Hey everyone!

Long time no post. I’ve been absolutely slammed but while I have a minute or two, I thought I’d check in and let you know what I’ve been up to and let you all know about some exciting opportunities.

Some of you will remember the Letters from Prison Portal here, where Paul and I would visit prison, teach writing workshops, and post their pieces here. This is where PoetsIN was born. Paul and I realised that writing was a form of therapy and the prisoners were reporting astounding results.

After parting ways with Prose, we tailored our groups further with an emphasis on rehabilitation, mental illness, and suicide prevention. We began to measure the outcomes of each session, and over a set period of time had evidence that what we do worked with 99% of the service users. To put this into perspective, CBT in the UK via the NHS works in 48% of the cases they work with. If CBT doesn’t work, the service user is given no other therapy. Talking therapy such as counselling is no longer provided on the NHS because that was only successful 29% of the time, which is way below the threshold of success the NHS will work with.

With our 99% success rate we went to the UK Charity Commission. Wrote our governing document, recruited 5 trustees, filled in a ridiculously long application form to register as a charity, and submitted it. Then we waited.

Whilst we sat thinking of all the things we could’ve included in our application but didn’t, and worrying about all the things we may have done wrong, we carried on with our groups. Expanding them and trialling new techniques and measures of capturing data to ensure maximum impact. We got such good feedback from the prison directors that we were offered a grant from a trust for $50k - before we were even a charity - which is unheard of. Visit www.poetsin.com/testimonials to see what people have been saying about what we do.

Four months passed and we finally received our answer. We’d done it! We were a charity.

Since then we have won three awards. We were named Mental Health Heroes 2017 alongside Talia Bennington, Mental health workshop provider of the year 2018, and Nonprofit of the Year 2018. We have also employed some faces you may recognise. The lovely Karen, who used to design Prose images, the badass Lish, and we’ve just hired a wonderful fundraiser, Pippa. MilesNowhere and Amanda Cary have also joined the family and have been vital to PoetsIN, and my own personal sanity.

We are now a week away from launching online writing therapy groups that people can access from wherever they’re located, along with in-community groups external to prisons across certain parts of the UK to begin with.

We also have a growing Facebook Group (www.facebook.com/groups/poetsin) that is full of old faces from here and new faces from beyond, along with a website that has mental health and writing blogs galore.

We’ve opened our own publishing company, PoetsIN Publishing, that offers the best royalties EVER and any royalties taken by PoetsIN Publishing are all ploughed back into the charity to reach more people who need our help. The best thing about the publishing company is that we want to publish poetry. Many traditional publishers don’t. We do. We are publishing print and eBooks, and have already accepted submissions that will be released this year.

We have a current challenge running for an anthology. Our first anthology open submission call was a huge success and will be published within the next month - we’re just putting the final touches to it. The current submission call is on the topic of addiction, and you are all more than welcome to submit! The more the merrier. Visit this link to submit https://buff.ly/2EdHxwe

Those of you in the UK should come down to our huge all day fundraising event in Camden, London 28th July. It is being held at the iconic Nambucca venue that has housed Oasis, Blur, and many more. We have a full day of amazing lineups from spoken word poets, comedians, and acoustic and indie music. All acts are donating their talents and time to us for free along with many companies who have donated prizes that we will raffle and auction off at the event. We also have a Skydive coming up in September, more details about that can be found on our social networks.

There have been people that doubted Paul and I - along with our mission - but our determination, skills, and experience have served us well, built our confidence, and given a much-needed lifeline to those that truly needed keeping safe.

Setting up a charity is far harder than setting up a business, and if we can do that, you guys can do anything. One word, one poem, one story at a time.

Paul and I both hope you’ll join us elsewhere on the interwebs but in the meantime, write on!

#PoetsIN #PoetsINPrison #Charity #NPO #Publishing #WritingContests #GetPublished #Poetry #InsideOut

Heated oil

poured over scraped bone;

from the open window comes

the chemical/shit stink of

contaminated soil, humid

and thick and filled with

the buzzing midges of mopeds

and sing-song voices.

