The Clarkl Soup Kitchens by Mary Carmen

the Easter services. I think they are hideous, but they are certainly a change from the black. One of the mezzos is pressing them.
    One problem with my redecorated quarters is that people visit. Particularly women.
    All the women here are old, old, old. The youngest is certainly ten years older than I, making her just under fifty. They are good Christian widows, for the most part, here for ten years to bridge the gap between widowhood and retirement. They want to talk, talk, talk, mostly about their children in America .
    Is there any way to put up a Do Not Disturb sign on the door? No. It would be discussed at length in the staff lounge the next day, and attempts to visit me would be redoubled.
    There is no place to hide. There is no library with carrels where a person can appear to be studying. There is no bar with booths. There is no Odd Fellows’ Lodge.
    I need to stay here at least until the wedding in Texas . Only then will I be safe from the grasping reach of that gold digger who has captured my mother’s heart.
    March 30, 2144 – A nice day, just a degree or two below freezing. We rehearsed in our sweaters and scarves.
    I think the Bach is ready. Certainly the Reverend Walters thought it sounded good when he attended the rehearsal today.
    These women do not bother the Reverend Walters. He is over seventy and really quite seedy. If somebody were to tell me he had spent his youth in a gin bottle, I would not be surprised.
    Where is Mrs. Walters? Nobody knows.
    A Protestant clergyman without a good wife never gets anywhere professionally. He has to take the bottom of the assignment barrel, perhaps in a homeless shelter or, even worse, in Clarkl.
    April 1, 2144 – My farmhand friend sent me an electronic message, suggesting we take another ride. I read that as his wanting another $20 bill, perhaps more. I have put him off until after Easter.
    We have seven numbers prepared, one for Maundy Thursday, three for Good Friday, and three for Easter Sunday. Of these seven, Good Friday is good and the rest are fair.
    Our timekeeping here is very loose. We have no exact idea of when the actual Full Moon takes place since our calendar is based on a day longer than twenty-four hours. Every month or so we skip a day, and we skipped March 31 to get back to something close to our Christian calendar.
    We have been told to expect a visit by the Monarchs in the next few days. These visits, I have been told, are very much like royal progresses. The Monarchs visit our dining room, we smile, and the locals prostrate themselves.
    I have never seen a Monarch, except in pictures, and I am very anxious to find out what the fuss is all about. The dining room manager assures me they never enter the sanctuary, so I have asked for a temporary job in the dining room during the visit.
    There is no king and no queen. Instead, one Monarch is clearly the top dog, and the rest follow its lead. The top Monarch, I understand, is always the product of the former top Monarch and another Monarch, even though the mating of a Monarch and a Wolpter will result in a Monarch half the time.
    So the top Monarch must be careful to mate with those of its own kind since the other Monarchs will select one of these offspring as the next top Monarch at the time of the succession.
    The gossip here is that the current top Monarch, called the Vlogo, is rather effete and not given to spreading its genes. It has only three offspring for consideration, and this Vlogo is getting close to the time when offspring will be needed.
    As for our Drones, I can’t tell who is young and who is old. The adults look sufficiently vigorous and healthy. Certainly they are all getting enough to eat.
    Monarchs are far more interested in mating with Seekers, Slinkers, and Carriers than in mating with the lower-class Wolpters. These matches never create a Monarch, but they often create a Batwig, the companions of the Monarchs.
    April 2, 2144 – Our final day of rehearsal before the Holy Week