"Empty," he thought.  The crab shuffled quickly around fingers.

        He could feel something move past is wrist, the crab snapping its claws in retreat fashion, a deep inhale, and exhale, the sun having long since walked to the other side.  Zulu reassured himself that t was still early, and not late to be out in the woods by himself.  Set the mind at ease, and achieve success.  Of course words from his grandfather so in a continued slow motion into the bottom of the bucket, Zulu dragged across the bottom surface of the bucket.  At first, the crab's hard shell felt as plastic from the bucket, biting him on the finger.  The crab shuffled around, and back, and forth in the bucket.  He had attacked, and was ready to attack a second time if need be.  

        "Ouch," Zulu whispered barely loud enough for Vision to hear on the other side.  She lifted her head from the stare of mud, and dirty clothes to the silent commotion of the young child.  

        "What was he doing now?" she thought, still undecided on how she would get clean before her long walk home.  She knew if she went home dirty, the story she would have to make up to her parents would have to be a book.

        "Maybe I can just tell the truth?" she thought, not that the truth was bad.  It was just that the truth was another insult to her clumsiness, something she was trying to erase about herself.  But she knew the truth was the best explanation.  At least she hoped it would be.  She could deal with no more embarrassment tonight.  

        The blind child stood from the bite of the crab to draw his hands to his mouth, smiling, sucking on the bite.  It was nothing, even though he could feel the abrasion of skin with his tongue, and it wasn't painful.  Not even sore, the bite feeling more like a pinch than a stab or scrape.

        "Only a pinch," he told himself, "Not a real bite."  Now because of his change in position, Zulu had to feel the exact positioning of everything placed; the bucket, the staff, the string, the net.  Each item exactly placed, positioning him again in a leaned squat over top the crab bucket.  His legs stretched in a bended strain, the majority of weight placed on his heels, keeping his stance balanced for the easy movements of his hands, and head.

            "It's not going to hurt," he told himself, the inhalation of the cool air calming his stammer.  The crab's outer shell was smooth to the touch, and hard, like the feel of window glass, and cold like the outside winter.  The first bite having left no scar, he would try a different approach.  In learning to trust his own instincts, he would place one hand on the floor of the bucket, and with the other, he would steady his weight.  After touching the bottom of the bucket, he would drag quickly in a snatching motion, snatching the crab by its shell, making sure not crush or damage it in any way.

        Zulu reached to the bottom.  Except this time, instead of hard shell, and claws, he could feel the slime of fish heads that lay tangled over one another, having completely forgotten the dead bait left in the bucket.  Dropping the uncooked bait back, he quickly regrouped his position.  He couldn't take out all the bait for fear that he might lose some, and he had already had enough outside obstacles in his way besides the added extras the bait create.  He would arrange the unused bait into one corner, making sure to check the bait first, giving him a better direction in catching the crab for the second time.  Zulu had already began to fumbled to grab two pieces of bait when the first of the crab's movements were heard.  It wasn't until he went to reach again that he felt the smooth outer shell of the crab and .  .  .  .

        "Ow!" sucking on his thumb.  Yet to draw blood he thought, the brief pain more from surprise than bite.  

        "I'm okay," he told himself, speaking as if his cousin was there.  He began to wonder if maybe the crab would draw blood, the ridges of the over sized claws tearing through the flesh.  His gloves would have prevented all of this.  Probably why he was out ere now, by himself, in the dark, crabbing.  Hands full of bait.  Head full of contemplation.  What was at stake was the ability to be free from his blindness, and from what the world told him he could, and couldn't accomplish because of it.

        They weren't just talking to all people with blindness.  He felt that they were directly talking to him.  Whether it was what he read, what he heard, and listened to, even what he thought, Zulu felt they were talking to him, sucking his teeth as he heard his father do many times, becoming frustrated, and indecisive about a next move.

        He didn't want to just quit, too far in the  middle to just up, and leave.  He had really caught something.

        "Patience."  That's what he had to have, and the fact that he might have to sacrifice his fingers to a few more bites.  At least he had come prepared with his boots.

        "One out of twenty wasn't bad," he thought, the bait still scattered about the bucket, deciding to drop the idea of rearranging it to one side.  With his initial plan pf grabbing whatever decided to move, he felt a slight pull in movement.  Several mistakes could do that to you.  Have you doubting what you were doing in the first place.

