George Orwell sighed exasperatedly from his perch on a gaudily opaque Cumulus, tweed jacket more askew and bewrinkled than usual, ruffled, like his wing feathers, by the cyclotron effect of spring breezes. "Animal-farmers" was what they were calling themselves. the new craze among the Earthlings. Orwell's harp clanged as he reached into his pocket for some of his dwindling supply of tobacco. (It would be helpful to understand at this juncture, gentle reader, that we are speaking not farm-animal farmers, but of budding intellectuals and their cultish enthusiasm for certain philosophical trends.) They now fell into two distinct groups: Animal Farmers and Animal Right's Activists.

Wat Tyler scoffed in mock-delightitude from a nearby wispy Stratus.

"There now, ye see? Enter into it with the best intentions; free the serfs, nothing unreasonable, and what do you get?"

Orwell raised a commiseratory eyebrow at Wat. "yes I suppose this is what we get for expecting a halfway functional thought-process out of this lot. It's like biting into a delicious chili-pepper sandwich when you've grown the peppers yourself and finding out there's legos inside. Carnassials aren't meant to chew on plastic but they always end up doing it anyway. You make all this effort to put together the perfect metaphor against cultism, and what do you get out of it? a cult! that's what."

Wat nodded.

"Put out a piece of advice on anything; metermaiding, actuarying, how to avoid growing taller... doesn't even matter how specific the advice is, and soon enough people are on the railroad to wallpaperville; divining the future with shower curtain rings and making tinfoil hats to guard against mind control. They'd be better off in a one-horse-road dirt town. 'Least then they'd have a reason for staying benighted."

Orwell sighed again. "O'well, W'at ya gonna do. Can I bum a light?" George held up his hand-rolled cigarette in the universal sign of brotherly inquiries.

"'Course." Wat returned obligingly, searching his pockets with his tongue out in concentration, and finally producing a disheveled matchbook. (Which he had no idea how he got because matchbooks weren't even invented when he was alive. But every cloud has a silver hole in it's plot.) He lit a match and held it out to George, who puffed his fag alight then held it out to the other cloud-dwelling gentleman. "Don't mind if I do." Tyler accepted, eagerly taking a drag and returning the morsel of friendship to it's owner's stained fingers. The two men sat in silence awhile.

"I've been working on a poem." Wat admitted bashfully. "It's kind of my take on a play between acrostic and alliteration. I've written a few before, but I'm particularly proud of this one because it ignores the starting-letter rule and works phonetically if read aloud. Care to take a squiz?"

"Certainly." Orwell replied, passively intrigued by his cloudly compadre. "I could use a distraction."

Tyler held out the poem on a wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm going to title it UGLY EDITION" he explained.

George began to read, quietly muttering to himself, smirking sometimes through his puffs of cigarette:

Unpalatable ugliness unhorses upset unconventional urchins, unless

Guiled gaurdless; going gratefully groggy: gargantuanly gorgeously gifted gods

Let lower lifeforms languish logically; loving life's lonely longing lullabies...

Yet, yowling yon ubiquitous yogurty yellowbellies, yearning Euripides

Epistemologizes every equine-ebbing epiphany; emptying ethical empathy.

Dystopian diviners don delectably duplicitous dispositions, diluting discernible

Impetus in investigatory impartiality. Incredible, isn't it? Inconceivably intrepid.

To tell Ptolemy's treatise to tosstrot? Trapped tangibly to terrifying tasks; torn

Irretrievably; inexpungible indignation inexorably interfaced in idolatry inclinations.

Only Orpheus's opposite owns optimally ossified homages on omniscience;

Nullifying neophytic knowledges. No narcissist's necrotic nip nears nonsense.

"So... whadya fink?" Tyler asked nervously.

Sitting in the passenger seats, three children looked at their invitations to The Fledgling School to Everything. All around them, more students settled into seats arranged in pairs on each side of the train car. Two faced forward, with two more placed facing backward, with next to no room between the seat backs. There would be no napping on this train ride. On the floor between them, their book bags reflected the intensity of their future schooling.

Peter, with his glasses sliding down his nose, had the biggest bag. Filled to the brim with textbooks on statistics, he muttered about averages and means under his breath. Actuary was an honorable profession, his father deemed him worthy. If only his mother was a sure. He pushed his spectacles up reflexively, and mopped his brow. The day was unseasonably hot.

Melinda's bag bulged with a uniform she knew she would grow into. A measuring tape was attached to a hook on the outside. It would be important. Tires were always supposed to be exactly two inches from the curb. The town where she lived depended on it. Streets as narrow as theirs required expert parking skills and quick removal of vehicles which did not meet the standards. Her mother was proud to see her daughter take up the calling of meter maid.

Ulrich sat in his worn out pants and wondered why he needed to go to school to become a street urchin. There were no books, and he knew there would be no uniform. In fact he was likely to lose what little he had before they turned him loose to his occupation. No one sat beside him. His was a lonely fate. And then the train began to move.

"Next stop Wallpaperville. I need to see your invitations to the school." The conductor held out his hand at each set of seats.

"What would he do if we didn't have one?" Peter whispered.

"Toss us out the window?" Melinda's sarcastic comment had Ulrich wincing.

Ulrich dug into his brown paper bag, and gave silent thanks to the chili pepper Gods. At least he had a way to feed himself. The seeds at the bottom of the bad would sprout no matter where he planted them, and give him a crop of many different peppers. A way to support himself. The bag was all he had to his name. On the back of his invitation, unlike the ones the others had, was a faded inscription. Urchins are our life line. Why would that be? His curious mind turned the inscription into a hundred different possibilities.