Exhaustion with greasy fingers

pulls me back into sleep,

but I resist the tender,

smearing caresses and

rise from the sticky bed,

stepping over broken glass

to stand at the window. She does

not stir. The lace curtains

have yellowed; I stand and look out,

if I smoked this would be the time.

The day is grey, the time is ambiguous:

perhaps we have slept all day and night

and into the next day, or only an hour.

The street below is filled, still, with

vegetable carts and people and dogs and

pedicabs; a teenager stands at the edge

of the sidewalk and pisses into the street

drain; no one seems to care.

Tomorrow, I will turn myself in

to the American embassy. I dig my fingers

through my thick hair, it feels filthy and

caked. My skin is filmed with dirt

and sweat. On the bed she stirs, stretches

like a cat, queefs and sits up to look at me.

"Mấy giờ rồi?"

"Tôi không biết."

She nods and lays back down; in seconds

I hear her light snoring.

The air is making my throat raw, I move

from the window, back to the bed,

not as careful this time, stepping on a

shard of glass and slicing open my toe.

I sit at the edge of the bed, running my

fingertips down her silky black hair,

down the slope of her back to the swell

of her bottom, now the pat-pat-pat

of blood dripping onto the floor

added to the sound of the day,

the evening,

the morning coming through the window.

I watch a gecko dart across the floor,

pause at the tiny puddle of blood,

then move around it, disappearing under

the nightstand.

I cough up and spit oil onto the floor, pick

up my soggy, greyed pillow and hold it

to my chest, stand slowly so as not to wake

her, and step onto the glass with both feet.

The Simon & Schuster challenge was one of our greatest accomplishments, and one of our most difficult undertakings to date. It was our first time working with a big publisher and taking challenges to a larger scale. Given the number and quality of entries, determining the top 50 was extraordinarily difficult. Having never done something like this before, we had to really bootstrap our selection criteria. 

We spent weeks reading through every single one of the entries as a team. The first criterion we used was grammar. Repetitive grammatical mistakes, and a lack of respect for English syntax in general, were grounds for disqualification. The second criterion was creativity. We looked for storytelling excellence, moving characters, inventive plots. We looked for content that captivated us, that we thought would enthrall others as well. After narrowing the list of entries by these two criteria, 166 remained. 

For each of these 166 entries, each team member assigned a subjective "quality rating" from one to five. We considered likes to break ties when the average quality score was too close to call. We wanted to include some democratic element in determining the winners, rather than solely rely upon our own subjective judgment. When all was said and done, we had found our 50 entries.

In reflection, our process was imperfect and we intend to do a better job in the near future. Here are some of the ideas we are considering:

1) Limited Voting. When the challenge ends, everyone gets a limited number of votes, and cannot use these votes on their own entry. We would use these votes to distill the pool of potential winners more democratically.

2) Electoral College. A panel of judges is either elected deliberately or selected randomly to read through the entries and determine the winners.

3) Gauntlet Tournaments. We select a few factors, a combination of judging panel, spell check, democratic votes, and other creative criteria, to advance the best content round-by-round, tournament-style.

We would love to hear your suggestions and ideas for improving our challenges.

Once again, congratulations to the winners and entrants alike. 

We are working hard to bring you more publishing opportunities.

thank you so much for this amazing opportunity to expand my writing, 

thank you for all the encouragement I have received on here 

thank you for this creative outlet 

thank you for letting me bleed poetry 

thank you, readers, for following me on this amazing journey of growing up 

thank you for your wonderful comments and the positive energy that surges through all you writers veins 

thank you for letting me enjoy all of your writes 

thank you for reaching out 

thank you for letting me in your minds 

thank you for this sense of Home 

thank you for holding my secrets safe 

thank you for the lifelong friendships 

thank you, for the heartache and the heartbreak 

and for the negative people on here fuck you, you know who you are

On prose I have grown wiser and stronger, I have healed maybe somewhat 

this place is simply amazing, I think I am addicted to writing thanks prose for that, thank you so much for letting me sit back and watch all of you grow in your writings 

you all amazing each every one of you, expect to fuck him, but back to the positivity

thank you so much for letting me take you on my path of discovery 

I love you all so very much, but not all of only two you, I can't stand your damn fucking face, but anyway I am sad to leave, I promise to be back June 21st 

the reason why: I am leaving I am got stuff going on, wish i don't wish to talk about

but on the bright side I am going full time, so I won't have time for writing 

so Prose on and don´t let your words flatline 

It didn’t occur to me at the time that it was unusual to communicate without words. I used words with Mum and Dad, but when I was with Nan and Granddad, we thought with one another.

