Randitty

Of course, the rest of Baruther’s pack helped with the findings. Wasn’t it scraggly red little Baruther himself all that time ago, bringing up the fossils and the other proof from the Great Red Den?

Turim stopped for a drink, but she feared to really go near the creek into her neighbor’s territory…

The back of her scaled neck tensed at all she had to figure now, just for a sip of water, but then the memory of Baruther returned and she spread open her jowls and laughed at the memory. Her misty breath froze in the air and little dots of ice glittered then fell. Veins of silver glittered as she shook her head and the sun caught this and that patch of freezing dirt in her dancing shadow.

Baruther, from a family of thinkers… and the Great Red Pack at that, the poor thing. But, fire-minded Wyldehounds were prone to be. They got the most restless while underground. Disrupted their own hibernation most often with foolish schemes and pranks, she heard.

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When blue envelops, it tightens around your chest. Winds tight around your throat and you can’t breathe. You remember that time… you said exactly the wrong thing to him, sweet him finally opening up to you, then he sneered, then he left you. And he was right to.

You were being a bitch and that broke his heart. The men, they don’t cry. The males, they try not to. They push you away, really hard, as if they want to resist hitting you back, when you’ve hit them first. They run and they duck their heads as if they’ve been struck.

Your waist, cinched. Cobalt, going purple, seizes around your wrists too, tight. Throwing your elbows, twisting against the ribbons, being pulled. Rope burns across your breasts, you’d fight so hard to get out of there, the choking blue. This thick ink you’ve got for blood… and now the night world is so dark, you’re drowning in it. You open your eyes and it’s pressing into the corneas. Blinking hard, quickly, again and again. Get it out. But the ink is getting in, still. The oil slipping up your thighs, and in, under your arms.

Karen kicks out, takes a breath, and gags on so much blue.

Her sheets are blue.

No, those are her scales, as she stands up on the violet plain. As she snuffs the morning air and sees the gold mist escape from her pointed nose. Her nose, her scales, those are blue…

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That one time, with Brandon… she was so tight but he adored her for it. He said that he loved her, even. Karen never had sex like that before. She completely released and relaxed. Everything fit, everything went well. She used to make herself laugh when she wanted to cry, say that she was just destined to be with the right person. Made for only one man, perfect fit.

Karen thought about Brandon’s eyes, and slipped the navy nighty up over her arms and ponytail. One slow breath out. No, it wasn’t going to be painful. She would get better at it. If no one loving was around to relax her and give her the chance… Karen lay down. She was sweating and hooked slippery black hair behind an ear. Yes. Oh, yes… Master Baruther with his golden eyes, he was with her now…

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(Part Two)

Karen Jung had a routine, a secret routine, a super secret special little routine involving her favorite Hello Kitty toy… sorry to say, yes, she knew she was one of those weird girls… Hello Kitty everywhere. And it happened every night after she made herself shut off the iPhone. Made herself shut her eyes. Let herself lay still, cheat… think of him, one of her exes… anyone, just pick one… Well, you always do pick him, don’t you? With the spikey hair, who could kiss so well on the train. In front of everybody on the Metro.

Brandon Moreno and her hadn’t lasted long. They said they were just going to have coffee, but after, she twined their pinky fingers and pulled him running down Columbia Road. Her apartment was nice, he said. But then they were fucking, and yelling. He howled.

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You try the last of it out as you fish around for your toothpaste in the cabinet and the faucet runs,

“Master Baruther… Master Baruther… Oh, Master Baruther…”

That must be it. Life isn’t so good… nor, easy.

I should be ashamed of myself, for not knowing exactly where she is from… or if she was born here? Or her family… I’m being so stupid to assume she wouldn’t have been born here, aren’t I? Brandon, you are an idiot. And it was wrong to have gone and bought that damned tea, and thought of her… Can’t you do better than that? She deserves so much better than that. I’m such an ignorant, sorry fuck. She would never look at me… tu e yo…

Maybe I’m a racist, then.

Beautiful woman… lychee-loving woman… I can’t do anything for you. Have a beautiful day.

On the train home that night, Karen Jung angrily sheathed her phone and walked on her black high heels almost straight down the crowded aisle. Nearly almost. She squeezed herself through all the people on the train, winced with embarrassment at her big ass that kept forcing people to press into the plastic seats and onto one another, or release the metal poles to fit her through. But when she did get there, flushed and breathless… Read More

The red is smoking now and it rescinds. Turim whines at you pitifully. Her scales are a deep bloody red, looking so soft, but if you touch them, they burn. Cold burning… she is nearby in the bed. She creeps in close and whines at you through her pointed nose. She loves you so much that she wishes she was you.

And she always misses you, even though you are in the same city.

You awaken and the disgusting glare of so many colors oozes round your eyes, washing them in thick, foul discordant nonsense. Your eyes are stinging and you throw the covers off, rush out of your bed to wash your face.

But that is worse. Even water has color. So many morninglights in one liquid. Grays, whites, silvers, the overpowering quicksilver of the faucet screaming at you to wake the hell up. Too bright.

The red rescinds, into twin blood drops on your fingertips. Maybe it was that you scratched your face? Read More

We go on twos when we have to do. We argue over things like mayonnaise on meat—what are they? Sandwiches? Sand-witch-is? This helps us to fit in. We puppet ourselves while we stalk the shadows of this world, half-aware of our enemies. We are down in the town, going in and out of the stone temples, pulling our paws long into crooked fingers (the fleshy claws humans think and make with instead) meanwhile, our lupine spirits are soaring down the roadways, off the highways, racing alongside the car windows, carrrs… garrrrs… grrrrs… and children swear that they can see us running as their parents drive on, yes they can. But we see only red and black, like real animals. So they are either meat or dead to us. Mostly, they are dead, so we leave the young ones alone. We turn into the trees, we try to get in as deep a forest as we can, my love, and we mate, and sniff around, and mate again, and wag our tails and wonder how long we have before the bell calls us back, and we have to return our human bodies to their homes. Then we must perch on the puppets’ shoulders, pretend we weren’t very naughty, and not be too wild while the humans are out drinking, or dancing, no longer drones. They fuck each other and we watch. We wait, wait, wait-wait-wait… now, yes… Until they slumber again. The, we have another chance to float and live out our true lives, my love. Read More

Phryne raised up on a wing tip, black edge flashing silver in the morning sky. All about her was rough wind, air rushing everywhere. One always heard the air, like swimming through water. It had a life of its own, it made its noises. Yes, air and water had their tantrums, their tornadoes or their hurricanes, but on their good days, each breathed, murmured, gulped. That was how it was for the fishes beneath narrow dun sandy beaches of the rock creek and for the fowl flying above its white perforated tree tops. Lush, dusty canopy dazzling with gray city sky, or the tops stone buildings and metal towers of the city.

Trills and peeps of other birds flushed through the air, over Phryne’s head, and beneath her neck when she needed to hear one thing or another and she pointed her beak and cocked her head mid-flight to listen. No, that was a sparrow, not a pestering mockingbird… This was what she listened to.

Phyrne sometimes swept over people with their heads bowed, and what looked like runny egg whites coming from their ears, threads going into black slick boxes in their hands. Called… phones. It went “phone” or “I have to take this,” or “ring-ring-ring” or “bip-beep” and the most confusing… sometimes the damned things tweeted like birds… Read More