KILN PEOPLE

an excerpt from Kiln People

1. A Good Head for Wine
...or how Monday's green ditto brings home fond memories of the river

It's hard to stay cordial while fighting for your life, even when your life doesn't amount to much.
          Even when you're just a lump of clay.

          Some kind of missile — a stone I guess — smacked the brick wall inches away, splattering my face with stinging grit. There wasn't any shelter to cower behind, except an overstuffed trash can. I grabbed the lid and swung it around.
          Just in time. Another slug walloped the lid, denting plastic instead of my chest.
          Someone had me nailed.
          Moments ago, the alley had seemed a good place to hide and catch my breath. But now its chill darkness betrayed me instead. Even a ditto gives off some body heat. Beta and his gang don't carry guns into this part of town — they wouldn't dare — but their slingshots come equipped with infrared sights.
          I had to flee the betraying darkness. So while the shooter reloaded, I raised my makeshift shield and dashed for the bright lights of Odeon District.
          It was a risky move. The place swarmed with archies, dining at cafes or milling about near classy theaters. Couples strolled arm-in-arm along the quay, enjoying a riverside breeze. Only a few coloreds like me could be seen — mostly waiters serving their bland-skinned betters at canopied tables.
          I wasn't going to be welcome in this zone, where owners throng to enjoy their long, sensuous lives. But if I stayed on back streets I'd get hacked into fish food by my own kind. So I took a chance.
          Damn. It's crowded, I thought while picking a path across the plaza, hoping to avoid brushing against any of the sauntering archies. Though my expression was earnest — as if I had a legit reason to be there — I must have stood out like a duck among swans, and not just because of skin color. My torn paper clothes drew notice. Anyway, it's kind of hard to move delicately while brandishing a battered trash lid between your vitals and the alley behind you.
          A sharp blow struck the plastic again. Glancing back, I saw a yellow-hued figure lower his slingshot to load another round. Furtive shapes peered from the shadows, debating how to reach me.
          I plunged into the crowd. Would they keep shooting and risk hitting a real person?
          Ancient instinct — seared into my clay body by the one who made me — clamored to run. But I faced other dangers now — from the archetype human beings surrounding me. So I tried to perform all the standard courtesies, bowing and stepping aside for couples who wouldn't veer or slow down for a mere ditto.
          I had a minute or two of false hopes. Women chiefly looked past me, like I didn't exist. Most of the men were more puzzled than hostile. One surprised chap even made way for me, as if I were real. I smiled back. I'll do the same for your ditto someday, chum.
          But the next fellow wasn't satisfied when I gave him right of way. His elbow planted a sharp jab, en passant, and pale eyes glittered, daring me to complain.
          Bowing, I forced an ingratiatingly apologetic smile, stepping aside for the archie while I tried to focus on a pleasant memory. Think about breakfast, Albert. The fine odors of coffee and fresh-baked muffins. Simple pleasures that I might have again, if I made it through the night.
          "I" will definitely have them again, said an inner voice. Even if this body doesn't make it.
          Yes, came a reply. But that won't be me. Not exactly.
          I shook off the old existential quandary. Anyway, a cheap utility rox like me can't smell. At the moment, I could barely grasp the concept.
          The blue-eyed fellow shrugged and turned away. But the next second, something struck pavement near my left foot, ricocheting across the plaza.
          Beta had to be desperate, shooting stones at me amid a throng of real citizens! People glanced around. Some eyes narrowed toward me.
          And to think, this morning started so well.
          I tried to hurry, making a few more meters further across the plaza before I was blocked by a trio of young men — well-dressed young archies — intentionally blocking my path.
          "Will you look at this mule?" The tall one said.
          Another, with fashionably translucent skin and reddish eyes, jabbed a finger at me. "Hey ditto! What's the rush? You can't still be hoping for an afterlife! Who's gonna want you back, all torn up like that?"
          I knew how I must look. Beta's gang had pummeled me good before I managed to escape. Anyway, I was only an hour or two short of expiration and my cracking pseudoflesh showed clear signs of enzyme decay. The albino guffawed at the trash can lid I was wielding as a shield. He sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose.
          "It smells bad, too. Like garbage. Spoilin' my appetite. Hey! Maybe we have cause for a civil complaint, you reckon?"
          "Yeah. How about it, golem?" The tall one leered. "Give us your owner's code. Cough up a refund on our dinner!"

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