Sneak peak of some Vol 3 Gabe narrative, via flashback. He would be around 14/15 at the time of this.
When I got up this morning, my mom was already crying, eyes all bloodshot and watery. Most people's eyelids got puffy and red when they wept, and I think hers would have been too if they weren't already swollen black and blue with about five layers of concealer caked over them. It was running down her cheeks, big flesh-toned makeup tears dripping into the greasy mash of amarillos, eggs, and corn she was frying up on the stove. Her cooking was always the obscene lovechild of American and Puerto Rican cuisine, everything fried and cheap. Poor person food.
I didn't say a word as I walked up the counter and poured a cup of coffee. I brushed aside the shattered fragments of a mug, tried to politely ignore the dark splash of café up the wall and the dent in the plaster.
"That's for your father," she said, her voice still strained from their fight.
"Looks like he already had his." I pointed to the wall and took a long sip.
I felt like a dick when that made fresh tears well up in her sad kicked-dog eyes, but I couldn't force myself to give her a hug when the next words out of her mouth were, "You must pray for your father." Hell, I had trouble not throwing my own damn mug at the wall. Instead I just smirked.
"Those candles you're always burning not doing the trick? Rita of Cascia should really get off her ass and do something one of these days."
She smacked me across the face before I was even done with the sentence. No surprises there. I could taste a little blood where my teeth cut my lip and wondered if she liked hitting me because she couldn't hit him. She crossed herself and muttered the trinitarian as I dabbed my mouth and came away with a smear of red on the back of my hand.
"Don't you ever speak of the Saints like that! Dios mio, Gabriel, this is not how I raised you!"
"Right. You raised me thank God for the rain when he pisses on us." I slammed down my coffee, grabbed my backpack, and high tailed out the door so I didn't have to hear her start sobbing again.
The backpack was just for show; I always chucked it in the bushes outside of the abandoned house next door, and no one ever bothered to steal it because it had books in it. School was only a few blocks away, so was a bus stop where I could catch a ride to the Miami people see on television. Tourists don't realize that beyond the fancy hotels and crowded beaches, there's real Miami - barrios and slums and places you'd never want to be caught white and rich or you might damn well wind up caught dead.
I liked to walk along the boardwalk, imagine I was there on vacation with a real family. I poked my head into shops, pretending I could afford the overpriced knick-knacks that the out-of-towners ate up. Twenty dollars for a shitty balsa wood carving of a dolphin. Ten bucks for a keychain with a picture of a sunset that probably wasn't even taken here. There were little stands pedaling tiny acrylic cages, inside each a plastic palm tree and a sponge and a hermit crab. I thought it was a sick kind of funny, people trying to immortalize their vacation with something they'd kill in a week.
I liked to watch the women, too. The kind of girls on the boardwalks in Miami would spray on their tans before the beach, wear little string bikinis their rode up their ass cracks, then give you the stink eye for looking. The nice thing about them, in a fucked up way, was that I didn't have to try being discreet; even if I acted like a gentleman, they would never even consider someone like me. They liked the sort of men who had their skin tanned by a booth, not by birth. So I was free to stare at them just like the meat they served themselves up as. And part of me felt dirty for that, and part of me didn't care.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sneak Peak: The Dog Star
Take an epic ammount of cold medication, don't sleep enough, and get angry about the uniform template of space vessels in sci-fi flicks. If the result isn't something this stupid, congratulations: you're a better writer than I am. I started this several weeks ago under the aforementioned conditions, but ran into a stumbling block that I haven't hurdled yet. So I'm just posting what I have and leaving it at that for now. And yes, this is a very, VERY rough draft.
-Follow me,- the Araneoscientian requested, raising his bristled muzzle to point towards the slopes of a looming crater. -There is something I am excited to show you.-
Laika II obliged, trailing just behind the massive beast with her head lowered and tail still resolutely tucked to her abdomen. Regardless of her host's hospitality, the dog's fragile canine psyche was not yet prepared to embrace the new surroundings. Everything seemed an affront to her acute senses, from the choking humidity of the air, to the tackiness of the spongy earth below her paws, to the greasy smell of the slick, iridescent rocks that jutted erratically from the landscape. Even walking with the Aran was a daunting task for the dog; her keen ears could not reconcile the foreign cadence of eight lumbering steps, nor the persistent rasping of the creature's many plantar radula against the ground.
As they reached the base of the crater, a low drumming boom resonated from within, and the ground beneath their feet rumbled in turn. Laika II cowered, her ears drooping and face pulled in a fearful grimmace. A high pitched whine escaped her throat, and she forgot for a moment that Arans couldn't understand her foreign form and primal cries, that she would have to speak. She wondered if this was what it was like to be human: needing to painstakingly organize and convey every thought and emotion that could be more simply and directly expressed through the ancient language of the body. What a bother; no wonder they were creatures of such infinite rage.
-What is that?- she demanded after collecting herself sufficiently, though the whites of her eyes still showed in panic.
-What?- The Aran's posture stiffened, and he curled his tail high over his back, retractable barb protruding slightly from the tip in a defensive posture.
-That sound,- the dog replied, lifting her head and sniffing the air. Smells traveled slowly in the dense, damp atmosphere, but she could faintly detect a wan of something sulfurous on the sluggish wind.
The creature's tail relaxed, and there was a certain tone of amusement to his thoughts when he replied.
-Did it startle you?-
Laika II's ear flicked back in irritation.
-Obviously.-
The Araneoscientian lowered his head and bumped the dog's snout with his own in a gesture of comfort. Its chemoreceptive macrovilli brushed against her nose, and the dog sneezed reflexively.
-There is no need to be frightened. The Lunamoeba are harmless. Now, follow me.-
The Aran did not wait for her reply, tucking his secondary and tertiary grazing legs and beginning the steep ascent. Laika II lacked the benefit of her travel companion's widely spayed grasping toes, but was relieved to find the crater was not garbed in the same soft, damp loam as the wetlands around them. Instead, the slopes were thick with tiny, densely layered ringlets of springy foliage that very much reminded her of how carpetting in a human's home felt underfoot. It provided better yeild against her coarse pawpads, and for once walking was not an exercise in discomfort.
As they neared the crater's rim, the reek of sulfur became almost overpowering; it made her nostrils burn and eyes water. Despite being a common element on earth, the dog had never encountered such a concentration in the environment. The closest she'd come was the smell of a battlefield, but even there it was dithered by the stronger scents of blood and bowel. The Aran must have sensed Laika II's discomfort, for just as she started lagging behind uncertainly, he paused and looked over his shoulder. She suspected this was for her benefit more than anything; the Aran's ocular corona allowed him an almost complete 360 degree view of his surroundings. The gesture indeed looked strained; the species' neck was not built for it.
-We're almost there.-
Perhaps dogs lack imagination, or certainly most cognitive studies would suggest that they lacked the complexity for creative thought. Regardless, Laika II could not have contrived what the crater would reveal; her senses told her to expect little else but a reeking uninhabitable pit, perhaps crawling with whatever macherinery was making the thunderous sounds and caustic chemical odors within. She'd encountered construction equipment in her puppyhood, and recalled it being similarly imposing.
Finally, the dog stood alongside the alien at the crater's craggy rim, its mouth spread impossibly wide on both sides like it yearned to swallow them whole. She marvelled at the sight and scent and sound of what its depths revealed.