They were deep country folk. They lived way out in the bush, raising cattle and carving away a humble living. A land near forgotten, their farm appeared on no map, and it was hours from the nearest town. Such is the way in outback Australia. It wasn’t until I was much older that I considered that they were this far away from civilisation on purpose.

Few words passed between them when I came to stay. I would watch Granddad repair the wire fences, and Nan while she cooked and maintained the house and garden. They could be kilometres apart but still hear one another, though they were still laconic, even in their minds.

My Granddad was a tall man, with large rough hands, and he always wore a checked shirt and a wide brimmed hat. His skin was dark from years in the harsh sun, and deep wrinkles like the cracks in the red earth he strode upon. Yet despite his age, he possessed the strength of two men, easily lifting great wooden posts and hammering them into the hard soil.

Nan could speak to the animals and they would come and tell her things. The Kookaburras would sing to her in the morning, and the Kangaroos would jump and dance and show off their barrel chests and thick tails. Even flies which would normally swarm and hold your sweaty form in shadow, were repelled as if by some invisible force field. I asked once what the animals talk to her about. She held me close and responded in thought “The coming of day, the passing in to night, and little secrets, my darling.”

I was five when I received my first invitation. It was like a gentle hum that wisped down from the clouds and carried on the wind. It was melodic, peaceful and it sent ticklish prickles down the back of my neck. I looked out at Nan and Granddad, one in the paddock and the other in the garden, and saw them look to the sky where the clouds had rippled into waves, and slowly begin to clear. I could sense an agreement between the two of them, and then they went back to work.

After dinner that night, I didn’t sit next to the fire which was my ritual. Instead, Nan put my jacket on, Granddad fastened his wide brimmed hat, and I walked between the two, a hand for each of them, through the paddock towards the setting sun.

We walked for a long time. The last of the rich golden light danced on the sunburnt earth intensifying the deep orange rust shattered sparely with green. Even as the sun dipped into slumber, we continued to walk.

The sky was splattered with stars when I heard the low deep throbbing hum of the didgeridoos and clapping sticks. “Almost there, my darling” Nan thought. I trudged my way up a dirt mound and peered over and below to see dozens of dark men and women covered in paint. Their faces, their hair, their entire bodies painted in rich yellows, earth reds and starlight white. Guided only by the luminous moon, they danced in circles, dust clouds hovering like mist where they kicked up dirt.

An old woman approached us with a wooden bowl in hand. No words were exchanged. She stood in front of Granddad, dipped her hand in the bowl, and caressed his forehead with white paint. Then his cheeks, and his nose. He took off his wide brimmed hat, and the old woman ran her hands through his hair. She stepped over to Nan and performed the same ritual, painting with precision and purpose.

The old woman then looked to me, her face placid and wise. She knelt down in front of me, and lifted my chin, observing my face critically. She spoke for the first time in a language I didn’t understand. To my surprise, Nan responded in the same language. Though I didn’t understand what was said, I sensed the feeling. Confirmation. The old lady looked deep into my eyes, seeing past me, through me, to what was behind my eyes. She found what she was looking for. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. She dipped her hand in the bowl and anointed my hair and face with white paint. It felt cool and sticky on my skin.

The three of us entered into the circle that enclosed the group. Their dancing mesmerised me. They swayed and stamped and clapped their hands. They shifted on their heels and toes, dragging themselves across the dirt and sand, arms outstretched above, below or to the side. As I watched them contort their bodies to the rhythm of the music, I briefly caught a flash of the essence of the animals they imitated break free and pierce reality. The graceful emu, the unstoppable kangaroo, the fearsome snake. But something else caught my eye. A glimpse of something I’d never seen before. As tall as two men, its skin almost see through…

One of the dancing men stopped and pointed to the sky. In the second it took me to look up and back, the thing was gone. I held on to Nan and Granddad a bit tighter. The music ceased and one by one, they found a spot on the ground, laid on their backs and looked to the sky. Nan and Grandad moved in with the group and laid me down between them. I looked at the ocean in the sky taking in the infinity of glistening stars.