        "Just don't quit," he repeated, laughing quietly to himself to catch his balance from the pressure.  The expedition had suddenly turned into more the tedious task of cleaning his room.  No, that was kind of fun.  The tedious task of washing dishes.  Zulu paused in thought again.  No, that was fun also. especially when he sneaked the bubble bath from the bathroom into the kitchen, and mixed both the bubble bath, and washing detergent together.  It was something special about dishes, and lots of soap.  So that wasn't the feeling either.  It was just the here, and now of crabbing.

        "It's not work, Zu.  It's crabbing.  It's fun.  Don't make it frustrating.  Relax.  Fun."

        Zulu dropped his hand quickly into the bottom of the bucket.  The crab began to move, no longer grabbing onto the meat that lay directly beside, claws extended, moving from side to side.  His hand would check to the left, the crab would run to the right.  His hand would move to the right, the crab would run to the left, both motions shaping the circle of the bucket bottom.

        Suddenly, "I got him."  The biggest step after catching the crab was catching the crab.  The shell of the crab was cold and smooth.  He tried to remain focus on what he was to do next.  Not holding the crab correctly in his hand, the crab dropped back into the bottom of the bucket, a loud 'thump' echoing in the air.  There was no time for a philosophical pause in thought or quick contemplation.  He knew he had caught a crab.  In the few seconds he had held it, the same feel of the shell, and the ridges of the of the shell edges.  Zulu's hand shot quickly back into the bucket.  The crab took off, dodging troublesome fingers that were persistent in its demise, crawling over bait, crawling under bait.  IN the end, there was no escape as the small fingers pulled the seafood from its hold in some fish.

        "I got him," Zulu thought, holding it more careful this time.  The first few attempts had left him grabbing at the crab without the use of his thumbs, more palms; scared to be bitten.  But now he had him secured tightly in between his finger, and thumb, the thumb applying the most pressure, and balance to keep the wiggling seafood from dropping free.  Before anything could begin to make sense for the young child, all he could do was smile, and hold on.  The crab's legs continued to wiggle sporadically, but to no use.  The underwater soldier was captured, and it was huge, he thought, between a wide smile, all teeth showing through the night, the sun having gone for some time.  And through the whole ordeal, Vision, in trying to forget about her fall, watched the young child play curiously in the bucket.  It appeared as if he held something in his hands, her eyes yet t focus on what it was.  The tint of darkness had dropped a couple of tones, yet she could still see that he held something.  That he had caught something out of the river, and that it was big or at least from where she sat, in the squish of mud, it looked big.

        "Had he really caught a crab?" she wondered.  Image that, someone blind crabbing who had caught something.  She could only think of success being the determinate.  Zulu stood straight having no fear.

        Harlem breathed in and out, and in and out.  She wasn't exactly sure how long she had slept or how long she had been awake.  She could feel the wash of pain pronouncing itself from her womb.  It was totally night, the sun miles away.  The moon lay directly overhead of the tree she sat under.  Harlem could feel the pull of her spine up through her neck down into the circle of of the middle of her back.  She was tense.  Her whole body felt like an entire strain. The night air found way to brush through the pain, and sweat.

        "In the middle of the wilderness," she thought, "to have a child."  There was no humor in the thought, refocusing her eyes.  Yet the trees scared.  The grass scared.  The dirt scared.  The night air scared.  The birds scared.  Only the soothing running of the river calmed.  That quickly changed as the sudden drop of waterfall scared.  She didn't want to be lost.  Was she lost?  She knew that she was pregnant.  How could she be lost when she was about to have a child?

        Sister felt the strange pull of her body through the slit tissue opening.  She was inside the womb trying to get out unconsciously.  She already had very little control of her body, and now this force was pulling extremely powerful against her position.

        Her head pushed against the flesh of the inside opening of the womb.The force was strong, but the contact of her head against the exit of the womb was soft, a smooth, gentle pull.  She could see the pull affect her brother, dragging him further into the space of her body.  Sister could see the familiar cord that had been with them since the beginning, float lazily around the unborn child.  Isaiah's head touched the side of her thigh.  Sister felt the pull give way to the exit of the womb, her eyes darting back, and forth in the vast darkness.  She was looking for some kind of explanation as to what was happening, yet she did not know.  From her new rest, everything in her environment seemed different.  Unfamiliar to the very little she understood.  Only Isaiah, and the dark tint of his skin remaining a familiar eye sore for her, and the cord that connected them together.

        The infant child pushed harder this time into the legs of his sister with his shoulders, his head overlapping the top of her thighs.  He could feel a different sort of force pull him down to the bottom of where they had been.  The umbilical cord wrapped in better around his neck.