-Follow me,- the Araneoscientian requested, raising his bristled muzzle to point towards the slopes of a looming crater. -There is something I am excited to show you.-
Laika II obliged, trailing just behind the massive beast with her head lowered and tail still resolutely tucked to her abdomen. Regardless of her host's hospitality, the dog's fragile canine psyche was not yet prepared to embrace the new surroundings. Everything seemed an affront to her acute senses, from the choking humidity of the air, to the tackiness of the spongy earth below her paws, to the greasy smell of the slick, iridescent rocks that jutted erratically from the landscape. Even walking with the Aran was a daunting task for the dog; her keen ears could not reconcile the foreign cadence of eight lumbering steps, nor the persistent rasping of the creature's many plantar radula against the ground.
As they reached the base of the crater, a low drumming boom resonated from within, and the ground beneath their feet rumbled in turn. Laika II cowered, her ears drooping and face pulled in a fearful grimmace. A high pitched whine escaped her throat, and she forgot for a moment that Arans couldn't understand her foreign form and primal cries, that she would have to speak. She wondered if this was what it was like to be human: needing to painstakingly organize and convey every thought and emotion that could be more simply and directly expressed through the ancient language of the body. What a bother; no wonder they were creatures of such infinite rage.
-What is that?- she demanded after collecting herself sufficiently, though the whites of her eyes still showed in panic.
-What?- The Aran's posture stiffened, and he curled his tail high over his back, retractable barb protruding slightly from the tip in a defensive posture.
-That sound,- the dog replied, lifting her head and sniffing the air. Smells traveled slowly in the dense, damp atmosphere, but she could faintly detect a wan of something sulfurous on the sluggish wind.
The creature's tail relaxed, and there was a certain tone of amusement to his thoughts when he replied.
-Did it startle you?-
Laika II's ear flicked back in irritation.
-Obviously.-
The Araneoscientian lowered his head and bumped the dog's snout with his own in a gesture of comfort. Its chemoreceptive macrovilli brushed against her nose, and the dog sneezed reflexively.
-There is no need to be frightened. The Lunamoeba are harmless. Now, follow me.-
The Aran did not wait for her reply, tucking his secondary and tertiary grazing legs and beginning the steep ascent. Laika II lacked the benefit of her travel companion's widely spayed grasping toes, but was relieved to find the crater was not garbed in the same soft, damp loam as the wetlands around them. Instead, the slopes were thick with tiny, densely layered ringlets of springy foliage that very much reminded her of how carpetting in a human's home felt underfoot. It provided better yeild against her coarse pawpads, and for once walking was not an exercise in discomfort.
As they neared the crater's rim, the reek of sulfur became almost overpowering; it made her nostrils burn and eyes water. Despite being a common element on earth, the dog had never encountered such a concentration in the environment. The closest she'd come was the smell of a battlefield, but even there it was dithered by the stronger scents of blood and bowel. The Aran must have sensed Laika II's discomfort, for just as she started lagging behind uncertainly, he paused and looked over his shoulder. She suspected this was for her benefit more than anything; the Aran's ocular corona allowed him an almost complete 360 degree view of his surroundings. The gesture indeed looked strained; the species' neck was not built for it.
-We're almost there.-
Perhaps dogs lack imagination, or certainly most cognitive studies would suggest that they lacked the complexity for creative thought. Regardless, Laika II could not have contrived what the crater would reveal; her senses told her to expect little else but a reeking uninhabitable pit, perhaps crawling with whatever macherinery was making the thunderous sounds and caustic chemical odors within. She'd encountered construction equipment in her puppyhood, and recalled it being similarly imposing.
Finally, the dog stood alongside the alien at the crater's craggy rim, its mouth spread impossibly wide on both sides like it yearned to swallow them whole. She marvelled at the sight and scent and sound of what its depths revealed.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Transitory Scrantonite - Introduction
Because most of my new prose is presently being devoted to actual novel work - of the sort I don't want to post for the prying eyes of everyone not reading this blog - I'll be spending the next six entries thrilling you with some of my only autobiographical work. The Transitory Scrantonite was written back in 2005 and chronicles my life as a college student in Scranton. It is not very good. It makes the blog look active, however, so here it is.
Introduction
You've all had it happen at some point in your life. You're sitting at home, minding your business - perhaps enjoying a quiet supper with the family - when an all-too-familiar noise fills the room. It's wet and sloppy and fills you with an intense and irrational agitation. It is the sound of your dog, lapping at his own genitals. And the feeling you get from the sound? That crawling out of your skin irritation? Well, that's exactly what it feels like to live in Scranton.
I'm not entirely sure how, but by some grave folly of judgement, I lived in Scranton for roughly two years while attending college before retreating to my home in New York, which I now appreciate immeasurably by comparison. Every night that I flopped down on the bed after a day of classes, cell phone in hand, wailing to my parents about how much I despised Scranton, I always got the same answer: "It can't be that bad." Indeed, my now-ex boyfriend suggested I might even find Scranton "fun" if I gave it a chance. I suppose in retrospect, it is very easy to think everything in life must be fun when you yourself are continually balls deep in a parade of tramps on the tropical island paradise of O'ahu. Me, bitter? Naaah. But I digress...
Don't get me wrong - I'm sure Scranton seems pretty fun superficially. If your idea of fun is sitting in aggressive, Jersey-like traffic for hours just to reach one of the numerous gun and porn stores haphazardly heaped atop the mountain sides of nearby Dixon City, the place is a blast! However, economies centering primarily around inflatable sex dolls and hunting rifles should provide ample warning to the astute observer: there is nothing to do in Scranton but masturbate and kill things (wait, why did I say I hated it there again?).
At any rate, my hobbies included neither buttplugs nor bow hunting, so I had to make my own fun as a transitory Scrantonite. Alone and running mostly on an overabundance of hate and Chai, I made my way through the pothole addled streets of Scranton and scaled the mighty consumerist mountains of Dixon City, dodging Pennsylvanian perverts and accumulating massive numbers of highly pampered Siamese fighting fish in the process. The following tales are an account of my more memorable journeys through the place I thankfully no longer call home.
Introduction
You've all had it happen at some point in your life. You're sitting at home, minding your business - perhaps enjoying a quiet supper with the family - when an all-too-familiar noise fills the room. It's wet and sloppy and fills you with an intense and irrational agitation. It is the sound of your dog, lapping at his own genitals. And the feeling you get from the sound? That crawling out of your skin irritation? Well, that's exactly what it feels like to live in Scranton.
I'm not entirely sure how, but by some grave folly of judgement, I lived in Scranton for roughly two years while attending college before retreating to my home in New York, which I now appreciate immeasurably by comparison. Every night that I flopped down on the bed after a day of classes, cell phone in hand, wailing to my parents about how much I despised Scranton, I always got the same answer: "It can't be that bad." Indeed, my now-ex boyfriend suggested I might even find Scranton "fun" if I gave it a chance. I suppose in retrospect, it is very easy to think everything in life must be fun when you yourself are continually balls deep in a parade of tramps on the tropical island paradise of O'ahu. Me, bitter? Naaah. But I digress...
Don't get me wrong - I'm sure Scranton seems pretty fun superficially. If your idea of fun is sitting in aggressive, Jersey-like traffic for hours just to reach one of the numerous gun and porn stores haphazardly heaped atop the mountain sides of nearby Dixon City, the place is a blast! However, economies centering primarily around inflatable sex dolls and hunting rifles should provide ample warning to the astute observer: there is nothing to do in Scranton but masturbate and kill things (wait, why did I say I hated it there again?).
