, she must be in the basement of another building nearby.

"Can you find anything to make a noise with?"

There was no reply. Never mind. Perhaps he'd be able to find her anyway. He sensed that she was to the right of him.

Then the tapping started. It sounded like metal on other metal. Good. She'd found something. 

The corridor now twisted and turned and gradually daylight mixed with the artificial light. The tapping was very faint but as soon as he was back at the surface and in the sunlight it became louder again. Yes, it was coming from the building next-door.

"I'm nearly there," Kaleem called.

He pushed open the door to the building and immediately found a simple staircase down to the cellar. Was this all a bit too easy? Was it some sort of trap?

"I think you're just above me now."

Now he recognised her voice. Dr Joahnsa Brooken. But it could still be a trap, couldn't it?

He crept down the stairs, looking and listening all the time. There were several doors in a hallway. One was partly open. He pushed it with his foot. It opened completely and artificial light flooded the room.

There she was. A very good holo or the real thing. Dr Joahnsa Brooken. But looking tired and a little dirty.

"I knew it," she cried. "I recognised your voice."

Kaleem nodded. "How long have you been here?"

"A long time. And it's a long story."

"Well, it'll take us quite a while to get back to civilisation. No doubt you'll be able to tell me on the way."

"I can’t move just yet. I've been tied up a long time. And gagged."

Kaleem frowned. "There's no sign of any ropes or a gag now."

"No. That's the puzzling thing. The ropes and the gag just disappeared a short while ago. That's when I started shouting. The room went warmer and stopped smelling so putrid. Then every time I moved a little the light came on for a few seconds."

She started rubbing her legs and arms vigorously.

"Tell me then."     

"It was actually about a week after you came to see me with Petri and Rozia." She paused and sighed. "That poor child. That's just another regrettable part of this whole business. And I just happened to be working on some ideas about how we might further help her. I was really getting somewhere. It was such a pity.

"Anyway, the door communicator sounded and two officials from the One World Community Steering Group presented themselves."

"You let them in?"

"Not straight away, no."

"What made you think they were genuine?"

"They passed all the identification tests. The dataserve didn't pick up any discrepancies. They checked out with the One World Site."

Kaleem nodded. "And what did they want?"  

She bit her lip. "What a fool I was. But they were convincing. They told me they wanted me to work on some top-secret disease control with a specialised community."

"The Daschians?"

"Yes. The Daschians."

"Why them?"

"Because they live a simpler life. Lived, I should say. Disease spread more quickly but immunity also increased more easily."

"And is that what you've been doing?"

Joahnsa rolled her eyes. "Not exactly."

"When did you realise that it was a con?"

"It took a long time, actually. When I first got here, everything seemed normal. They gave me an apartment that suited my status. You know, comfortable, bordering on luxurious. If anything, it was slightly nicer than my normal one. Nice view of the woodlands from the window. State of the art dataserve. Better finishes on the furnishings."

"What about the journey?"

"Again totally luxurious." She rubbed her eyes. "But looking back there was a bit of a clue there, I suppose. I was kept totally isolated. I wasn't allowed to talk to other passengers. In fact I'm not sure there were other passengers."

A whole supercraft just for her? That didn't seem believable. "Was that uncomfortable, being so alone?"

She laughed. "They gave me plenty of work to do. Besides, I don't keep a lot of company normally. I'm usually too absorbed in my work."       

"What was it like, then, working with the Daschians?"

"Fine. Absolutely fine. They're just normal people, you know. They've just always been a bit isolated."

This sounded familiar. "Just normal people". That was what he found over and over again. He'd met plenty of isolated communities. He'd even belonged to one himself once. "So, what were the particular outcomes of the isolation for them?"

"A low level of attachments so the community was gradually dying out. Fear of letting outsiders in because they might bring disease."

Oh even more familiar. But they didn't seem to suffer from the poverty he'd seen in Terrestra's former Z Zone. "But there were no problems with supplies of food or energy?"

Joahnsa shook her head. "No. All supplies were delivered by droid. Droids maintained all life support systems as well. The Daschians had no need to contact other universals."

"So tell me more about the work that you did."