One star in particular caught my attention. It shimmered in such a way that it appeared to be moving. And then it dropped, as if caught by gravity’s grip. A moment later, another star plummeted toward Earth. And then another. Dozens more cascaded from the depths of space lighting the way for the hundreds of stars that followed, unplucking themselves from the sky, evicted like fruit from the celestial tree that holds the universe together.

My heart pounded but I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my body. I tried to move my arms, my legs, even blink my eyes. I tried to scream, to cry out, but all attempts failed. I could do nothing but stare as the stars came tumbling down to earth.

As they came closer, I noticed they were different colours. Some glowing bright and sharp, and others soft pastel, in blues and turquoise, pinks, yellows, oranges and mauves. These couldn’t be stars, they were something else entirely.

And then they stopped above us. Some so close that if I could only stand, I could jump up and touch them. I could feel the warmth it exuded, and the sound they made was a familiar deep bone vibrating throb. These orbs sounded like didgeridoo’s. They droned in waves, each at different frequencies, blasting through me in to the depths of the earth.

Then slowly, they lifted higher and began to twirl and chase each other around in ellipses, hypnotising me with their shapes and colours. They swirled and swayed expanding larger and larger pulling at me to follow. I could feel myself leaving my body, lifting higher into the air, weightless and free. I could hear speaking, in a rich language that rang deep and true like the sound of the didgeridoo. I felt like I was held within the palm of a hand. The inner cogs and switches that guided my existence were being adjusted and re-worked. The language I was hearing began to make sense.

‘….should be able to understand’ said a voice.

I strained desperately to hear, but my mind was fogging quickly.

‘That will do for now. Too much at a time and he might…’ was all I heard before I drifted to sleep.

When I next came to, I was looking down on the ground, over the shoulder of my grandfather, who held me close in his powerful hands. The stars were returned home and the painted people were gone. Nan followed closely behind, watching the ground as she walked. She looked different than before. She walked with deftness, as if she had the energy of her youth returned to her. The rhythm of Granddad’s walking rocked me gently back into rest. As my eyes became heavy and I succumbed softly into sleep, Nan sang tenderly in the odd language I heard in the sky.

We’re in the air that you breathe

The stars in the night

The whispers in wind

Elusive to sight

But you’re the invited

One of a few

There’s work to be done

And we’ve chosen you

Fuck your 'can do' mantra

Them puking mouths

Of liver lipped hawkers

Those dry boned closers

Squawking from sidewalks

Casting unveiled glances

To the bleaches of left field

Your valley gurl antics

WTF LOL

We cry

more...more

My God what have we become?

Like totally

Like my pic

Lick my life

If I hear the word awesome

One more time

I will kill a fairy

Maybe get good with God

Before your final hour

Hell, I’ll hedge my bets

And surrender to your creed

Maybe grab a Bud and

Turn tricks

In vinyl seats

Stuck like muck

To the asshole interior

Of a Chevy Ego

Take your three hundred channels

Of high resolution

Spewing airbrushed anchormen

With their 15 minutes of shame

Hey, pin it on the timeline

Piss it on the grapevine

Of twitter and Instagram

Yeah mam!

The bar is closing

As you shuffle deck chairs

On a sinking ship

It’ll take us under

And beach us dry

We'll no doubt comply

As we are prone

To breathe it in

Bloated full throated

Plastic lips

Sucking dead air

Like a dying whore

With stage three candy crush

s w e e t

Just go

Please

Because I know that everyone is tuned into our life together...........theres this.

The missus @AmandaCary and I have decided to : sell the house, buy a new truck and trailer, homeschool the brats and live off the grid.

Crazy you say? Crazy like a fox I say.

This white picket fence bullshit is doing our heads in.

All things must change in radical new ways.

Because I know that everyone is tuned into our life together......I'll keep you posted.

