My Pride, My Pain - Excerpt

This brief excerpt from "My Pride, My Pain" was initially posted on All The Little Branches in the text-based RPG "Tower," topic "I Know Why The Caged Bird Screams." The character, Samanya, is a 42 year old male Rwandan therianthrope, Tutsi in ethnicity, werelion in strain. Without giving away too much plot, it is set during the Rwandan genocide in 1994. This segment differs from what would appear in the actual novel as at the end of this passage, Samanya is transported to Tower (hence being frightened when he turns around). On a more serious and not plot-related note, although this piece is fictional, the gruesome events very closely mimic what occurred in Rwanda in 1994 while the international community stood by and did nothing. You may read this and frown upon the vivid violent descriptions, but keep in mind that people truly lived through (and died through) this while we in the Western world turned a blind eye and deaf ear.

Samanya crouched in silent horror at the margins of the town, form hidden by the shadows of dusk and the thick trunk of a acacia tree as the chorus of terrified screams drowned out any quiet sounds his feet may have made on the twigs and grass. The town he had once called his own, so many years ago, was under attack from the Hutu. They arrived in overcrowded military trucks, nearly heaped atop each other as they waved their machetes and shouted popular hate speech like, Death to all Tutsi cockroaches! The villagers scattered like antelope at the sight, some attempting to flee into the tree line only to be cut down by machine gun fire. Many ran into the nearest house, doomed by the same terror-driven mindlessness that made young girls run up staircases to no possible escape in 80's horror flicks.

The werelion heard men shouting in Kinyarwanda, soldiers barking out orders to subordinates and plainclothes Hutu citizens as they moved like hungry predators from house to house, busting down doors and dragging the inhabitants screeching into the streets. Some resisted violently, fighting back with kitchen knives, household objects, or even frantically beating fists. Others cowered, tears streaming down their dark cheeks, begging and crying to be spared. Regardless of the behavior, the reaction was the same: they were butchered by machete, left in bleeding, gasping piles in the streets. The thirsty ground drank up the blood, feeding red - endless red, too much red - to the small gardens and sparse grass.

Samanya watched as an elderly man, blind and hunchbacked, was shoved to the ground by a Hutu extremist. The assailant looked like a simple farmer, but wielded his machete with the viciousness of a rabid beast. The old man did not shout nor fight back, just curled on the ground keening like a wounded child, as the blade's blows rained down upon him. Samanya could hear the crunch of his brittle old bones breaking, his sagging flesh splitting wide and hanging so that angry red gashes spilled great spurts of blood into the streets. It sprayed across the forearms and chest of the Hutu man, staining his clothing. The blood, paired with the wildness in his eyes, reminded Samanya of a predator with a kill. But unlike a predator, the man's eyes were not calm, calculating, and unemotional - they were crazed by a vengeful madness unique to the human animal.

A high pitched wail caught Samanya's attention. A beautiful young Tutsi woman, probably only fifteen or sixteen years old, screamed in child-like horror as she was wrenched out of the protective arms of her father. Men restrained him with cruel laughter and jackals' grins as their sergeant tore away the girl's clothing, obscenely exposing her virgin body. He shoved his machete to throat, forcing her head up into the air so high that her own tears nearly ran back into her eyes. The man groped around in his pants, pulling his manhood free and pulling one of the girl's legs up around his waist while she whimpered pleas to be released. Samanya looked away, wincing as her quiet begging turned into screams of agony. Her father cried out as well, helpless to do anything but watch as his daughter was raped.

These people should have meant nothing to him. They had driven him away, persecuted him and his family, even killed one of his sons. Yet as he listened to the cries all around him, the quiet trilling of dusk insects drowned out by a symphony of suffering, he could not bear to stand by and do nothing. He was not like them, and though this had brought him much pain in life, it could bring an advantage; he was faster, stronger, and would not fall so readily from injuries. Though he was reluctant, torn between his loyalty & duty to his family and this current moral dilemma, Samanya said a quiet prayer to his ancestors and started to Change.

