Common Ancestor Cafe

What do you do when you fail so hard as a writer that you can't even finish one lousy novel? Obviously, you write a random scene from a future novel in a series that you haven't even completed book one of. I give you a taste of volume three, with Trent (a hybrid wereanimal) and Arlette (a de-winged harpy once exploited in research and the sex trade) going out to eat at a cafe!

___Common Ancestor Cafe was a squat and inobtrusive brick building huddled nervously between two larger structures bearing a more sleek and modernized look. The owners had long ago given up on embellishing the storefront with the flowers, lanterns, or similar niceties donned by other businesses on the block, as these were inevitably vandalized. The buildings' walls themselves were a hodge-podge of graffitti, all colors and styles, some fresh and some faded. The one theme unifying the scrawlings was that they all reflected hate messages: Humans first! Death to vamp parasites! The only good therian is a dead therian! and so forth.
___Outside, despite the best efforts to keep it clean, the sidewalk seemed to sparkle with what was, upon close inspection, a large ammount of tiny glass shards crushed into the concrete and between its cracks. This was typical of inclusion facilities. Bricks, rocks, and on one occasion the disembodied head of a murdered werewolf had shattered the Common Ancestor's windows so many times that no ammount of sweeping could remove all of the glass. It was a miracle the place hadn't been burned to the ground yet, really, but with the current backlash against the Hominid Rights movement it was bound to happen in the imminent future. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasted.
___As I coaxed Arlette towards the entrance of the cafe, the corners of her yellow lips drooped downwards - much like her feirce golden eyes, which were cast to the ground as though submitting to the prejudice staring her in the face. Her hand tightened around mine as an insecure reflex, the tips of her talons dimpling my flesh. I hated seeing her this way; witnessing such a magnificent predator driven to despair was the same sort of tradgedy as watching a lion circle in a cage. I pulled her closer in comfort, the hot line of her arm against mine coarse and scaled where it met my wrist, silk smooth at my shoulder.
___On the door hung the customary warnings and disclaimers demanded by law at such a facility. On a red background with prominent white lettering, sans serif, was the warning: "Caution: This is a preternatural inclusion facility." Another, white with "NOTICE" in bold red and black print scrawled below cautioned: "Under section 403 of the 2001 Preternatural Hominids Act, this facility is licensed to provide services to non-humans. Human patrons should be advised that they will be sharing facilities with potentially infectious, predatory, or supernatural entities at their own risk." Finally, a copy of the public health code regarding the preparation and serving of food by non-humans to humans (strictly prohibited) was also posted. The owners of the store, in a feeble attempt at mirth, had posted their own sign: "If you're sentient and can pay the bill, welcome!"

Paul's Demise

This is actually from my major writing project! I rarely post anything from it here, but this is so first-draft that it doesn't really matter. Here we see our protagonist, in his animal form, taking out one of the "bad guys." It is meant to be fairly brutal, so if you're squeamish, perhaps avoid.

___The blood was fresh, only a slight tackiness like the thin skin on pudding marking the onset of coagulation. It was the distinct cartoon-bright red of arterial blood, always too dark in movies because directors are afraid it will look fake. It did look fake, but I could smell the adrenaline and iron and cholesterol, feel the heat rising from each pool against my cold nose when I inhaled. I bared my teeth, recognizing Paul's scent over the intoxicating metallic reek of blood.
___It did not take long to locate him; he'd returned to his human form in a vain effort to use his hands to stop the bleeding of a deep neck wound. I could hear his shallow, raspy breathing, smell the clammy sweat beading on his flabby form. He wouldn't survive long; shorter still now that I'd arrived. He was soaked in blood from effort to stem the flow, crusting in a brown craquelure at the elbows, slippery bright red at his hands and fingertips, the length of each forearm punctuated by dark clotting rivulets.
___Paul was beyond words. He only moaned pitifully as I approached, grimacing and averting his eyes submissively. He whimpered, growled, wept. Urine pooled beneath his fat body. The blood began to pulse more rapidly from between his fingertips. I couldn't feel sympathy; in my mind's eye, I saw him slamming the butt of the gun repeatedly against the werehyena's muzzle as she struggled to drag her bullet-addled body away from his abuse. A low growl rattled in the back of my throat, species indistinct, as I tensed to pounce.
___Paul went very still, his only movement a tendril of snot quivering from one nostril with each tremulous breath. His slaty eyes became wide and wild as I leapt, but he made no effort to fight nor flee. His flabby cheeks shredded, facial bones grating against my fangs before crushing inwards. My claws vanished into the doughy flesh of his abdomen, too soft, tearing but meeting nothing vital. Yellowed globules of fat left an oily residue on my fur, collected in great greasy clumps beneath the hooks of my claws.
___His breaths became convulsive and a high keening issued from his destroyed face as I finally caught the membrane of the peritoneum. Slick, rubbery intestine looped from the tear. At last his hands fell from his throat, feebly grabbing at my pelt in a last instinctive effort of defense. I seized the opportunity to affix my jaws and finish what the hyenas has started; the satisfying snap came with but one firm shake.
___Panting, I backed away from the devastation, Paul barely recognizable as he trembled and choked away his last moments. Yet I hadn't killed him here: he'd walked into the grave when he entered this territory intent to maim, torture and kill other therians. And in thinking this, I came to a very calm, cold realization: so too had the rest of them.

Wings

This idea came to me in the car. It possibly has some personal significance. I literally scrawled it down while driving - I do not reccomend this for safety's sake.

Wings
What if, when Icarus flew so close on his waxen wings,
The sun had shied away in shame for having attracted him?
Would he pursue the wind, the stars, the moon instead?
Or would he still spiral to earth
Under the weight of a dream denied?
Oh, you who are brilliant like the sun,
Don't you understand?
I'd have rather you burned my wings
Than gently, carefully clipped them.