Peace be with you ;)

Errant waves

Deals with frills

Donned in error

Donned in black

The nil, the whip, the lick, the smack

The eloquence of subservience shimmeringly alluvial in its impertinence

Shimmering in the limelight’s sting

How are we to be alone when the herald blings

Is your past your blasted ring? Summoned up for everything?

Capstone shakily. Teeters on the white skinny legs crazily.

The honey layer drew the scales. The Ballesteros .

Ballesteros of the fishy pails.

Flopping breams, moral seams that we inhale

Stink of hair with alabaster nails running lightly down

Her spine. But who aligned this central line?

Spare me not the errant waves that come,

For they harken the golem.

MMmmmmm

RRRMMMmmmm

run for yo blode

ra ra  rara

run run

skidding down the laureled lathe

price to be enslave you

complacency

other over come me

redactedly

formation forever the air never-did-care for the life

of the lair

It was unexpected. To make that leap of faith, only to hit solid earth and to smash the machine.

Expectations and wishful thinking played their part in that collapse. I imagine that faith comes from a different place and answers to no master. I imagined.

As humans, we do what we do with what we have. The kicker : a course of a life is altered in a heartbeat or carefully cultivated through years of analysis. Ultimately though, we call it as we see it at the moment or feel it or whatever you know IT to be.

The homecoming was easy. It was a dream manifested. It is all there was and nothing beyond.

After that, there would be no more dragons to slay or bridges to be built. There was only the arriving home

A leap of faith doesn't have a next step. At least it didn't in my mind. I imagined it as completion.

Yet I didn't entertain the mundane....the base level scrambling to exist.

So here we stand. Connected through heart yet forced to survive the mindless onslaught of circumstance.

Here we stand. As spectators forced into playing in the game.

at the end of all things ;

we may be saved,

though salvation

is not of our hands.

at the dawn into light;

we may be blinded,

though clarity

was only illusion.

beyond the bars

we search the skies.

Eyes locked on the girl, Josh struggled to balance the rifle on his shoulder as the slippery neuroskin under his sweatshirt pulled it off-center. I never should’ve sold the skin on my arms, he thought. The girl was propped up against a maple thirty yards out, guzzling a Coke and eating a Poptart, crumbs landing on the crest of her rounded stomach.

__

I see you Goldie, she thought, yawning. Damn boys are no different than monkeys in Thailand trained to rip wristwatches off tourists for their masters. Except his master wants my skin...

___

Through the scope, slowly blinking grey-green eyes and sunken cheeks splattered with large spots appeared close enough to touch. The zipper on her windbreaker had burst open revealing irregular shaped spots on her stomach and as he watched, golden leaves spun down onto her red curls. She’s been on the road as long as me, he thought.

___

I’m exhausted. If it wasn’t for you, my love, I’d let them skin me. Breeding programs like the one that impregnated her had created larger, darker, more leopard-like freckles in the MC1R carrier population, yet the demand was always outpacing the supply.

___

Josh trained the laser on her forearm. Already tagged. The Trac-B read her bounty at 100,000Q, but the burn rate on Spotties was so high that the baby was worth ten times that. Josh loaded a dart and was easing forward on the trigger when he felt a wire snake around his neck and squeeze.

______________

Sadie sprinted to where the boy was clawing at the slowly constricting garrote. When she tapped thumb to forefinger, the snare ceased tightening. She tossed his rifle then squatted over him.

He’s at the end of his run, she thought, taking inventory. Face crisscrossed with scars. Nose broken multiple times. She fished into his mouth, finding better quality teeth than expected and no wisdom teeth. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. He’d had some success as a tracker too. Nickel-sized bonus stamps crawled up both forearms covered with the revolting liquid plastic skin replacement.

“Look, Trackie,” she whispered, “I’ll be long gone by the time the signal wanes and this necklace…” she flicked the metal rope and his eyes popped an inch wider “drops off. You’ll be dead by then. Do you understand?”

His lips were turning blue, but he quit pulling at the snare and flashed a thumbs up sign.

“Or…I’ll give you 10,000 quid to take me over the Divide unseen.” She gestured to the zoomers above, just visible through the trees. “And my guess is you’ve run these hills before.” She looked at her watch. “You’ve got about thirty seconds left.”