At any rate, my hobbies included neither buttplugs nor bow hunting, so I had to make my own fun as a transitory Scrantonite. Alone and running mostly on an overabundance of hate and Chai, I made my way through the pothole addled streets of Scranton and scaled the mighty consumerist mountains of Dixon City, dodging Pennsylvanian perverts and accumulating massive numbers of highly pampered Siamese fighting fish in the process. The following tales are an account of my more memorable journeys through the place I thankfully no longer call home.
Gone (a follow-up on the previous entry)
Ok, I'm bored and in need of updates, so here is a little more from the previous conversation, picking up where we left off.
"He sounds like an asshole. Is he cute, at least?"
She stiffened and I regreted the playful flirtation instantly.
"Relax, I'm just kidding," I reassured her. "In all honesty, you remind me of someone I used to," I paused awkwardly where the word "love" caught in my throat, "know. So I'm sorry if I'm being too familiar."
The tension didn't leave her body.
"You are," she replied, tying a knot in the last stitch. "There, all patched up. Now that the blood flow has slowed and the wound edges are closer together, you should be mostly healed within a few hours."
I raised a brow.
"Impressive knowledge of therianthropic medicine. They taught you all that in Psych 101?"
Sun blanched slightly, taking on the sort of look a person gets when they are caught up in a lie. I didn't let it go this time. Leaning forward on the edge of the cot, I tried to catch her gaze. She turned her head sharply.
"As a psychiatrist, you probably know that most basic moods have corresponding biochemicals. You know how they say dogs can smell fear? In a way, they can; they pick up on the scent of minute chemical changes in the body, the same way they do when they predict seizures. They also pick up on things like a quickening pulse, changes in breathing and body language." I inhaled deeply. "Whenever I'm around you, your entire body screams sadness. And it doesn't take a therian to tell when you're skirting the truth, either."
"You have no right to be intruding like this," she strove for anger but sounded too defeated for it to be effective.
"I'm not intruding. I'm just asking." I reached out to gently touch her arm, and she moved away; my hand fell back. "Won't you tell me about it?" I cocked my head.
She stared at her feet.
"I know about therianthropes because I used to be very close to several of them. But they... well. What happened to them is what made me want to fight for victims of violence - and you won't find that on the website." She met my gaze fleetingly. "As for you... it pains me to even be around therians any more; there are too many memories I'd like to forget."
I grew somber at her words, a frown stealing my smile. Then, I had a thought. I peeled my shirt off, cast it aside, and grabbed one of her hands. She startled, attempting to pull back, but I gently maintained my grasp.
"Please?"
She relented, and I laid her hand over the deep waxy hollow of scar tissue just below my left collar bone.
"Do you feel this?"
Her eyes were wide, and she nodded.
"What happened?"
"I'll spare you the gory details, but part of me is gone now." I pulled her hand lower, laying it over my heart. "Do you feel this?"
She frowned, confused.
"What?"
"You can't touch it, or see it, but part of me is gone here, too. And losing it hurt a hell of a lot more than this," I indicated the scar. "People tell you that the pain of losing a loved one is something that gets better over time, but that's like telling an amputee their leg will grow back. Once a part of you is gone, it's gone forever. There's no "getting better" from some wounds; there's just coping." I squeezed her hand gently. "So I understand your pain, and I am deeply, truly sorry if my being here has forced you to re-live it."
"He sounds like an asshole. Is he cute, at least?"
She stiffened and I regreted the playful flirtation instantly.
"Relax, I'm just kidding," I reassured her. "In all honesty, you remind me of someone I used to," I paused awkwardly where the word "love" caught in my throat, "know. So I'm sorry if I'm being too familiar."
The tension didn't leave her body.
"You are," she replied, tying a knot in the last stitch. "There, all patched up. Now that the blood flow has slowed and the wound edges are closer together, you should be mostly healed within a few hours."
I raised a brow.
"Impressive knowledge of therianthropic medicine. They taught you all that in Psych 101?"
Sun blanched slightly, taking on the sort of look a person gets when they are caught up in a lie. I didn't let it go this time. Leaning forward on the edge of the cot, I tried to catch her gaze. She turned her head sharply.
"As a psychiatrist, you probably know that most basic moods have corresponding biochemicals. You know how they say dogs can smell fear? In a way, they can; they pick up on the scent of minute chemical changes in the body, the same way they do when they predict seizures. They also pick up on things like a quickening pulse, changes in breathing and body language." I inhaled deeply. "Whenever I'm around you, your entire body screams sadness. And it doesn't take a therian to tell when you're skirting the truth, either."
"You have no right to be intruding like this," she strove for anger but sounded too defeated for it to be effective.
"I'm not intruding. I'm just asking." I reached out to gently touch her arm, and she moved away; my hand fell back. "Won't you tell me about it?" I cocked my head.
She stared at her feet.
"I know about therianthropes because I used to be very close to several of them. But they... well. What happened to them is what made me want to fight for victims of violence - and you won't find that on the website." She met my gaze fleetingly. "As for you... it pains me to even be around therians any more; there are too many memories I'd like to forget."
I grew somber at her words, a frown stealing my smile. Then, I had a thought. I peeled my shirt off, cast it aside, and grabbed one of her hands. She startled, attempting to pull back, but I gently maintained my grasp.
"Please?"
She relented, and I laid her hand over the deep waxy hollow of scar tissue just below my left collar bone.
"Do you feel this?"
Her eyes were wide, and she nodded.
"What happened?"
"I'll spare you the gory details, but part of me is gone now." I pulled her hand lower, laying it over my heart. "Do you feel this?"
She frowned, confused.
"What?"
"You can't touch it, or see it, but part of me is gone here, too. And losing it hurt a hell of a lot more than this," I indicated the scar. "People tell you that the pain of losing a loved one is something that gets better over time, but that's like telling an amputee their leg will grow back. Once a part of you is gone, it's gone forever. There's no "getting better" from some wounds; there's just coping." I squeezed her hand gently. "So I understand your pain, and I am deeply, truly sorry if my being here has forced you to re-live it."
Monday, April 18, 2011
Practicing casual speech
After realizing I am getting out of practice with chit-chat, I decided to work on that a bit. And how did I wind up working on it? Why, by rattling off a prolonged conversation between Sun Kim - the property owner of Haven (previously Catalina something-or-other... I changed my mind), and Trent. This is part of it - in its entirety it carries on for a while and gets a little bleak, which is basically my writing in a nutshell. Hah.
As Sun drove her fingers into the gash in my leg, feeling for the femoral artery, my stomach lurched. My hands spasmed against the frame of the cot, buckling the aluminum.
"Sorry," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll pay for a new one."
She gestured dismissively with a gloved hand painted red with my blood.
"It's fine, they're very inexpensive." She leaned back but continued probing the inner workings of my thigh. "Good news, your femoral artery is intact."
Sweat beading on my brow, I offered a feeble smile.
"That's great news. Now... could you possibly get your fingers out me? I mean, you haven't even taken me out to dinner yet."
Sun let out a single sharp note of surprised laughter, then did as I asked, rising to her feet.