Joahnsa shook her head. "It seemed perfectly legitimate. I did find a defect in them. Every single member of the Daschian community I tested was suffering from an as yet not recognised disease that stopped their immune system functioning properly. It may be that at some point in the past they knew this but have since forgotten. That may have been why they isolated themselves."

"So it all sounds like legitimate research. So why did the One World Community want you to do it and why so secretly?"

"Because for a starter, they weren't the One World Community. They were really working for Exton."

"So, nothing to do with you helping a couple of Terrestrans?"

"I don't think they were even aware of that. No, they wanted to scare the Daschians."

"Why?"

"To help convince other Zenotons that Exton is right."

"I don't follow."

"The Daschians make only a little contribution to the Zenoton economic life. They did some outsourced work. If the Zenoton enabling system is going to be replaced by a monetarist one, they may not have survived anyway. In such a system they would not be able to get the medical aid they are almost certainly going to need in the future." Joahnsa covered her eyes. "It was my job to show them that."         

  "When did you realise there was something wrong?"

"It took a long time. It really did. It only started to become clear two days before the suicides."

"So what happened?"

"All three executives seemed on edge and then one started threatening me. Told me I'd better get on with reaching a conclusion to my findings."

"He was hostile?"

"Yes, he said they would have to replace me and that if they did I'd have to be held in isolation indefinitely - perhaps forever. I knew too much."

"How did you react?"

"I told them I could only go so fast. But they then said I had to present what I had found to the Daschians straight away."

"That must have been tough."

"It was. They looked devastated. When I'd finished speaking there was silence. They all left the meeting room without saying a word. And the supposed One World Executives were all but dancing for joy."

"So that's what led to the suicides?"

"It seemed so at first. I was pretty much left to my own devices after that meeting. Now that it was clear that the Executives were bogus I didn't feel inclined to work for them anymore. They didn't come near me, though. So I just went for a walk, looking for some of the people I'd got to know. I couldn't find anybody anywhere. But then I heard a vague noise from next-door - I think where you've just been. There is a huge secret meeting place down there. Did you know?"

"No. I only saw a disused slightly decrepit building."

"How long have I been here exactly?"

"How long do you think?"

"A few days?"

Kaleem shook his head. There was a lot that didn't make sense about this. Obviously Joahnsa was a bit stiff from having been tied up but otherwise she seemed fine. She ought to be dehydrated by now. "Maybe a little bit longer. So, what happened at the meeting?"

She shook her head. "It was terrible. They were planning the mass suicide. They had it all really under control. They'd stock-piled the right sort of lethal wands. Women and children first, whilst they were heavily sedated, and then the men." She sighed. "I tried to stop them. I really did. I told them we could find a way of making them healthier. But they told me it wasn't just about this disease. They didn't want to live in this new form of society."

"So, when were you tied up?"

"Shortly after the suicides started. In some way it was a relief; I didn't have to watch it. It was eerily quiet, though. They were so calm about it all. And it was then that I found out the truth about the people who had brought me here. They admitted that they were working for Exton. They said that my work here was now done and that I wasn't needed any more. And then they went away."  

"Scary. But it doesn't explain why the bands and the gag just disappeared."

"No, it doesn't. But I can still feel the effects of them." She rubbed her wrist. 

"What were the executives were like?"

Joahnsa shrugged. "They looked like quite normal Zenotons. Their ordinariness completely fooled me. There was one thing, though. One of them had a small tattoo on his arm. A picture of a small orange hanging from a branch. Another had a badge with the same picture on his sleeve. These were so tiny I didn't notice them at first."

"Did the third have anything similar?"

She shook her head. "But he did often wear that orange colour that was in the tattoo and badge. Does that mean anything?"

"Have you heard of the House of Clementine?"

"No. Is that what all of that orange is to do with?"

"Most likely."

"So what is it?"

Kaleem frowned. "Apparently it causes people to commit suicide en mass."

"How do they do it?"

He sighed. "It's a long story and I can't be certain. But it's a very perfectionist organisation. It's also quite controlling and will get rid of anybody that gets in its way."

"Was I getting in its way, then?"