He stared up at her, calculating his options, then nodded. She gave the split signal and the snare dropped off, snaked through the leaves and coiled around her ankle.

“What’s your name, Goldie?”

“Josh.” He sounded hoarse, but not angry.

“Sadie,” she responded. “Let me know when you’ve got your wind.”

He bent over one knee, coughing and lacing up his skimmers. A thick line of bruising cut across his neck and his right eye was blood red. He was twice her height, lanky and unintimidating. Though they were roughly the same age, he seemed younger.

After a few seconds, he circled his forefinger.

“Nope. Call your Wheat first. And make it good.”

“Yeah. Ok.” He coughed again then hit the comm on his Trac-B.

“Markin”

“Wha?”

“She’s gone,” Josh said, adding, “Wasn’t a Spottie anyway.”

“Whaddyou mean gone? You lose her or drop her?”

“Markin, she was a Teaser! I dropped her, okay? On my way in.”

“Josh! You lazy piece of shit. Find me something or your old ass is on carving from now on!” Markin disconnected.

Josh looked down at Sadie, one eyebrow raised.

“How long before he comes looking?”

“Won’t probably. He’ll think I’ve been poached, not that you’re a…uh...” Josh trailed off.

“Spottie. You can say it.”

He had the good manners to look down.

She sighed. “Alright, you’re in the lead. Let’s go.”

He kicked off headed north, his long strides quickly outpacing hers. Without his cough, she would never have heard him -- he knew just where to place his feet.

____

Josh slowed to a trot.

“Sadie, we’ve got a drop coming up.”

Oh, thank God, she thought. She dropped her head, pulling in lungfuls of cool air.

“You’re as loud as a boar,” Josh complained.

“Shut it, Goldie! I’m not paying you to talk.” She gasped between each word, which took the venom out of it.

The break in the forest revealed what used to be an overpass and was now a maw of rusting street cars. Josh straddled a metal girder, legs dangling. Sadie flipped up her hood.

“Where are we?”

He took a swig of water, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Pretty sure we’re just east of Advance. Should be signage below.”

Josh suddenly reached over her head, grabbing for the rifle.

Shit!

She rolled away, reaching under her arm and scrambling to her feet, a curved knife thrust towards his chest.

The rifle raised between his hands, he shouted, “Woah, Sadie, relax! I just need the scope, okay?

Sadie held her ground as he stripped it off, dropping the rifle at her feet with a roll of his eyes. He climbed down as far as he could, then tucked and dropped onto the hood of a wrecked BMW. Scanning under the collapsed bridge, the signage was gone. Must have been attached to the overpass.

A billboard for Harry Winston still stood. A blonde in her thirties, elbows balanced on a white tablecloth, flashed a broad smile. She wore emerald earrings and matching twisted skin bangles. Each an inch wide, the skin was a striped mix of mocha, Spottie and pale. The uneven surface of the bracelets were the only indication that underneath the skin was not wood or plastic, but bone.

___

“Anything?”

“No. But we can’t be that far from Buck Creek and the Sierras are just on the other side.”

He paused to pull long strips of rubber out of his shirt, “Let’s try for the creek by nightfall. You good?”

She nodded and smiled, stifling a sharp pain in her side.

___

“Where’d you learn how to make these?” she asked.

He sat in the dirt, straddling her bare foot, muttering under his breath.

“What?”

“Your feet are swollen,” he said, dark eyes squinting up at her.

“So….?”

“If the swelling gets worse...”

“Listen, I didn’t…”

He cut her off. “Yeah, I know. But you’re scaring the game away. I can’t make you quality skimmers, but these will help.”

“Fine.” she said, reddening. “Make it quick.”

“Of course, your highness.” He responded, the corners of his lips curling up.

She didn’t appreciate the gesture until she ran again. He’d jammed cross-sections of rubber into cuts in the soles. It not only made the boots quiet, but also wider and therefore infinitely more comfortable.

They made it to the valley well before mid-day and for once, she didn’t immediately kick her boots off, but walked along the ridge scouting for a smooth rock. He was laying back among the late-blooming wildflowers eating jerky and squinting up at the sun when she plopped down beside him.