"I'm still worried about the ammount of bleeding, and just how badly flayed you are. I think stitches are in order." She turned her back, rummaging through a stout cabinet for supplies. It made sense that Haven had a rudimentary medical center, but it seemed curious that its proprietor was so intimately familiar with triage care.
"Do you do all of the medical care here at Haven?" I asked as she turned donning fresh gloves and carrying nylon suture thread and a wickedly hooked needle.
"Just the basics, and only as much as they'll allow me. Most of the gargoyles here aren't very comfortable with humans." She sat down and scooted her chair up to the cot, trapping my leg between her knees and clearing away some of the thicker clots of blood with a sterile swab. She did not bother properly cleaning and flushing the wound; I was a therian, it wasn't going to get infected.
"Where did you get your medical training?" I winced as the needle bit into my flesh, ducking through the lasceration and emerging on the opposite side.
"Hm?" she responded absently, too focused on the task at hand to have heard me the first time.
"I know a little bit about you, Sun, and from what I've read your primary education was in psychiatry. Now I know you went to medical school, but even my primary physician wouldn't be this comfortable stitching up a wound. I'm wondering how you got so good at triage care in your line of work."
She paused for a moment, then looped the needle through my flesh once more. I could feel the creeping tug of the thread sliding through my skin.
"Is that important?" She finally replied.
"Not particularly. I'm just curious."
"Why?"
It seemed like an odd question.
"I'd like to get to know more about you," I shrugged. "I came here mostly to study the Gargoyles and learn more about Haven, but a human who risks her life and devotes her finances to helping another species is automatically of interest to me."
"It would have been less of a trip to just interview someone at your local dog shelter, then." Her lips were pulled tight in a humorless line.
"Dogs aren't in the midst of a violent civil rights struggle," I replied. "Ok, so you're keeping mum on your mysterious medical background. Fine, fine. Maybe you have your reasons. Maybe you're a secret agent and it's classified information." I grinned. "How did you get involved helping gargoyles?"
"That information is available on Haven's website."
I let out a frustrated groan.
"Am I really that unbearable to talk to?"
She looked up and for a moment, there was something profoundly sad in her dark, almond shaped eyes that I didn't really understand.
"Not at all."
"What is it then?" The last syllable was lost in a sharp hiss as the needle dove a little too deep.
"Sorry. I'm a little distracted. I'm trying to sew up a really nasty leg wound, but this guy won't stop talking my ear off." She had the slightest hint of a smile when she said it.
"He sounds like an asshole. Is he cute, at least?"
As Sun drove her fingers into the gash in my leg, feeling for the femoral artery, my stomach lurched. My hands spasmed against the frame of the cot, buckling the aluminum.
"Sorry," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll pay for a new one."
She gestured dismissively with a gloved hand painted red with my blood.
"It's fine, they're very inexpensive." She leaned back but continued probing the inner workings of my thigh. "Good news, your femoral artery is intact."
Sweat beading on my brow, I offered a feeble smile.
"That's great news. Now... could you possibly get your fingers out me? I mean, you haven't even taken me out to dinner yet."
Sun let out a single sharp note of surprised laughter, then did as I asked, rising to her feet.
"I'm still worried about the ammount of bleeding, and just how badly flayed you are. I think stitches are in order." She turned her back, rummaging through a stout cabinet for supplies. It made sense that Haven had a rudimentary medical center, but it seemed curious that its proprietor was so intimately familiar with triage care.
"Do you do all of the medical care here at Haven?" I asked as she turned donning fresh gloves and carrying nylon suture thread and a wickedly hooked needle.
"Just the basics, and only as much as they'll allow me. Most of the gargoyles here aren't very comfortable with humans." She sat down and scooted her chair up to the cot, trapping my leg between her knees and clearing away some of the thicker clots of blood with a sterile swab. She did not bother properly cleaning and flushing the wound; I was a therian, it wasn't going to get infected.
"Where did you get your medical training?" I winced as the needle bit into my flesh, ducking through the lasceration and emerging on the opposite side.
"Hm?" she responded absently, too focused on the task at hand to have heard me the first time.
"I know a little bit about you, Sun, and from what I've read your primary education was in psychiatry. Now I know you went to medical school, but even my primary physician wouldn't be this comfortable stitching up a wound. I'm wondering how you got so good at triage care in your line of work."
She paused for a moment, then looped the needle through my flesh once more. I could feel the creeping tug of the thread sliding through my skin.
"Is that important?" She finally replied.
"Not particularly. I'm just curious."
"Why?"
It seemed like an odd question.
"I'd like to get to know more about you," I shrugged. "I came here mostly to study the Gargoyles and learn more about Haven, but a human who risks her life and devotes her finances to helping another species is automatically of interest to me."
"It would have been less of a trip to just interview someone at your local dog shelter, then." Her lips were pulled tight in a humorless line.
"Dogs aren't in the midst of a violent civil rights struggle," I replied. "Ok, so you're keeping mum on your mysterious medical background. Fine, fine. Maybe you have your reasons. Maybe you're a secret agent and it's classified information." I grinned. "How did you get involved helping gargoyles?"
"That information is available on Haven's website."
I let out a frustrated groan.
"Am I really that unbearable to talk to?"
She looked up and for a moment, there was something profoundly sad in her dark, almond shaped eyes that I didn't really understand.
"Not at all."
"What is it then?" The last syllable was lost in a sharp hiss as the needle dove a little too deep.
"Sorry. I'm a little distracted. I'm trying to sew up a really nasty leg wound, but this guy won't stop talking my ear off." She had the slightest hint of a smile when she said it.
"He sounds like an asshole. Is he cute, at least?"
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Speak Now
The church they chose was a dinky little chapel in some podunk Georgia town. It was one of those neighborhoods that was nothing but churches and trailer parks, so I'm not sure how or why they chose this specific one. Maybe it was because the steeple was shaped an awful lot like the church back home, the one she and I used to smoke cigarettes outside of on Sunday morning, laugh at the people who bowed their heads to a God whose own book branded most of them sinners. Or maybe that's just me, hoping she looks back on "us" with something other than resentment.
To be clear, there isn't a handgun in my pocket because I feel responsible for this in any way.
But sometimes, I feel bad about the time her daddy came home from work early, opened the front door not knowing he was opening the closet door as well. I wasn't supposed to be over; she told me I could never come to her place. But isn't that what star crossed lovers do? Make bold, romantic gestures? Juliet on the balcony, Romeo imploring from below? For us that night, there was no "such sweet sorrow," and perhaps it would have been better that way. Juliet and Juliet, together in a tangle of sheets, doesn't go over too well among Baptists.
She never admitted to it, but I know her daddy hit her once I'd scrambled like a tail-tucked coward out her back door. I'm not proud of that one bit. I always told myself that if I faced off with a homophobe one on one, I'd stand tall and put my chin up and defend my sexuality with the utmost tenacity, until even the most resolute bigot would have to question his prejudices. The reality involved thinking about just how big he was, how his clenched fists made the soft firmness of his voice a threat when he told me to get out, and how at sixteen years old I was still much more a child than I wanted to admit.
Maybe her father smacking her around like that is why she chose this guy as her fiance; electra complex, or whatever Freud called it when he kept his hand out of his pants long enough to jot down a theory. Or maybe she knew she'd have to find a real "manly man" to prove to her parents that she wasn't actually queer. He fit the bill, the epitome of chest thumping masculinity from his bar room brawls to the blows he dealt behind closed doors after staggaring drunkedly home at night.