"They probably saw it that way." He hesitated to mention the beast. That would sound so improbable to someone as scientific as Joahnsa, though there was still the mystery of the disappearing restraints.

"So, what next?"

"Well we need to get out of here for a start. There have been massive floods so that is going to be a challenge. But I have a feeling that some good people will be on to that already. It's all beginning to turn around."

"Oh? How do you know?"

Kaleem grinned. "Peace Child instinct, I guess."

"I could do with some of that. Seriously though, how can I follow this?"

"You've done some really valuable work here. It will have another application, surely? It's terrible about the suicides but they weren't your fault."

Joahnsa grunted. "Difficult not to think that I caused them."

"Well you must stop that. And how about in the meantime you do more work on Petri's case? Perhaps we can persuade her and Rozia to come back to Zandra." If only.

Joahnsa stood up and brushed herself down. "Okay then. Let's go. I'll follow you."

Kaleem heard footsteps in the corridor.

"Kaleem are you there?" someone called. "Is everything all right?"                                             

 

          

     

 

   

                                

          

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Kaleem and Joahnsa made their way outside. All traces of the horrible smell had disappeared. The air was now sweet and fresh. There were four people waiting for him: Jadee and three men he only vaguely recognised. Kaleem quickly introduced Joahnsa to Jadee and filled Jadee in with what had happened. The three men introduced themselves. 

“We don’t know exactly who these so-called One World Community executives were, except that they were undoubtedly from the House of Clementine,” Kaleem explained.    

One of the men stepped forward. ”Did you find anything of this beast?”

Kaleem shook his head. “No. The place was empty. There were signs that somebody or something had been living there but it’s not been there for a good deal of time now, I should think. There was some excrement but it doesn’t smell anymore. It seems to have been some sort of animal. I’m not sure how intelligent it was. It was well housed so maybe somebody’s been looking after it. Come and look for yourselves.”

Jadee shook her head. “We need to get on if we’re to get to the bottom of all of this.”

Kaleem looked at the three men and then at Jadee. “Doesn’t it feel as if something has changed?”

Jadee shrugged. ”What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t it all seem lighter?”

“I think I know what you mean, but it doesn’t really make sense.” Jadee was frowning and biting her lip.

“So what can we do?” asked one of the men.

“Maybe we should go in after all then and see if there are any clues as to who or what has been living there,” said Jadee.

Should he confess what he knew? Would they believe him? Change was happening, he was sure. But when would it show up? 

“All right. Let’s do it.” Kaleem indicated that they should follow him. He hoped that all trace of the beast really had gone.

They all started making their way towards the entrance.

One of the men’s communicator’s buzzed just as he was about to enter the cave. He pressed the send button and stopped walking as he watched what was happening on the small screen. “Wait,” he muttered. “You’ve got to see this. Turn on your news channels.”

They all did as he asked. Kaleem could not believe what he was seeing. Pangwit Exton was speaking. “There is actually no need for a president on Zenoto. Yes, perhaps there needs to be some sort of administrator. A chairperson, even, as they used to be called. But not one that has a casting vote. Just someone to keep order and make sure constitutional rules are followed.”

“So how will the planet be governed?” asked the Zenoton reporter.

“By a group of Zenotons who will sit around a round table, like Terrestra’s King Arthur and his knights. They will be the democratically elected representatives of the people who will work with the best interests of the people always in mind.”

“And what of yourself, sir?”

“Naturally I shall step down. I hope, though, that I may be elected as an executive.”

“And will you still push to change the monetary system?”

“No. It’s not in the Zenotons’ best interests. I was wrong. I was wrong about the barrier too. I have ordered it to be taken down.” Exton nodded and walked back into the building behind him.

“This is an extraordinary turn of events,” said the reporter. “And just as extraordinary is what is happening on the streets.”

The camera panned out to show Zenotons shaking hands, hugging and patting backs.

Kaleem quickly found a Zandrian channel. The same was happening there. The brown tunics were mixing freely with the ordinary people. A Zandrian reporter’s face appeared. “All of this on top of the latest poll that shows that over 97% of Zandrians wish after all to remain in the One World Community. Another referendum will be held tomorrow.”