From the front of the train car, a man stood and rapped his knuckles against the steel of the door leading to the next car.

"Fledglings, a word of advice." He paused to clear his throat, his eyes twinkling. "Do not assume you are in a dead end. The school is not what it appears. Listen and learn. Choose your friends carefully. The students here will work together in ways you would never imagine."

"What do you think that means?" Melinda whispered.

"Exactly what he says," Peter responded.

"I wouldn't count on it," Ulrich said as he slid his invitation back into the envelope. His fingers shielding the back of the heavy folded card.

"We'll see who is correct," Peter said. "Numbers will never lie."

"Unless they are twisted through bad equations," Ulrich retorted.

"And slide underneath bad rules." Melinda added.

"Not if I can help it." Peter declared.

And Ulrich closed his eyes. Sleep could happen anywhere, even sitting up in a stiff backed chair. Maybe these two would be people he could trust. They seem to fit with both sides of his personality. The one side wanted to believe the best of people, and the other which knew the seedy underside was always there. His life so far had taught him well.

You may not be able to avoid getting taller

in feet and inches,

but there are ways to get yourself smaller

through deceit and flinches.

Like if a honey wants you to call her

Run away in defeat and excuses.

Only in your soul can you grow smaller,

just not in feet and inches.

the shower curtain rings make a trail on the floor

bread crumbs leading back to the puddle of water

leaking from the bathtub

will you pick up the pieces?

sticky with promise and heavy with

everything you've never done

you could see the future from here

if you would look

the tracks go on and on into the sunset surveillance

where you can't meet the eye without being blinded

so keeping your head down

you just

walk

past fingerprint ketchup stains by the baseboards

and that sweep of black sharpie you couldn't wash off

past the pattern on the wallpaper

the best way to avoid growing taller

is to never look back

to never remember how small you were

so you leave the shower curtain rings

and puddles and stains

and pieces of your past

and keep on trying not to look at the sun

in the pockets of Wat Tyler was nothing but a single poem, written on parchment and folded . he was clearly poor and unlearned in the ways of cyclotrone maintanance. Richard II saw this right off but tried to restrain his disgust. the rebellion went on and on and on and on, going back and forth through time and space. all were frustrated that there was no conclusion and it was just a continuous , absurd insurgancy.

but all good things must have a bad beginning, and all bad things might have a good one. neither side hesitated for a second turning on the cyclotron, that spring, and ever after. and the only thing left is the poem. the poem...the poem...

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

La-la-la-la-laa

La-la-la-la-laa

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time...

I miss the Earth so much,

I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will

Holding hands and skimming stones

Oh, no, no, no

When your feet just can't keep still.

I'm not the man they think I am at home,

Crocodile rocking is something shocking.

La-la-la-la-laa..

I remember when rock was young

While the other kids were rocking 'round the clock,

had an old gold Chevy, and place of my own

Laa, la-la-la-la-laa,

Burning up to the Crocodile Rock,

Oh, lawdy mama those Friday nights,

Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids.

Zero hour: 9:00 AM

Burning out his fuse up here alone

Crocodile rocking was out of sight

It's lonely out in space

In fact, it's cold as hell

'Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find

AND I think it's gonna be a long, long time,

When your feet just can't keep still.

But they'll never kill the thrills we've got.

Laa, la-la-la-la-la

When Suzie wore her dresses tight

And there's no one there to raise them if you did,

We were hopping and bopping to the

Rocket man!

Laa, la-la-la-la-laa

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time

But the years went by and the rock just died,

Oh, no, no, no,

But the biggest kick I ever got,

She packed my bags last night, pre-flight.

I'm a rocket man

And all the science, I don't understand

I'm not the man they think I am at home

It's just my job five days a week,

We really thought the Crocodile Rock would last, well..

When Suzie wore her dresses tight,

I remember when rock was young!

I never knew me a better time and I guess, I never will,

'Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find,

Me and Suzie had so much fun!

La-la-la-la-laa

La-la-la-la-laa

Laa, la-la-la-la-laa

La-la-la-la-laa

Was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time,

Long nights crying by the record machine,

And I'm gonna be high as a kite by then

Learning fast as the weeks went past,

Suzie went and left me for some foreign guy.

On such a timeless flight

I miss my wife,

Rocket man!

Oh, lawdy mama those Friday nights,

Burning out his fuse up here alone,

'Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find,

Dreaming of my Chevy and old blue jeans

We were hopping and bopping to the

Laa, la-la-la-la-laa

I'm not the man they think I am at home,

I'm a rocket man!

While the other kids were rocking 'round the clock.

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time,

Crocodile rocking was out of sight,

I'm a rocket man

Crocodile Rock, well

Oh, no, no, no

A rocket man

A rocket man

Me and Susie had so much fun!

Crocodile rocking is something shocking,

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time

When Suzie wore her dresses tight

La-la-la-la-laa

Oh, lawdy mama those Friday nights

Burning out his fuse up here alone.

La-la-la-la-laa

When your feet just can't keep still

But the biggest kick I ever got,

I'm not the man they think I am at home!

I never knew me a better time and I guess, I never will,

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time,

Rocket man

Was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock,

And the Crocodile rocking was out of sight,

Crocodile rocking is something shocking,

Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find,

Oh, no, no, no

Burning out his fuse up here alone,

I'm a rocket man!

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time,

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time

Rocket man!