It wasn't any of my business, but I sat in the pew regardless, fingering the trigger guard and trying to look inconspicuous. It wasn't working; the other women had perms and gowns that suggested they'd traveled all the way from the 50's just to see the wedding. Though I pressed myself into the far corner of the church, my back against the literal and proverbial wall, I caught two women in the row ahead of me flashing glances over their shoulder and whispering. I knew it was about me; people's faces get this very specific, just-smelled-shit look when they're saying the word "faggot."
When she came down the isle, I held my breath for a moment, and was both relieved and not when she didn't see me. Relieved, because if our eyes met I didn't know if I could wait long enough to do what I'd come here to do. Not, because the only reason she didn't was that she kept her eyes on the ground like a kicked dog. I don't think any bride has ever walked down the isle looking that much like she was walking the plank.
I couldn't even focus on the priest's words, too absorbed in the sensation of the metal growing warm under my grasp - a preview, perhaps, of the hot muzzle I hoped to end the day with. Everything was so ritual, so obligatory, so humdrum - the entire speil was like a bad movie, if a bad movie could make you feel like shit about the fact that you'd never get to be cast in it. I almost missed what I'd been waiting to hear, almost forgot to "speak now." I had only a tiny window to present my case; anyone actually standing up and objecting was something reserved for Hollywood romances where the bride is saved at the altar by her One True Love - nothing but applause as he whisks her away in his loving embrace.
No one was going to clap for this one.
"I object," and damnit, my voice wasn't nearly as steady and cold as I'd imagined it the many times I'd played this over in my head. There were also more indignant growling people to clamber past, more legs and feet to stumble over before I began my stride down the isle under the burden of scores of disapproving eyes. As I neared the altar, he turned bristling like a dog and she turned cowering like one. Through the veil, I caught a spark of recognition in her eyes, and something between horror and hope. I fought the urge to utter a reassurance, fixing my gaze on the priest, who was too taken aback to do anything but gape. I imagined in all his many years of performing wedding ceremonies, he'd never encountered anything quite like this.
"I object..." finally, I withdrew the handgun from my pocket, and the immediate chorus of frightened screams and the clammor of frantic bodies attempting to pile out of the pews made me regret it. I discharged a bullet towards the ceiling, enough to quiet the crowd into terrified submission. It was all worthless if they didn't hear this. "I object because no bride should have to wear a veil just to hide the bruises."
I don't remember moving my arm; I just remember that the second gunshot sounded louder than the first, and that I couldn't see cleanly through his skull because there was just so much blood. I knew the bullet had gone through and through, though; the bouquet at his back was painted red and decorated with gelatinous gobs of pale pink. He slumped to the ground, his hands sliding from hers as he went. She stared down in unblinking disbelief, fingertips hovering, white gown freckled with blood. Finally, she raised her eyes to meet mine, and for the first time since her father made it his mission to "beat the gay out of her," I saw something there. Hope.
I slung my arm around her waist and pulled her close, used the still warm barrel of the gun to lift the veil from her face. I planted a soft kiss on her split lip, moved along an angry purple cheek bone, and ended with a swollen eyelid. I couldn't kiss it and make it better, but I could damn well try. As I backed away, a tiny smile tuned the corners of her mouth, and it was more genuine than every fake grin she'd hocked since she was a teenager.
The sound of sirens rose over the din the panicked crowd, and it was my turn to smile. I couldn't think of a finer way to end my freedom than by giving hers back.
To be clear, there isn't a handgun in my pocket because I feel responsible for this in any way.
But sometimes, I feel bad about the time her daddy came home from work early, opened the front door not knowing he was opening the closet door as well. I wasn't supposed to be over; she told me I could never come to her place. But isn't that what star crossed lovers do? Make bold, romantic gestures? Juliet on the balcony, Romeo imploring from below? For us that night, there was no "such sweet sorrow," and perhaps it would have been better that way. Juliet and Juliet, together in a tangle of sheets, doesn't go over too well among Baptists.
She never admitted to it, but I know her daddy hit her once I'd scrambled like a tail-tucked coward out her back door. I'm not proud of that one bit. I always told myself that if I faced off with a homophobe one on one, I'd stand tall and put my chin up and defend my sexuality with the utmost tenacity, until even the most resolute bigot would have to question his prejudices. The reality involved thinking about just how big he was, how his clenched fists made the soft firmness of his voice a threat when he told me to get out, and how at sixteen years old I was still much more a child than I wanted to admit.
Maybe her father smacking her around like that is why she chose this guy as her fiance; electra complex, or whatever Freud called it when he kept his hand out of his pants long enough to jot down a theory. Or maybe she knew she'd have to find a real "manly man" to prove to her parents that she wasn't actually queer. He fit the bill, the epitome of chest thumping masculinity from his bar room brawls to the blows he dealt behind closed doors after staggaring drunkedly home at night.
It wasn't any of my business, but I sat in the pew regardless, fingering the trigger guard and trying to look inconspicuous. It wasn't working; the other women had perms and gowns that suggested they'd traveled all the way from the 50's just to see the wedding. Though I pressed myself into the far corner of the church, my back against the literal and proverbial wall, I caught two women in the row ahead of me flashing glances over their shoulder and whispering. I knew it was about me; people's faces get this very specific, just-smelled-shit look when they're saying the word "faggot."
When she came down the isle, I held my breath for a moment, and was both relieved and not when she didn't see me. Relieved, because if our eyes met I didn't know if I could wait long enough to do what I'd come here to do. Not, because the only reason she didn't was that she kept her eyes on the ground like a kicked dog. I don't think any bride has ever walked down the isle looking that much like she was walking the plank.
I couldn't even focus on the priest's words, too absorbed in the sensation of the metal growing warm under my grasp - a preview, perhaps, of the hot muzzle I hoped to end the day with. Everything was so ritual, so obligatory, so humdrum - the entire speil was like a bad movie, if a bad movie could make you feel like shit about the fact that you'd never get to be cast in it. I almost missed what I'd been waiting to hear, almost forgot to "speak now." I had only a tiny window to present my case; anyone actually standing up and objecting was something reserved for Hollywood romances where the bride is saved at the altar by her One True Love - nothing but applause as he whisks her away in his loving embrace.
No one was going to clap for this one.
"I object," and damnit, my voice wasn't nearly as steady and cold as I'd imagined it the many times I'd played this over in my head. There were also more indignant growling people to clamber past, more legs and feet to stumble over before I began my stride down the isle under the burden of scores of disapproving eyes. As I neared the altar, he turned bristling like a dog and she turned cowering like one. Through the veil, I caught a spark of recognition in her eyes, and something between horror and hope. I fought the urge to utter a reassurance, fixing my gaze on the priest, who was too taken aback to do anything but gape. I imagined in all his many years of performing wedding ceremonies, he'd never encountered anything quite like this.
"I object..." finally, I withdrew the handgun from my pocket, and the immediate chorus of frightened screams and the clammor of frantic bodies attempting to pile out of the pews made me regret it. I discharged a bullet towards the ceiling, enough to quiet the crowd into terrified submission. It was all worthless if they didn't hear this. "I object because no bride should have to wear a veil just to hide the bruises."