And Terrestra? It had remained quiet and mysterious during all of this upheaval. What was going on there? What was happening to Rozia and Petri?

His communicator buzzed. Then they were there. Rozia and Petri waving to him. They both seemed to glow. “It’s great, isn’t it?” said Rozia.

“Yes, but what’s been happening on Terrestra?”

“Not a lot. Everything’s been really quiet. They shut down a bit. They started to cut themselves off again, like when we were younger.”

“You look well, Petri.”

She giggled and waved.

Rozia smiled. “She’s been spoilt by the New-Zoners. We’ve still been using the Zandrian wands but we’ve been eating a lot of the fresh vegetables grown here. It’s done us both good.”

“Good.” Kaleem couldn’t work out what to say next. He longed to know whether she would come back to Zandra. Could they take their relationship forward again? Or had that just been a one off?

In the end they both spoke at once. Petri laughed. “Honestly, you two. Just get on with it.”

Kaleem nodded. “You go first.”

“Well, she’s doing really well. But we’ve been invited back to Zandra. They’re going to work on a permanent cure. So, we’re setting off as soon as we can get places on a supercraft. Will you be coming back soon?”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

Joahnsa grinned. “I hope I’ll be able to help too.”   

He was interrupted by Jadee. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything else here to do. Let’s get back to civilisation.”       

About the Peace Child Series:

Book 1 The Prophecy

Kaleem Malkendy is different – and on Terrestra, different is no way to be.
Everything about Kaleem marks him out form the rest: the blond hair and dark skin, the uncomfortable cave where he lives and the fact that he doesn’t know his father. He’s used to unwelcome attention, but even so he’d feel better if some strange old man didn’t keep following him around.
That man introduces himself and begins to explain the Babel Prophecy – and everything in Kaleem’s life changes forever.    

 

Book 2 Babel

Babel is the second part of the Peace Child trilogy. Kaleem has found his father and soon finds the love of his life, Rozia Laurence, but he is still not comfortable with his role as Peace Child. He also has to face some of the less palatable truths about his home planet: it is blighted by the existence of the Z Zone, a place where poorer people live outside of society, and by switch-off, compulsory euthanasia for a healthy but aging population, including his mentor, Razjosh. The Babel Tower still haunts him, but it begins to make sense as he uncovers more of the truth about his past and how it is connected with the problems in the Z Zone. Kaleem knows he can and must make a difference, but at what personal cost?

 

Book 3 The Tower 

Kaleem has given up the love of his life in order to protect her. He now lives and works on Zandra. A sudden landquake, not known on the planet for many years, destroys many of the forests his father has planted to bring life back to the planet. The new relationship Kaleem has helped to establish between the Terrestrans and the Zandrians is also under threat. A third party gets involved and Kaleem has to use all of his diplomatic skills to keep everything on track. Mistakes cost him dearly and he looks set to lose Rozia for a second time. The Babel Tower mystery, others mysteries and sadness plague him. Can he find a way through to fulfil his role as the Peace Child?

 

Find out more here.  

 

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit.

She writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation

She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

See other episodes: https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/search/label/The%20House%20of%20Clementine

 

 

                                              

                   

     

 

 

Saturday Sample: Citizens of Nowhere, bitter lemon

 

From our own correspondent

By Alan Gibbons

 

Stardate: xiL009877

(Earth time: June 16, 2016)

This is Orwys Interfarian on planet Earth, a small green and blue spherical, life-sustaining planet some six trillion Vetroceps from home. All across the universe, these colours, blue for the delicious combination of hydrogen and oxygen known as water, white for its fluffy, airborne manifestation known as cloud and green for vegetation, symbolise life in all its sublime, fecund, teeming variety.  Imagine my excitement as I prepare to set foot on this lush, mineral-rich haven spinning in a far distant void, certain that here, beyond numerous asteroid belts, dying stars and endless, echoing emptiness, here I would find hospitality, generosity and species solidarity.

