A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VII: Day/Page 69 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . On each side of the elegant boulevard is a wide promenade paved with small, irregular black and white mosaic tiles. The east-side promenade abuts the white dunes of the beach, where Sofia spies cart-stands under broad red-and-white umbrellas selling frozen popsicles, coconut-milk, and fresh-fruit drinks out of tin-lined ice-boxes mounted to the front of converted old bicycles. To the west the promenade is framed by chic boutique-shops with flower-box windows; and further on, white-linen-tabled cafés looking out to the azure sea.
In the store-front window of one of the shops Sofia is drawn to a pair of sturdy black-leather boots on display. While admiring the boots in the window she is startled once again by the bedraggled sight of her own reflection. (Wow, I look like hell warmed over. What a dreadful sight!)
Her long black hair is a disheveled mess. Her filthy tattered dress merely scraps of rags stitched together, somehow appearing more hideous when reflected in the shop’s window than it did close up, which Sofia did not think possible. Her bare thighs, ankles, and feet are caked in red-clay dust, and the grime on her face is dark as soot. She studies the stranger’s dog-like appearance looking back at her. (How bizarre—that’s me! I’m inside this weird body!)
As she had regarded earlier, her new body is not entirely different from her own, but still shocking nevertheless. She appears to be slightly taller, which she likes. She still has a thin, angular build, although this body’s hips seem a bit wider. Her breasts are small, which is good, since she always hated the notion of being burdened by pendulous breasts.
You’d have to wear a bra all the time, she’d grouse to her friends, and can’t even run right without them bouncing around and getting in the way. No thanks. I’ll keep these, she would say, running her hands over the modest swells on her chest.
Sofia looks deep into the bright emerald-green eyes peering back at her from the stranger’s countenance in the window. Despite the foreign appearance of the face, she recognizes the brilliant emerald eyes as her own, as those of a keen-eyed Falcon. She finds comfort in that. (Yep, those are my eyes! That’s me. Too bad they don’t work as well as before. These new eyes really suck—not much better than a blurry-eyed bat.)
She pulls open the door to the shop.
Immediately upon entering . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James
All rights reserved