He was experienced and skilled enough that he could change quickly and seamlessly, and with all of the madness in the air, it was unlikely that anyone would feel the hot electric prickle of his energy in the darkness. Dark fur flowed over his skin in a wave, a feeling like insects creeping through his flesh. His fingers shortened, large hooked claws pushing aside his frail human nails so that they fell to litter the dry grass below. The long bones of his thighs shortened as the short bones of his feet lengthened, forcing him on to all fours. The dim light of the fading day soon became brilliant illumination as the feline tapetum lucidum ((Funny side note: I originally typed "corpus luteum," which is hilariously wrong if you know your anatomy)) formed behind his retina. His nose could now smell the situation in detail more graphic than he'd have preferred, the reek of ruptured entrails, broken marrow bones, and so much blood overwhelming him. He shook his head in distaste, newly formed mane flowing and the deadlocks hanging at his nape slapping against the strong muscles of his leonine shoulders.

Samanya advanced with confidence now, his massive predatory forum stalking towards the village sinister, not indicating any of the Christ symbolism that better suited his theriotype and noble intentions. No one took notice, too absorbed in the horror of it all to focus on anything else but their suffering or rage. The girl who had been raped had stopped screaming long ago, slumped to the earth gurgling her last breaths through a slit throat, her torn genitals violated and bleeding. Samanya looked at her with sadness in his one good eye, and in her far-gone state, she reached out and ran her fingers over his coat as he passed with a dazed and awestruck smile. They were already growing cold and stiff against his skin.

A baby squalled in harmony with a woman's frantic screams for mercy, and this caught the therianthrope's attention. An armed man was trying to pull the baby from her arms, and the two played a vicious tug of war with its fragile body. The mother's eyes were frantic with terror and fury, and Samanya saw in her face the same desperation he'd seen on his wife's when their son was shot. The man raised his machete, readying to chop the child free of its mother's hands, or else her hands free of its body - who knew. Samanya launched into action, hitting the militant from behind with paws digging into his shoulders such that he buckled under the weight of the beast. The werelion sunk his fangs into the back of the man's skull, the crunch of bone coming too easily with his strength.

The woman screamed at the sight of the terrible predator that was her savior, clutching her bruised infant to her chest, and something in the quality of that scream drew attention from a nearby Hutu. Samanya felt the machete hit his shoulder, chopping away some of his long hair before biting into the skin. He roared, unhooking his teeth from his quarry, and turned to face his attacker... and what he found behind him frightened him more than the genocide.

Is it?

I'm on a illegitimate writing kick lately, sorry for all this tripe...

Is it…?
Is it your hand, big and warm, dwarfing and enveloping mine?
Is it the contented purr of your snoring in the dark, quiet hours of early morning?
Is it slick soap suds clinging to the dark curls of your chest hair in the shower?
Is it the tight curve of your body and mine beneath soft sheets?
Is it the way your smile pulls one from behind my lips no matter what my mood?
Is it your eyes, quiet and tender, when they meet mine?
Is it how there’s no one else in the restaurant when you talk about your day?
Is it your toothbrush lying next to mine on the bathroom counter?
Is it your great strong arms with their gentle embrace?
Is it lazy weekend mornings, sunlight striping the pillows through the blinds?
Is it finishing one another’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes?
Is it walking side by side in spring under the green oak canopies?
Is it stretching out half-asleep on the couch watching movies?
Is it forgetting to ever fight, criticize, take for granted?
Is it…?

WIP - Kennel Madness

I don't usually post works in progress, but I have this jotted on a little scrap of paper and don't particularly wish to lose it altogether. So, here's a rare glimpse at some severely unfinished work.

Kennel Madness
The kennel is approximately twice my length and once my width indoors, the outdoor run not much longer. Its floor is concrete and smells of bleach and urine; it is rough beneath my paws and makes my hips ache dully when I lie down even through the thin cushion of my ragged blanket. I have one old rope that tastes like ten other dogs' saliva through the detergent, and a stainless steel bowl, the sound of which hurts my ears on the frequent occasions that I accidentally knock it across the floor. It is very easy to tip this bowl in my daily pacings, which are all I can do to quell the relentless desire to move in this, my tiny stake of the world.