Is the camera rolling, guys? OK, cool, let’s take our first step on the surface of this verdant, gentle world. There is a settlement up ahead, known on planet Earth as a city. Ah, here we have a large monument. It is a giant image erected on poles. Clearly, the Earthlings are proud of this, my first example of terrestrial artwork. I will interview this passing humanoid.  Just give me a few moments while I put my questions. Well, that was… unsettling. It transpires that some four or five million Earthlings are on the move, desperate to avoid want, violence and war. It seems that this species extracts base metals and fossil fuels in huge quantities in order to shred each other’s bodies in constant conflict. Still, that said, I am warmed by the sentiments expressed on this artwork.

Breaking point.

There we have it. Faced with suffering humanity, this orange man here, Nipple Porridge I think his name is, is making a strong statement. There is a moral breaking point, beyond which no Earthling would go. Look at these poor people, he is telling us. Look at their courage, their endurance, their…. Excuse me, the humanoid I was interviewing is trying to say something. What’s that? Sorry, I don’t understand. Let’s cut the transmission for a moment.

Right, we’re back. He is saying that the displaced people- or migrants- are not welcome. Nipple Porridge wants them to go back. I am not quite sure what he means by back. After all, haven’t they just come from somewhere intolerable? Why would they return to somewhere like that? Now, hold on, let’s re-run that last section so I can get this quite clear. Porridge wants them to return to an endless landscape of shattered buildings and roving, murderous armed men? What sense does that make? Sorry? Yes. Yes. Thank you. So Porridge thinks these helpless people, with their few belongings are going to harm their hosts? Have I got that right?

I think we will pause our broadcast there. This is rather bewildering. Without further information, I don’t feel equipped to editorialise. I will address this issue further in my next report.

This is Orwys Interfarian on Planet Earth.

Goodnight.

 

 

Stardate: xiL009881

(Earth time: August, 2016)

 

This is Orwys Interfarian on planet Earth, investigating another aspect of the movement of poor, frightened people across the globe. I am now in a corner of north-eastern France, a fragment of a land mass called Europe. I have been absent from your screens for a little while as I researched the concept of country. The Earthlings seem to arbitrarily divide land masses into states or countries. Sometimes they find a relatively plausible reason to do this, a range of raised ground called a mountain, a ribbon of water called a river or some other geographical feature. On other occasions, they simply draw an imaginary line across a patch of ground. This in spite of the fact that the beings to either side of the line share identical DNA. Even more confusing, they lay claim to areas of water. Even though they are unable to stand on water or erect homes on it, they say it belongs to their country, even though it tends to travel back and forth in movements called waves.

Anyway, I think I can safely say that, though there is little rhyme or reason to the arbitrary setting of these lines, or borders, between the various states or countries, humans become very agitated about their invisible lines. It is for this reason that some humans board small, leaking waterborne vehicles to reach safety while other humans board larger, sometimes armed, waterborne vehicles to stop them reaching safety. This practice is called national security, which oddly, though related, appears to be the opposite of safety. I have been both surprised and appalled to discover that, rather than share out the people escaping death and poverty among them, the inhabitants of the richer countries, seem unconcerned that five thousand of the poor, frightened migrants are now lying dead at the bottom of the sea. Apparently, all life on Earth is sacred, but some lives are more sacred than others.

I asked a representative of one of the more fortunate, richer, arbitrarily-decided land masses to explain this practice of permitting people to perish or, if they survive, subsist in sub-standard accommodation called camps or even jungles (oddly, there are few trees in these jungles, which are different to the jungles that have trees and animals). He introduced me to a number of new concepts. One was swamping. This is the practice of permitting relatively modest numbers of poor people to live among rich people. Another is culture. These are the arbitrary practices conducted by some of the people in the arbitrarily established bits of land called countries. He also said that he wanted his country back even though I couldn’t find any evidence whatsoever that it had ever been anywhere else. Finally, he seemed keen to find a special prize called a red, white and blue Brexit which appears to be a kind of biscuit which you eat for breakfast on special occasions called referenda.