        From the corners of his eyes, he could make out the shape of his sibling.  He couldn't quite see her face, but could tell by the belly button that it was her.  Who else could it be?  They had been connected since he could remember.

        From his upside down position, he began to see where he had developed over the last nine months.  His head tucked tightly into his sister's legs, looking at the vast darkness of waste, and mist; a dark, coal fog.

        The womb appeared still, motionless yet the darkness moved about in all directions slow, very slow in motion, except instead of being pulled down as the two unborn children, the darkness seemed to be pulled in all directions, a continuous separation.  It appeared not to be real, a sort of illusion standing out against he, and his sister, and the solid womb of their mother.  They appeared invisible, Sister and Isaiah, and the dark that kept them alive, and preserved, and evolved their flesh, but could feel the constant pull of flesh against himself.  Sister moved slightly.  The unborn boy began to understand the pattern of direction that was creating itself, leading them into a downward path.  He was to realize that his sister would be first.  She could be the first to go, and leave.  He would be by himself, both children shaking.  There was a confused manner of order that the darkness presented throughout the womb, creating another pull, shaking both children violently.  The slow motion of the dark keeping the womb just heavy enough to exist, and move.

        Sister wedged tighter into the exit of the womb's vagina.  This was the first time she had come in contact with the inside of the flesh.  Warm to the touch of her head, conforming to the impression she made. 

        Unlike Isaiah, she could barely see into the visceral of their mother's womb.  Her eyes wandered no further than the tips of her eyelids.  Where she had come from, where she had developed, and lived, she could not see.  And because she was the first, Sister could not understand.

        Isaiah pushed violently against her legs.  She moved softly into the push of her escape.  The touch was sensitive her top.  Only the contact between her, and her brother felt uncomfortable as her legs drew into her stomach under the external push.  She was being pulled from the top of her head, and pushed from the bottom.

        Isaiah woke from a second violent pull; the darkness moving across his face, defining the slow movement of the womb's internal.  He had not moved, but the darkness continued, and he could still feel some type of pull surround him.  The force appeared heavier now that he had stopped, squeezing tighter against his sister.  It wasn't unbearable, but uncomfortable, both their skin twisting through one another.  His eyes grew wider as the umbilical cord tighten around his neck.  He could feel the tension pull down under his chin.  The whole womb would become still as the darkness floated, and as the pulling stopped, the cord continued around his neck, growing tighter.  Isaiah's eyes grew wider.

        Harlem concluded that the pain had stopped, simplicity taking precedence, dominating the areas of her mind she had worked to develop over the last nine months.  The ground soaked through the thin layer of cloth that matted in grass.  She would concentrate on the cold air, and the sound of the waterfall.

        "You sure you're supposed to eat that?"  Harlem directed her attention to her husband.  

        "I read this book," pointing to the stack of books recently purchased, pushed on the bookshelf.  The bookshelf had become cluttered, and scattered since introducing pregnancy into their lives.

        She continued, "Remember how we were talking about wanting to extend the time developed in the womb another month; a ten month cycle instead of nine."  The small hands massaged the exposed belly of his wife.  Harlem nodded in agreement to continue to listen.  She had read about a ten month pregnancy cycle for a complete childbirth.  First reading the information, stumbling for a complete hour over the name of the writer, she had believed the words to be true.  It was innate what she had read for the next three hours, reading straight through.  To place the pregnancy in parallel as the seasons.  Liquids can be measured in liters or milliliters.  Seasons were measure by time; seconds, days, months.  With the correct diet, diet being a wrong choice of words, if only psychologically, and eating exact foods that specifically affected child development in the womb, pregnancy periods could be prolonged or as the book explained, "exist in a natural state of development."  More heavy colored vegetables, less light colored vegetables.  No specific times to eat, just more specific in what you ate.

        "And you believe him?" not totally convinced.  After all, it had been his idea to not involve the doctors, and the hospitals, and they were in deep, and he was just a little worried about everything.

        "What if the child came out too big or over developed."  His words trailing from the shove of the pregnancy book into his belly.  Quickly flipping through the pages, he became excited.  "This book is over two hundred pages," hearing the little child in his voice.

        "And I read the entire thing in only three hours."

        "Yeah," looking up smiling.  Harlem's husband dropped his bag on the arm of the couch, falling into the catch of the cushion.  She continued from her laying position, her knees in the air into the face of the ceiling.