When I am excited, I can not run, so I circle, leap, bark away my energy. The people who look through the chain link of my kennel door make disapproving faces; sometimes I hear their pulses skip and smell their adrenaline surge with fear. They don't understand my enthusiasm just as I don't understand their quiet vocalizations and tense movements as they pass my by. Their fear makes me uneasy and frustrated, so much so that I start to stand at the back of my kennel instead of the front. My tail and ears droop and I avoid their gaze, the hair on my back prickling.

The other dogs are uneasy as well; individually, their barks may indicate aggression, loneliness, excitement, boredom, but it all just blends into one great din reflecting of the terror that breeds in this place. It isn't the wild fear that many of us experienced when our masters abandoned us, or when we found ourselves alone in the chaos of the streets. It is a slow dread that eats at you like a cancer with every passing day, the relentless disquietude of not knowing.

Life

I am once again writing a poem for my student observations. The topic assigned to me by the student this time was "Life." It is very broad and vague, so I decided to tackle it in the biological sense with juxtaposed images in each line to point out that we tend to create prejudices towards organisms and life processes based on their appeal to us even though, at the end of the day, they're all just "life." I also figured I'd try my hand at ryming, though I still can't get a pesistent number of syllabols in each stanza. I'm not overwhelmingly pleased with this, so it's basically just filler to make this look like an active blog to everyone who isn't reading it (haha).

Bios
I am bacteria that kills
and mold for penicillin pills.

I am the maggots in the tomb,
the stirring in a mother's womb.

I am a placid cow chewing cud,
a voracious parasite drinking blood.

I am the flower and the weed,
the mighty tree and tiny seed.

I am the humble crawling snail
and the majestic singing whale.

I am the rabbit's fleet paws
and the fox's hungry jaws.

I am a tigress nursing her cubs,
a wasp who lays eggs in live grubs.

I am the spider you crush in fright
and the lover that you hold at night.

I am vagrants sleeping in subway stations
and leaders of the greatest nations.

I start before you draw first breath
and briefly persist after "death."

I am vicious.

I am precious.

I am life.

It's been a while...

Ouch, school sure does cut in to one's creative time, doesn't it? I haven't been able to write, much less post writing in this blog, in ages. I'm rusty as a result, but here's a couple (very) un-polished shorts:

Earth Worms and Eastern Philosophy
___The rain slapped the gritty sidewalk until the fallen tree buds and cigarette stubs had been transformed into saturated, amorphous blobs. Everything was damp, dark but for the pale, writhing forms of earthworms driven to their demise by the deluge. They writhed in puddles, curling and lashing like whips, or stretched their bodies long, thin and prone across the ground. Some were waterlogged, their tissues gravid with moisture, barely able to move. Others had perished under foot traffic, mashed like putty, ground into the pavement.
___The man walking ahead of me struck a fat worm with the heel of his shoe as he passed, oblivious to the casual brutality. The worm's body burst like an overfilled garbage bag, primitive inner workings spilling across the pavement. Despite the poor beast's alien form - serpentine and seemingly so far below ours - there was something grimly familiar in its throes, a certain agony in the way its dying body writhed and shuddered. There was a profound and unmistakable violence in the act of what, for the worm's killer, ammounted to a simple lapse in mindfulness.

Untitled Sap
Increasingly, they slept together in one or the other's bed, taking turns; a sort of psuedo live-in situation, playing house with no strings attached. When this routine first started, he used to relish her lingering scent on his pillows and linens, a welcomed spectre of their romance. Increasingly, however, he noticed that whether she was in his bed or he in hers, the smell had mingled, become indistinct. Soon it wasn't his scent or her scent, but something new - their scent. And to him, it smelled like home.