My enquiries took me to the jungle you will see before you called The Jungle. What made this jungle more jungle-ish than any of the smaller jungles I could not understand. In this treeless collection of primitive shacks live hundreds of poor people who would like to live with rich people across a ribbon of water called the Channel though the humans here in France called it the Munch or sleeve. I think this may be because Earthlings eat their sleeves then drink a portion of the sea to wash it down. From time to time, black-clad men and women called police shoot pieces of metal and canisters of stinging gas at the poor people to welcome them to their country. This makes the poor people angry, which leads them to climb fences and jump on vehicles called trucks. Some of the poor people fall under the trucks. Oddly, this does not lead the leaders of the rich people to change how they run their countries. Instead, they build bigger fences. I suggested erasing the arbitrary lines called borders to facilitate the movement of people where they want to go. They said I was a dreamer. I said surely I wasn’t the only one.

 

Stardate: xiL009887

(Earth time: December, 2016)

 

I have just returned from a land mass called Syria. It is from here that many people have fled across many land masses to avoid being killed. I have prepared a simple explanation of what has been happening so that you will understand why the people from Syria do not stay in Syria. Some of the people from Syria did not like the way the government (small groups of people who run the affairs of larger groups of people) governed so they protested. The government hurt their children so they protested more loudly. The government then killed those who were protesting loudly. Soon, the government was killing the people they governed and inviting people from other countries to help them kill the people they governed. Two of the biggest countries in the world had something called interests in this country far away and did not like each other so they called on different groups of poor people and encouraged medium-sized countries to help. The leader of one of these countries is rich, but does not have a shirt and travels on an animal called a horse rather than a vehicle propelled by fossil fuel. The new leader of the other big country wears the hair of another life form and likes building walls as a hobby. Other groups of people had faith in peace so they also killed people so there would be more peace, which seemed contradictory, but appeared to make sense to those involved. Anyway, that is the simple version of the story they told me and that is why the country called Syria, which used to have houses now has piles of rubble and lots of dead bodies.

On my way back, I went to see what was happening to the Jungle. When I arrived I found that the Jungle was now a patch of ground with no primitive shacks at all which the government there thought was better than a patch of ground with primitive shacks. One night the police came and took away the people and knocked down the shacks. They then moved the poor people who wanted to cross the Channel further away from the Channel. This would help preserve interests and security by not securing things in the interests of anybody, at least that is what the chief of police told me.

I am close to the end of my journey and I think I have at last made some sense of what I have seen. Most people on this planet want to live in peace and have enough to eat and drink. They want to sit in small dwellings and look at rectangular screens that glow. They laugh and stick smaller glowing screens to their heads and press small buttons and like things. They pass around pictures with untrue statements called memes. This makes them laugh and nod their heads. They do not want other people to hit, shoot or burn them or make them cross land masses or fall into salty water, but sometimes some of them get shot and burned and cross land masses and fall into salty water even though there seems to be enough food, water, land masses, dwellings and glowing screens for everybody.

The problem seems to be a word called profit. This means some people own the guns and aeroplanes and houses and food and water and screens and make money from them. Money is sometimes made of paper, plastic or metal and sometimes it is a digit on one of the glowing screens. It makes people who have it happy and people who do not have it unhappy. Profit by the way is different to prophet which is somebody who tells you something which may or may not be true, depending on your opinion. Because of profit, the extra money some people extract, not prophet, the person who tells you things, some people have more homes and food and water and screens and bombs and guns than other people and sometimes there are fights over who has things and who doesn’t. When there are these fights, some people leave their homes and end up with nothing at all then the people who have things say they will be swamped by people who don’t so they drown them or leave them in jungles. The wanting of more homes, food, water, screens, bombs and guns seems to be addictive. The more the rich people have the more they seem to want. In this process they seem to lose any feeling or sympathy for the people who have nothing.

After my six months on planet Earth, I would like to conclude my report by saying that I understand all this and have been able to suggest some solutions to its problems. Sadly, I do not and have not, but there is hope because I have seen a man on a glowing screen who does seem to have a solution. The man is called Siren Growl and may be non-terrestrial as he has an unusual square head. He says that the solution is something called the X-Factor, a quasi-magical force that makes people scream and talk into their small glowing screens while watching their large glowing screens. While they are experiencing the X-Factor, they forget the poor people that are moving around the world and feel happy.

Before I return home, I hope to get my hands on some X-Factor and discover its properties.

This is Orwys Interfarian on planet Earth.

Goodnight and may peace be with you.