by Michael Lehman

The revolution came, and the compas have lined us up so they can look at our hands. If you have rough hands from honest work, you get a new house. But if your hands are soft from easy living, you have to pick up trash on the side of the road. 

They’re coming down the line . . .

Hidden underneath my sleeves I have fingers like long, flexible vines covered with thorns, and occasionally, miniature blue flowers. The only work I can get is singing in bars, and because I can’t play an instrument, I have to give most of the money to the band.

No, that’s not true, instead of hands I have paws like a cat. Once a kid pushed me down on the playground and I cut him so bad with my claws I had to change schools. My mother told me if anyone ever saw my paws, they would burn me for a witch.

The compas are getting closer . . .

Actually, my hands are living blue light, and I have to be careful not to start fires with them. My father told me if anyone ever saw, the hueros would lock me in a secret laboratory, and tell everyone I moved to France.

The compas are almost here . . .

The truth is my hands are like anybody else’s. I just want to be loved for who I am, not what I seem to be.