I don't remember moving my arm; I just remember that the second gunshot sounded louder than the first, and that I couldn't see cleanly through his skull because there was just so much blood. I knew the bullet had gone through and through, though; the bouquet at his back was painted red and decorated with gelatinous gobs of pale pink. He slumped to the ground, his hands sliding from hers as he went. She stared down in unblinking disbelief, fingertips hovering, white gown freckled with blood. Finally, she raised her eyes to meet mine, and for the first time since her father made it his mission to "beat the gay out of her," I saw something there. Hope.
I slung my arm around her waist and pulled her close, used the still warm barrel of the gun to lift the veil from her face. I planted a soft kiss on her split lip, moved along an angry purple cheek bone, and ended with a swollen eyelid. I couldn't kiss it and make it better, but I could damn well try. As I backed away, a tiny smile tuned the corners of her mouth, and it was more genuine than every fake grin she'd hocked since she was a teenager.
The sound of sirens rose over the din the panicked crowd, and it was my turn to smile. I couldn't think of a finer way to end my freedom than by giving hers back.
Reunion
There was a creak as the basement door eased open, and the conversation ground to a halt. Estelle unconsciously drew closer, breath catching in her throat, and I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Logically, there was no real reason to be afraid; rested and well fed for the first time in months, Evelyn was likely no longer a risk to anyone. Yet fresh in the mind of my frightened former fiancé was the memory of a ravenous undead bat-monster lunging at her with a thirst for blood, so I could not fault her for her trepidation.
Gabe appeared nervous as well, suddenly very tense and still as he sat rigidly upright in his seat, eyes fixed on the door. He, of course, was not concerned about Evelyn attempting to exsanguinate him – they’d already been through that dance and were both well aware that such an act would mean the death of them both. However, they’d come to this understanding during their mutual captivity, during which neither of them had been capable of assuming human form. Despite this, they’d developed a deep affection for one another – and I expected Gabe was currently wondering how that bond would stand up to seeing one another in human form for the first time. From the outside it seemed like a silly concern; will she be attracted to me when I’m not a monster?
Perhaps Evelyn was also worried, because the small crack between the darkness of the basement and brightness of the house widened no further for many long moments. Finally, Gabe rose slowly to his feet, sliding his chair back under the table and stepping a few paces forward before stopping in the short yet somehow vast distance between the dining room and door. His hand worked nervously through his hair a few times, and he scowled at the length it had gained during his captivity. Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat.
“Evelyn?”
I imagine his voice sounded smaller, meeker than he would have liked, but it did not matter to who he was addressing. The door swung open, and while I half expected to still see a lanky winged beast in its frame, there was instead a pale, slender woman with a rich spill of long auburn hair and wide dark eyes, a typical vast vampiric pupil made unique by the thin emerald green halo of her iris. Her skin was lightly freckled and heavily scarred, yet even with waxy white lines generously etched across her face and neck, she exuded a sort of feral beauty.
The werebear regarded the woman in the doorway with awestruck silence. Neither dared to move, or even breathe – the latter being a far easier task for the vampire than it was for the therian. Finally, a tremendous smile broke across Gabe’s face, one like I’d never seen before. It was a look of pure joy, and apparently it was catching, for soon Evelyn’s expression matched his. They erupted into movement, his arms catching her forward momentum as they threw themselves at one another. He hugged her fiercely, arms enveloping her body and face buried in her hair. Any doubts they may have had melted away the moment they’d met eyes; they were both here, both alive against all odds after the hell they’d endured.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, hand caressing her back.
“You’re still rather hairy,” she replied in a soft, teasing tone, then more seriously, “and also wonderful.”
I was starting to feel like a bit of a voyeur, their tender reunion somehow inappropriately intimate for an audience. Estelle distracted me by gently weaving her fingers through mine and giving my hand a tight squeeze. She smiled up at me with pure admiration naked on her face, as if to say this, because of you. I had to make a firm effort not to frown with the realization that things were progressively becoming much more complicated than I would have liked.
Gabe appeared nervous as well, suddenly very tense and still as he sat rigidly upright in his seat, eyes fixed on the door. He, of course, was not concerned about Evelyn attempting to exsanguinate him – they’d already been through that dance and were both well aware that such an act would mean the death of them both. However, they’d come to this understanding during their mutual captivity, during which neither of them had been capable of assuming human form. Despite this, they’d developed a deep affection for one another – and I expected Gabe was currently wondering how that bond would stand up to seeing one another in human form for the first time. From the outside it seemed like a silly concern; will she be attracted to me when I’m not a monster?
Perhaps Evelyn was also worried, because the small crack between the darkness of the basement and brightness of the house widened no further for many long moments. Finally, Gabe rose slowly to his feet, sliding his chair back under the table and stepping a few paces forward before stopping in the short yet somehow vast distance between the dining room and door. His hand worked nervously through his hair a few times, and he scowled at the length it had gained during his captivity. Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat.
“Evelyn?”
I imagine his voice sounded smaller, meeker than he would have liked, but it did not matter to who he was addressing. The door swung open, and while I half expected to still see a lanky winged beast in its frame, there was instead a pale, slender woman with a rich spill of long auburn hair and wide dark eyes, a typical vast vampiric pupil made unique by the thin emerald green halo of her iris. Her skin was lightly freckled and heavily scarred, yet even with waxy white lines generously etched across her face and neck, she exuded a sort of feral beauty.
The werebear regarded the woman in the doorway with awestruck silence. Neither dared to move, or even breathe – the latter being a far easier task for the vampire than it was for the therian. Finally, a tremendous smile broke across Gabe’s face, one like I’d never seen before. It was a look of pure joy, and apparently it was catching, for soon Evelyn’s expression matched his. They erupted into movement, his arms catching her forward momentum as they threw themselves at one another. He hugged her fiercely, arms enveloping her body and face buried in her hair. Any doubts they may have had melted away the moment they’d met eyes; they were both here, both alive against all odds after the hell they’d endured.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, hand caressing her back.
“You’re still rather hairy,” she replied in a soft, teasing tone, then more seriously, “and also wonderful.”
I was starting to feel like a bit of a voyeur, their tender reunion somehow inappropriately intimate for an audience. Estelle distracted me by gently weaving her fingers through mine and giving my hand a tight squeeze. She smiled up at me with pure admiration naked on her face, as if to say this, because of you. I had to make a firm effort not to frown with the realization that things were progressively becoming much more complicated than I would have liked.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
What Good Guys Do
When you don't have the motivation for your first two unfinished novels, it's time for... working on your THIRD unfinished novel!
"What's wrong?"
Estelle's eyes searched my face in confusion, and there was a certain naivity in her failure to grasp the gravity of the situation that made me wish I'd never gotten her involved. She wasn't thinking the way I was; despite what had happened in our mutual past, her world was still a PG-13 movie. The good guys always won, and when the bad guys went down, it was fast and peaceful and the blade didn't have a speck of blood on it. I knew well enough by now that "winning" doesn't exist in reality, at least not in the clean way most people think of it. How her brain managed to block that knowledge out while mine could think of nothing else was a mystery to me.
"It's just... this isn't what good guys do."
It sounded so trite, but it was true.
"Good guys don't rescue their friends?"
Her expression was going from innocent to just plain baffled.
"If you saw your neighbor's house being broken into by an armed robber, would you call the police, or sneak in around back and hope the stray bullets don't hit the kid next door while you deal with it yourself?" I frowned. "Vigilantism is gratifying, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right choice. If this happens, anyone present could be hurt or killed, and not everyone is fairytale good or evil. Some of them are doing this to put food on the table for their families. Some of them are going to be kids brought there by misguided parents. Some of them are going to be preternaturals caught in the crossfire."
