From: mrx@annexia.esd.sgi.com (you: coma: marilyn monroe)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.prose
Subject: four words
Date: 13 Aug 92 22:23:36 GMT
Organization: the atrocity exhibition

chenille
head
hydrometer 
niche

The story must not be written in chronological order.

---


You are in over your head; you've known this since the 
expedition left the island.  During the long voyage
down the Chilean coast, you have managed to re-establish
a tenuous niche for yourself amongst the crew.  You help 
them prepare their equipment, holding wires in place as
they solder, reading off lists of numbers as they
calibrate their measuring devices.  At night you
sleep on deck, your parka zipped tightly shut against
the subarctic winds and freezing spray, the white chenille 
comforter your mother had given to you wrapped snuggly 
around your chest and legs.  In the mornings, you rise
at dawn to prepare breakfast for the men, frying canned 
beans and powdered eggs together in a black iron skillet.
The men grunt their thanks, leaving piles of filthy,
cracked china plates behind for you to scrub clean.

			***

You stand on deck facing the prow, watching the ship
cut quickly through the smooth waters of the Pacific.
The ship has not yet arrived at the Galapagos cluster.
The men are in good spirits, and you anticipate landing
on the largest island sometime later in the afternoon.
The sea is a deep green, and the noon sun reflects off of
the water, making you squint and shield your eyes with
your palm.  They will take measurements with their equipment, 
they say, of what you are not certain.  You know from
the men the stories of the islands, of the strange birds
and lizards that live there, cut off from the rest of
the world, marooned; waiting, perhaps, to be rescued.

			***

The men are upset, angry.  They have become grimly silent
since their finding on the island.  They have become 
secretive; when you pass their quarters, you find them
huddled together.  When they see you, one of them closes 
the door in your face.  As you listen, your ear to the
brine-stained oak of the door, you can hear only low
grumblings.  The ship left the islands on the evening of
the discovery.  They did not tell you what they found,
nor where they were headed.  From the position of the
sun and the coast, you believe it is due south, towards
Tierra Del Fuego.  When you return to the sleeping
cabin, you findthe the men have moved your bedroll and 
comforter outside in the narrow hallway.

			***

Your mother is standing in the doorway, weeping.  This is
how you will remember her, her rumpled dress draped over
her expansive figure, her dark eyes wide, glittering, her
hands pressed together in front of her breast.  You call
to her, Mama, I will bring money, I will bring it soon,
I promise, Mama.  You hold her comforter in your hands;
she saved for a year to make it.

Inside the house, you can hear your sister Letia
sreaming.  Your brother, Paolo, hides behind your mother's
legs, wrapping the tattered hem of her dress in his 
fingers.  He is silent, frightened by the men on the truck,
the large white men.  You are on the back of the truck with
the men, driving away from your house, down the street,
through the village, the wild dogs barking, your mother 
getting smaller, smaller, a brown speck obscured by the 
dust of the roadway.

			***

I asked for the radiometer, not the hydrometer, you stupid
bastard.  No, hold it this way, you little prick.  Why did 
we agree to take you, you've been less than worthless to us.  
Feel sorry for the natives, and you get what you deserve.  
You can't understand the importance of this expedition, so 
just keep out from underfoot.  You've burned the eggs again.  
Get out of sight before we throw you overboard.

			***

For the last few hundred miles, they have let you sleep in
the cabin.  The ship is approaching the dark continent to
the south; ice is in the water, crunching against the hull
of the ship.  The men have ceased speaking altogether, except
in low mutters.  Each monitors his instruments night and day, 
scribbling numbers in thick square-ruled notebooks.  You bring 
them coffee when they ask for it, and sometimes whiskey.  The
men have grown fierce and haggard; they have begun to resemble
the wild dogs that roamed the outskirts of your village.

			***

They have left you on the ship, and ventured out onto the
ice.  They have taken inflatable tents and special heating
units along with their equipment.  The wind is constant
here; the air is too frigid for you to go on deck. 
The men radio you from the ice; their voices screech over 
the wind.  There is enough food for a week.  It has been five
days.  The men will give you money when they return.  You
hold your mother's comforter in your arms, the fabric
spreading, white and cold, like ice across the world.



				mr x
Xref: sparky talk.bizarre:26007 alt.recovery:2971