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La Cucharacha

It's just shy of 9 in the morning, which is NOT wake-up time for sleepy Lunatics, as they work very late on weekdays. Nonetheless, biological imperative demanded that I rise. Striding sleepily back to bed, my mind half-registered what looked like a small hole in the ceiling, and only fully registered it once I was tucked back in bed again and attempting to sleep.

I squinted. It sure didn't look like it had been there the night before. I knew my ceiling reasonably well. I know I'm going to regret putting my glasses on, I thought as I walked over to the desk, retrieved them, and walked back. I was right.

I called the office. "There's a cockroach on my ceiling, and I don't like bugs," I informed the new manager, adding my name and apartment number as an afterthought.
"I'll see if I can send the maintenance guy down," she told me. "And keep your eye on it. We don't have time to look for it."

I semi-dressed under my nightgown as I kept a wary eye on the ceiling. I wondered how long it would take the maintenance guy to get there. I wondered if it would be worth my time to get my cellphone and make a panicked text message post to LJ about my little visitor.

He knocked. I indicated the ceiling -- a spot very near my bed.
"It's just la cucharacha," he told me.
"I don't like la cucharacha," I informed him.

He made a heroic NBA leap with a paper towel.
"You want it?" he asked.

He and the (presumably squished) remains of la cucharacha departed, after leaving me with the intelligence that the bug-sprayer guys would be in and around sometime later on.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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