"Then why are you doing it?" She had a puzzled dog head-tilt that seemed more befitting to one of my proclivities. "Preternatural fighting operations are illegal; wouldn't the police be obligated to bust one of this magnitude?"
I nodded, eyes closed and fingers pressed to my forehead.
"They'd be more than happy to take down one this big, absolutely. And do you know what happens when armed police officers flying high on adrenaline and bravado come face to face with terrified, drugged wereanimals?"
Finally, an understanding. Estelle propped her head on her hand and looked out the window with a sigh.
"So basically, you can follow the law, call the cops, and risk innocent therians dying... or you can go in yourself and risk bystanders dying on your conscience." I didn't think a smile could be exasperated, but hers was. "I think you should call the police. Can't it be someone else's danger for once, someone else's guilt?"
I reached out and laid my hand gently over hers.
"It's my guilt either way."
And damnit, I believed it. I believed it like the whole thing rested in my hands, like my action or inaction was so important that it could sway the outcome entirely. How foolish. How arrogant. How... me.
The scrape of Estelle's chair across the floor as she scooted closer shook me from my thoughts. I looked up to meet soft, compassionate blue eyes. She squeezed my shoulder firmly.
"That's why you're a good guy."
She leaned forward, lips slightly parted, mouth hesitating over mine as if waiting for Mr. Good Guy to live up to his namesake and stop this. I cradled her face in my palms, listened to the quickening throb of her heart, cursed myself, then pressed my lips to hers. My arms folded around her, a perfect fit - envelope and letter - and I let myself get lost in the sensation of her warm body pressed to mine.
This isn't what good guys do.
"What's wrong?"
Estelle's eyes searched my face in confusion, and there was a certain naivity in her failure to grasp the gravity of the situation that made me wish I'd never gotten her involved. She wasn't thinking the way I was; despite what had happened in our mutual past, her world was still a PG-13 movie. The good guys always won, and when the bad guys went down, it was fast and peaceful and the blade didn't have a speck of blood on it. I knew well enough by now that "winning" doesn't exist in reality, at least not in the clean way most people think of it. How her brain managed to block that knowledge out while mine could think of nothing else was a mystery to me.
"It's just... this isn't what good guys do."
It sounded so trite, but it was true.
"Good guys don't rescue their friends?"
Her expression was going from innocent to just plain baffled.
"If you saw your neighbor's house being broken into by an armed robber, would you call the police, or sneak in around back and hope the stray bullets don't hit the kid next door while you deal with it yourself?" I frowned. "Vigilantism is gratifying, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right choice. If this happens, anyone present could be hurt or killed, and not everyone is fairytale good or evil. Some of them are doing this to put food on the table for their families. Some of them are going to be kids brought there by misguided parents. Some of them are going to be preternaturals caught in the crossfire."
"Then why are you doing it?" She had a puzzled dog head-tilt that seemed more befitting to one of my proclivities. "Preternatural fighting operations are illegal; wouldn't the police be obligated to bust one of this magnitude?"
I nodded, eyes closed and fingers pressed to my forehead.
"They'd be more than happy to take down one this big, absolutely. And do you know what happens when armed police officers flying high on adrenaline and bravado come face to face with terrified, drugged wereanimals?"
Finally, an understanding. Estelle propped her head on her hand and looked out the window with a sigh.
"So basically, you can follow the law, call the cops, and risk innocent therians dying... or you can go in yourself and risk bystanders dying on your conscience." I didn't think a smile could be exasperated, but hers was. "I think you should call the police. Can't it be someone else's danger for once, someone else's guilt?"
I reached out and laid my hand gently over hers.
"It's my guilt either way."
And damnit, I believed it. I believed it like the whole thing rested in my hands, like my action or inaction was so important that it could sway the outcome entirely. How foolish. How arrogant. How... me.
The scrape of Estelle's chair across the floor as she scooted closer shook me from my thoughts. I looked up to meet soft, compassionate blue eyes. She squeezed my shoulder firmly.
"That's why you're a good guy."
She leaned forward, lips slightly parted, mouth hesitating over mine as if waiting for Mr. Good Guy to live up to his namesake and stop this. I cradled her face in my palms, listened to the quickening throb of her heart, cursed myself, then pressed my lips to hers. My arms folded around her, a perfect fit - envelope and letter - and I let myself get lost in the sensation of her warm body pressed to mine.
This isn't what good guys do.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Identity
Sorry kids, no fiction today.
I am a vegan.
I am pansexual.
I am American.
I am a human.
I am a red wolf.
I am mentally ill.
I am a fish keeper.
I am straight edge.
I am a woman.
I am a writer.
Bullshit. Identity does not come down to labels.
This is what I am:
I live with over a dozen snakes, and like myself and other captives, they require nourishment. This nourishment comes in the form of rodents, which I raise in large gray plastic bins in a rack in my basement. I care for them daily, give them paper towel rolls and little toys so they do not grow bored, and periodically gass them to death with CO2 before feeding them to hungry constrictors.
This morning, an older mouse who is "spent" in terms of litter productivity - which is a way I hate to think of any animal - was ill. She developed a neurological condition which I believe to be so because "I am a wildlife rehabilitator" and know enough about animal medicine to confirm that this isn't the result of a simple ear infection. The constant twitch and bob of her head has caused her to be out-competed by her healthier cagemates for food and water, and I found her thin and pathetic in her nest this morning.
I put the frail mouse down my shirt, where I could feel her shiver against my flesh, to keep her warm. Her whiskers tickled my skin as I prepared a hot meal of kitten milk replacer and oatmeal - protocol for a thin, sick mouse for those of you inexperienced in rodent triage. I balled up one of my cowprint bandanas in a small plastic carrier, placed her inside, then brought her tiny muzzle to the edge of a bottle cap filled with the mixture. She ate heartily before curling up and falling to sleep.
I then walked into the kitchen and began thawing one of the baby mice I have in my freezer so that I could feed a gray rat snake hatchling. As it thawed, I went downstairs to set up a nice cage with a hiding box filled with fleece bedding for the sick old mouse to spend her last days in. Then I came back upstairs, gently placed my skinny, wobbling charge in her "hospice" quarters, then picked up the pinky mouse on a pair of tongs and wiggled it in front of the young snake until he struck and consumed it.
This is Me.
I am a vegan.
I am pansexual.
I am American.
I am a human.
I am a red wolf.
I am mentally ill.
I am a fish keeper.
I am straight edge.
I am a woman.
I am a writer.
Bullshit. Identity does not come down to labels.
This is what I am:
I live with over a dozen snakes, and like myself and other captives, they require nourishment. This nourishment comes in the form of rodents, which I raise in large gray plastic bins in a rack in my basement. I care for them daily, give them paper towel rolls and little toys so they do not grow bored, and periodically gass them to death with CO2 before feeding them to hungry constrictors.
This morning, an older mouse who is "spent" in terms of litter productivity - which is a way I hate to think of any animal - was ill. She developed a neurological condition which I believe to be so because "I am a wildlife rehabilitator" and know enough about animal medicine to confirm that this isn't the result of a simple ear infection. The constant twitch and bob of her head has caused her to be out-competed by her healthier cagemates for food and water, and I found her thin and pathetic in her nest this morning.
