Aboard the Starjelly Mothership, the Mummy is a Voyeur
Soft genius children skip their keypistel training. Growers, clover students, responders to the changing skies, they thingko they know every-o. Arrogant guppies with packs of orgonotropic flowers, vibrating snackfriends. Tongue dance and picnioc. The circumspectral turns they take steering muskcycles with their prehensile feet.

They stop for passing devolutionary thelempark and dundershoot. Hears the Head who sings and barks. "This wummish sparklefrog has gelatin interior, burns biodiesel and pondscum. Warm it first with diesel and flush the pondscum out when you're done. Park it and throw the rope to Crock Dandy," the timekeep flashes opaline teeth. "If you've got some skins to spare, my friends, skins to burn in the fading sun."

[flavor] The rescoring of cold plums: 1973. Fall and come together with a brand new coat of flint. No, not our little bompers, leaning on the furback confeyances, their skins still supple as rubberweed. No hippypants ideologgy for these. Mostly do-it-on-yourself with no glasses or tanks of burping prions to spongifry their neuronodules.

"We need no feyance, Hairyhead." They laugh to larf.

Head spittles, confumating. "Don't rung away, spacklefeet. I'll catch up near the gravity womb, the glass tomb of the stranger, a mummifly captain. Don't wake him, childs. He'll empty your puckering duskbaskets."

The cycle bites into the path with hornhoof blades and flowing manes, leaving exhaust of foam and protein puree. Ride until one spy a spinney thicket of fingergrass, just short of the control spindle, the organ of gravioception. They tumble down, hanging on another, through whipstick caresses, till they reach kinetic slingvalley, a nest of least resistance.

They grow into the meshmoss for privacy. He seeks nape and fringe. She finds his armature and attachments, squeezes out nood membrane to coat the parts that dance together. Even here, she is the reposable one. Moving together until the action means nothing. Hora sees colors that are not there. Hel sings like Sly sodomizing a sparrow. She catches him smiling as a broken pomme spilling seeds and fiber and juice. A moment of synthorhea and you cannot tell their skins apart. A moon aupairs and moves not for hours, protecting of their sleep. The contrast in the sky imprints a mnemonic tattoo through halfclosed film of mucosa. Hora whispers, "Rememorme, Hel. Never."

"Never, never." He murmurs, barely awake. They notice no bandaged hand gently pulling the skinflap back to gaze at them.