“You’re going to choke and go blind,” she said.

He laughed, nearly choking, and re-crossed his long legs at the ankles, snapping off another bite.

She leaned forward as far as she could, coming up shy of her toes. Hello there, my love, she thought. Then she pulled up the back of her shirt and circled the clean side of the rock on her lower back, grunting with pleasure.

_____

“Sadie?”

“Unh?” she responded, eyes closed.

“Do you know how it happened?”

“What?”

“The… you know… the skin trade.” He turned towards her, shaggy hair falling over his eyes and tucked his knees into his chest.

Hmm… makes sense I guess, she thought. Wheat take kids as payment for Rock-addicted parents. Goldens are raised like dogs – given food and shelter, taught to track, but not much more.

“Yeah.” She answered finally. “I know some.”

“Tell me?” His earnest face reminded her of Noah. It had been weeks since she thought about her brother. His chubby fists tied down, screaming her name. The skin peeling off his tiny fingertips. And all the blood...

“Um…first there were piercings, where needles would pass through.” Sadie revealed her popped bellybutton and mimed piercing it. “And towards the end, the holes got bigger. My uncle Rami showed me vid of a man in India passing an entire snake through a hole in his ear.”

Josh rolled an earlobe between his fingers, bewildered.

“Then tattooing,” she continued. “No area was sacred. People inked their eyelids and inside their ears. They…”

“Have you seen Malenas?” Josh interrupted, sitting up.

“No?”

“They run Skittle across the border. Malenas have a tattoo…” Josh pointed to the center of his tongue, “…of a purple eye. I’ve seen the farms...”

“Does anyone still buy farmed skin?”

“Some, yeah. For orange Skittle, they force-feed the kids pumpkin puree. For green, they strap copper plates on. And for XP, they’re kept in the dark for years.”

Sadie shivered. At least I can run…

She continued, “When 3-D tattooing began, my mom was little. They built a pyramid on my grandfather’s back between his shoulder blades. When he fell asleep on the couch watching television, she curled up in its shade. The needle injected ink and GDF5, a cartilage-producing protein. People made horns, tails and of course, parts of their anatomy bigger too.”

Josh laughed. For all the trauma to his face, was good-looking in a goofy, coltish way.

“Some of the old-timers still have them. I once saw a man with an octopus on his head. The blue and grey tentacles climbing down the sides of his face formed aquatic sideburns. The irises were made of jade, sewn into eyes eight inches above his own.”

“3-D removal creates a bloody mess. Grafted skin was the solution…”

“Why not just use the pink?” Josh pointed to the slick arm propping up his head. The shiny plastic resembled the underside of a frisbee.

“Josh, you know why. Neuroskin is nasty. You’ve seen a Pigpen, right?”

People who sold all of their skin -- Pinkies -- were universally hooked on K-rock. Cops called their hangouts “pigpens” from the look of their tangled pink limbs on filthy mattresses, eyes rolled back, telltale white haze hanging in the air.

He changed the subject. “Do you need to cross the Divide?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Kaweah Gap is steep. It’s the lowest point in the range, but...”

She winced and nodded.

“What if we go southwest into Three Rivers?”

“How am I walking into town?”

He tugged on her hood. “Your uh…” He struggled for the right word. Freckles. They’re called freckles… “freckles will be tougher, but a clay paste...”

She stood up. “Clay paste? For these?” She pulled her curls back so he got a good look.

“Okay, okay.” He put his palms up. “I’ll skim into Three Rivers, hit an R-X and grab proper coverup and dye.”

“You don’t think I've thought of that?” She struggled to speak calmly. “They scan you, Trackie. You probably have a freeze or two on your tag, right? And they scan you on the way in, so you can’t lift it either.”

“Fine. I’ll claim your tag and walk you in. Put the snare on.”

“Josh! You know what I’m worth, which is nothing compared to the baby. The Wheat will have me on a carving board in under an hour. We’re wasting time. I’m paying you to get me over that.”

She stabbed her finger at the snow-cap behind him marking the Divide, her arm shaking on the way down.

“And you know damn well you can’t make the climb,” he said softly.

I’ll make it, she thought, rubbing her belly, but will you, my love?

____