The on-lookers nodded their heads slowly in agreement and glared angrily at Homer's retreating body. Homer pondered on the problem that was his as he sat alone on the one real rock. How, he wondered, can this artificial existence? Through | escape the day, he stayed on the rock, watching without seeing the others as they ate their daily meal of cannery prepared canary food. Why, our food is as foreign to us as our colored backs, he thought. Then the idea struck him. Colored backs! Of course! If he scratched the “Oh, before, it was ‘‘that’s the too girl who'd come The counterman picked Homer up gently and examined his crushed shell. ‘‘ wonder why he did a thing like that,’’ he said. ‘‘Now he'll probably die.” “Well,” said the observant girl consolingly, ‘“‘at least it wasn't one of those with the pretty painted shells."’ A toothless smile flashed briefly across Homer's ancient face before his eyes rolled up to the darkness of death. other turtles, who were certain that Ho- mer had gone insane, ignored him aside from an occasional wondering glance. Just as Homer had finished cleaning the paint from his back, the screen mesh was lifted from the top of the tank. A flow of Spanish obscenities passed the proprietor’s lips when he noticed for the first time, “Well, the mess that the it doesn't really tank was matter,’ in. he said then to the fearful turtles. ‘‘We will set it straight in a few little minutes." And he placed each tree trunk back into the holes in the bases and topped them with the plastic domes. Homer watched in anguish. Everything he had done had been wasted. Well, thought Homer, at least | am real and he can't take that away from me. The god over the tank apparently disagreed. “What have you done to your pretty shell?’’ the Spanish man asked, picking Homer up with his index finger and thumb. ‘‘Now | will have to paint you all over again." No, thought Homer, | will not be painted again. He squirmed around in the Mexican's hand until he fell on his back to the floor. Through the ripping tearing pain, he glimpsed a pair of red tennis shoes approaching him. | float .. . the water below is Dark, And | drift Aimlessly, endlessly. The clouds pass. | begin to sink — | submerge Peaceably. The clouds become disfigured Beneath the waves. The sun is filtered Through intense water — The light is grey. | gulp Down, SEAGOING Down, Down, Fathoms Lower. | lie in sand, Coarse, gritty, and warm, In heavy morning air, i Advancing, receding. It touches. The first touch is cool, face. | wait, soon The tide covers and soothes, Cool, caressing, protecting. Gently, it tugs. Releases. The strength of the current Carries me slightly, and The rough of the sand Nettles the skin on my back. Then, | am freed. The tide carries me to sea. Above, seagulls sail and swoop Against backgrounds of brilliant blue. sand-packed | shiver, | turn, and Head toward a straight world. Lynn molecules; they mesh together. They touch. They rush. They buffet, beat, slap, strike, and bruise. Flail your arms! Protect yourself! Escape, and then Return. onto my receding, | stand, they move in circles, to the right, to the left, leech shore, splashing, Reluctantly. round, circular, hollow, supersensitive, miniature and, each is colored in popsickle flavors; Bubbles wet, Advancing, Molecules!! my air, Languid and listless, Carries me to shore. Gently, The tide lays me down Lapping, Unknown no longer, | sit on the ocean floor, Discover the obscure depths, Tell my story To every... Mol-e-cule? Listless, languid, It laps the shore. salty, sea The current, On more, tangled, intertwined, yielding, submissive, cold. | am alive! Of beached seaweed Crowd the air. | wait. The tide moves in. Caressing, protecting. It licks and splashes. The droplets fall upon denser, | reach the bottom — the ocean floor! slimey, rocky, craggy dark, soft, slippery, Oppressively hot and moist. Pungent flavors the sweet, Greedily gasping, choking, purpling. The sky, Still blue, Is streaked with oranges and reds. And again, Down. The dark becomes My body, heavier. Black. Blood pounds my ears. Rushing, swelling, surging. | ascend Slowly. Too slowly. My lungs will burst. | surface! black. Down, color from his back, he wouldn't be artificial, even if the others insisted on re- maining so. That's what he'd do. And he did. Within seconds after his decision, Homer was scraping his back against the side of the granite rock, causing the paint to chip off into the pool where it floated like useless scum. The in bad."’ skin, Pricking, stinging, wounding. Dyment