        "The first question," she thought to herself, "will be .  .  .  ."

        "How do you pronounce this guy's name?"  His voice was deeper now.  Harlem smiled quietly to herself.  

        "I don't know.  I was going to ask you that," sucking his teeth.  He would always become frustrated at something he didn't know or understand.  They both would.

        "We'll have to ask some of our friends."

        "But we don't have any friends," her stare fixed on the hazy pattern of the ceiling paint.

        "Yeah we do.  Those people that run the food store on the next street.  They're our friends."  She knew them or rather she saw them, but they never spoke.  Her fault, she thought.  Yeah, she would ask them.  

        "Or the woman we always see downtown in the shop.  I know she might know."

        "Yeah, she does seem like she knows everything," thinking to herself.

        "And who else," the voice becoming softer with each step into the pronunciation problem.  Harlem continued her fixed stare on the splattered circles of pillar lights.  One of the lamps had blown.

        From across the room, pages of a book could be heard flipping slowly.  Slowly a flip, slowly a flip, slow, flip, slow, flip, slow, slow, slow.  She had not awaken until the next morning, her knees still in the air.  It had already been late with her husband not finishing the book into the early morning hours, leaving her to sleep on the floor.  Probably told himself it was for her benefit while he slept in the comforts of the bed.  And they had found someone who actually knew how to pronounce the writer's name, articulating the accent, and everything.  She had believed the articulation of the ascent to be too much, but her husband had loved it.

        "Harlem, they even say you are supposed to eat grass."

        "Grass!" her voice raising over everything loud, and noisy or quiet, and meticulous.  He had kept a straight face.

        "Grass?" she asked again.  There was a shyness in her beauty as her straight face began to leak expressions of laughter.

        "Are you serious?  You would have eaten grass?" punching him in the belly hard, and it hurt.

        That had been nine months ago.  The day her, and her husband understood that she was pregnant.  It seemed like nine months ago, from the comforts of her secluded living room to the ragged, desolate of the wilderness.  Nine months pregnant without her husband.  The seclusion was there, but nothing else, and she was carrying life that defined a space of time in her mind.  She was now functioning, not for her or her husband, but the greatness of life they were giving birth to.

        "That sounded way too philosophical," she thought.  Maybe she would just have to admit to herself that she messed up.

        "You messed, Harlem.  You just messed up."  She had never heard her husband with such anger.  The spoon dropped from the bucket of ice cream, striking the floor.  Cream form the spoon splattered onto the pants leg of her husband.  She had began to put a dent into the gallon of ice cream.  Five or six giant scoops, but she was caught, feeling the reflex of her toes grip the floor.  She might have to fight him, pregnant or not, and he looked crazy, snatching the spoon from the floor.  The bottom of his pants legs smoothed her toes.

        "How far are we into this pregnancy?" the anger in his voice changing.  She stared now, listening.  Everything was quiet except the stretch of skin across her belly.

        "Five months," the voice whiny, and sullen.

        "You sure you read the entire book?"  He was trying to be funny.  It wasn't working.  He was clearly upset.

        "And look at how much you ate," taking the gallon of ice cream from her lap.  She could feel the cold of frost on her sweats.  She had made a pig of herself, and was about to.  The thought was disgusting.

        "I know you, Harlem.  Te entire bucket?"

        "So," she said to herself in a stare.   

        "Harlem, you're pregnant.  P-r-e-g-n-a-n-t.  Pregnant.  I'm tired.  You're tired.  We have life that is growing in your belly.  We can't mess that up."

        "Alright, alright!" ripping through his speech.  "You're right.  I'm sorry," her voice sincere.  Her husband, having been reassured, dug the spoon into the bucket of ice cream, pulling out an enormous scoop.  

        "So, you're just going to stand there, and eat in front of me like that?" another spoonful.

        "Yep, but listen," smiling, "There's a big glass of water with your name on it.  I'll get it for you."

        She began to worry about the damage done to her system because of the ice cream.  "Five months," she thought, suffocating to the pressure of gluttony.  And this stage was critical for the environment of the child.  She just hadn't been thinking.  It was already five months; day in, and day out.  Every day, for five months, and she had followed through.  And she was clean.  She could feel she was clean.  To give in today, and have her husband catch her was horrible.  

        Harlem could hear the water from the faucet.  The ice cream wouldn't do too much damage, she figured.  But that was just it.  She shouldn't have to figure.  She should know.  And after the child was born, the fight would not be over.  It was life, and years of work; the pregnancy being just a positive start.  

        Grabbing the glass of water from her husband, she could tell he was upset.  The water tickled her tongue, and throat; an almost real feeling.

        "Well, since you are alright now," his talk mumbled from ice cream, "I guess I'll have to finish this for you."

        "You can just put it in the trash."  It was sort of a dead command.

        "And waste.  You have really lost it.  I'll suck it up," giving her a fool's face.  They both laughed.  That was five months ago.

        "Now look at me," she thought, scratching against the rough of the tree, the tree's touch feeling through the thick jacket with a slight hint of the reoccurring pain straining itself.  Her attention was on every second of the moment.  She would feel every kick, and stumble, breathing in deep.  Inhale. Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale. 

        And through everything she had read, the only thing of real importance had been the breathing.  What to think, what to wear, how to walk, and which way to walk had no affect on the pain.  Even her sitting posture alleviated nothing; only her breathing.  She could a distant shadow descend onto her muscle structure.  A funk is what her mother would call it.  When the pain reappeared, it would hit harder, and she wanted to give up.  It was hopeless.  The car, not in walking distance.  Out in the middle of nowhere, pregnant; the sudden craziness to attack her stability, her internal struggle to be herself, and define who she was.

        Harlem had believed many lies that she too began to lie.  Not a hateful or an evil lie.  A lie big or small.  Not believing in truth when it is the truth.  And she had gotten pregnant.  The thing substantial in their existence together.  Something real, and concrete.  She felt like a rat for study with her husband at the hospital.  Something that told her no, becoming louder as the stare carried into the emergency room.

        "We need to leave.  It's not right.  I feel sick," rubbing the brown hue of her complexion, the emergency doors shuttering violently, allowing the entrance of someone in pain.  Death apparent on his face as the show of blood, and teeth over shaped the blood puddled gurney, and the wheels that tangled across the floor in flow with the dangling of his hands, and legs.

        "He can't be dead," Harlem thought, feeling for her husband.  She was stuck, mesmerized by cluttered thoughts.  Another gurney crept from the exit of a secluded hallway.  She could see what formed underneath the white covering as a dead man.  Her husband spoke first.

        "Something is not right here.  That's a dead body in the crowd of those people.  And look at this blood," picking his feet up under the rain of blood that had made it to the floor.  Looking into his face, he was upset as he looked down at the belly of his wife.    

        "It's an emergency room," both her, and husband looking into the direction of the comment, the old lady simply looking.  Her face was dark, like dirt, but her face was not dirty, just dark.  Either her teeth was missing or the thick curl of her lips covered what couldn't be seen.  Her hair was smoke gray as were the thick wool of her socks.  Everything else was quick; flip-flops, shorts, and white t-shirt.  She appeared as a woman who listened to emergencies.

        "Let me guess.  You're pregnant.  He's not.  Probably married, and want to do it right," noticing that she had teeth, her smile giving way to what appeared to be a perfect set.

        "Are those your teeth?"  Harlem's husband sounding genuinely amazed.  Another gurney rolled from the street entrance.  Same example, different face.

        "What you think?  An old woman in an emergency room can't have good looking teeth.  It looks like you have bigger problems than my teeth," eyeing the mid-section of his wife.  Harlem's hands pressed tight her navel.

        "I say twins, maybe triplets," eyeing her husband.  Standing quickly, the gold necklace swung in between the older woman's breast.  

        "But you have to be."  Another gurney could be heard slamming hard across the brick street of the hospital entrance accompanied with screams, and hollers of pain, and suffering.  She appeared as she had been tortured.  The gurney passed Harlem, and her husband, and her quickly, knocking the elder lady back into her seat.

        "You idiot!"  She was old, but the voice was young; a mere child in pitch, and accent.  The gurney slid around the hospital hallway corner, striking the swinging door's entrance into the emergency room.

        Breaking her thought to continue, "But you have to be careful," the word 'careful' focusing Harlem's eyes on a single drop of stained blood.  It appeared as no blood spill, just one drop in the far distance of any other, neatly positioned with everything else.  How the people sat.  How the old lady talked.  How she stood.  Everything placed around the single drop.  Harlem, realizing it was someone's blood she was staring at, began to listen.

        "If you're pregnant," her eyes matching smoky with her hair, "the hospital is never where you need to be.  Or end up or come to.  You don't even want to walk through those doors," raising her hands, pointing.  The entrance doors opening, and closing to her hand motion .  .  .  .page continue