I put the frail mouse down my shirt, where I could feel her shiver against my flesh, to keep her warm. Her whiskers tickled my skin as I prepared a hot meal of kitten milk replacer and oatmeal - protocol for a thin, sick mouse for those of you inexperienced in rodent triage. I balled up one of my cowprint bandanas in a small plastic carrier, placed her inside, then brought her tiny muzzle to the edge of a bottle cap filled with the mixture. She ate heartily before curling up and falling to sleep.
I then walked into the kitchen and began thawing one of the baby mice I have in my freezer so that I could feed a gray rat snake hatchling. As it thawed, I went downstairs to set up a nice cage with a hiding box filled with fleece bedding for the sick old mouse to spend her last days in. Then I came back upstairs, gently placed my skinny, wobbling charge in her "hospice" quarters, then picked up the pinky mouse on a pair of tongs and wiggled it in front of the young snake until he struck and consumed it.
This is Me.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Ok, I admit it.
I will start by saying that this isn't very good. However, I joked in passing the other day that I missed the japanese pornbots that used to spam my blog with links to smut sites, because at least it made it look like I had readers. And when I thought about that remark, it was absurd even as a joke. Hence... this. And yes, I am fully aware that it is an unreasonable orgy of alliteration.
Ok, I admit it. I miss the porn-bots, and I'm sure to many this is an odd sentiment. I don't mean that the average person can't appreciate pornography; I defy you to find me a single sole who doesn't get something out of a bouncing pair of sweat-slicked breasts, be it a stiffening in their loins or a smug air of moral superiority - Oh no, I would never be so base as to partake.
Rather, I find a funny sort of comfort in the fact that somewhere out there, a program shuffled through the billions of bytes, the cornucopia of content, wormed its way through the web and bestowed its blessing upon my site. Erotica encrypted in tiny tidbits of text, familiar blue and underlined, donning the description of something less scandalous: want to play?
Truth is, the porn-bots give you the illusion that you're never ignored, never unimportant, never alone. Someone's out there, someone cares. Somewhere there's a panting, moaning audience that will never stop loyally replying to your banal blog entries, your pedestrian posts, your trite tweets. It's an appeal to the world's oldest fetish: narcissism.
Self love at its finest.
Ok, I admit it. I miss the porn-bots, and I'm sure to many this is an odd sentiment. I don't mean that the average person can't appreciate pornography; I defy you to find me a single sole who doesn't get something out of a bouncing pair of sweat-slicked breasts, be it a stiffening in their loins or a smug air of moral superiority - Oh no, I would never be so base as to partake.
Rather, I find a funny sort of comfort in the fact that somewhere out there, a program shuffled through the billions of bytes, the cornucopia of content, wormed its way through the web and bestowed its blessing upon my site. Erotica encrypted in tiny tidbits of text, familiar blue and underlined, donning the description of something less scandalous: want to play?
Truth is, the porn-bots give you the illusion that you're never ignored, never unimportant, never alone. Someone's out there, someone cares. Somewhere there's a panting, moaning audience that will never stop loyally replying to your banal blog entries, your pedestrian posts, your trite tweets. It's an appeal to the world's oldest fetish: narcissism.
Self love at its finest.
The After Math
The title is very deliberately NOT called "the aftermath." Mark that.
One plus one equals two, our two bodies pressed together so tight in our provisory passion that even your insincerity couldn't fit in the space between us. Two plus two equals four, as in my two legs straddling yours, your two lips grappling mine, and each pair eyes averted from the other's all the while. Five plus five equals ten, the way our fingers twisted together - fixedly, like they forgot for a moment what this actually was. I learned addition when I was just a child, so it comes as no surprise: One plus one equals two - two alone, not me and you. And that ryme isn't half as bad as the joke of my hope of being that perfect one when our bedroom arithmatic was over. Two minus one equals me sitting alone in my bedroom while the sheets cool, feeling a hell of a lot like zero.
One plus one equals two, our two bodies pressed together so tight in our provisory passion that even your insincerity couldn't fit in the space between us. Two plus two equals four, as in my two legs straddling yours, your two lips grappling mine, and each pair eyes averted from the other's all the while. Five plus five equals ten, the way our fingers twisted together - fixedly, like they forgot for a moment what this actually was. I learned addition when I was just a child, so it comes as no surprise: One plus one equals two - two alone, not me and you. And that ryme isn't half as bad as the joke of my hope of being that perfect one when our bedroom arithmatic was over. Two minus one equals me sitting alone in my bedroom while the sheets cool, feeling a hell of a lot like zero.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Good Behavior
Oooh lookie. I wrote something that ISN'T Raze for once. What it is, I'm not sure. Nothing particularly good. But its uh, a post?
Twelve years. Twelve years I've patiently paced this cage, carefully studied the definition of "good behavior," learned to swallow my pride and perfectly mimic a lamb's gentle nature while watching the world through a lion's eyes. Tomorrow, I return to the wild, where the world makes sense, where there's predators and prey and no bars between them. Freedom.
I'm so much more open minded than these compassionate liberals who manage to stare down their nose at me while saying they're proud of how "reformed" I am. Their hollow pontifications about killers still being people, people they've arrogantly deemed "sick" and needing "help," would be so much more convincing if they could look at me without their face twisting up like they just smelled shit. Me? Well if you told me that you were going to go out and beat a father of two to death with his son's own baseball bat, I'd smile and tell you to send me a postcard. I'd love to come but I'm elbows deep in entrails.
Poor you, so very sick. No. Cancer is a sickness. This? This is just me. His daddy must have hit him, his mommy must not have hugged him. Is that easier for you to swallow than the possibility that some of us are just like this? That it doesn't take a tragic backstory? That two parents held and kissed and loved a murderer the same way you do your kids? Or is that a little too close for comfort?
I don't need your pity. When I split a person open like the Red Sea, all you can see is the mud and the worms on the ocean floor. I let those beautiful red waves wash over me, feel the salty spray in my face, and walk through that moment with all the confidence of Moses. I pity you.
I've spent the last twelve years sharpening my fangs on these bars, and when they set me free, I'm going to feast on this city's underbelly until the starved beast they've kept caged is sated.
Twelve years. Twelve years I've patiently paced this cage, carefully studied the definition of "good behavior," learned to swallow my pride and perfectly mimic a lamb's gentle nature while watching the world through a lion's eyes. Tomorrow, I return to the wild, where the world makes sense, where there's predators and prey and no bars between them. Freedom.
I'm so much more open minded than these compassionate liberals who manage to stare down their nose at me while saying they're proud of how "reformed" I am. Their hollow pontifications about killers still being people, people they've arrogantly deemed "sick" and needing "help," would be so much more convincing if they could look at me without their face twisting up like they just smelled shit. Me? Well if you told me that you were going to go out and beat a father of two to death with his son's own baseball bat, I'd smile and tell you to send me a postcard. I'd love to come but I'm elbows deep in entrails.
Poor you, so very sick. No. Cancer is a sickness. This? This is just me. His daddy must have hit him, his mommy must not have hugged him. Is that easier for you to swallow than the possibility that some of us are just like this? That it doesn't take a tragic backstory? That two parents held and kissed and loved a murderer the same way you do your kids? Or is that a little too close for comfort?
I don't need your pity. When I split a person open like the Red Sea, all you can see is the mud and the worms on the ocean floor. I let those beautiful red waves wash over me, feel the salty spray in my face, and walk through that moment with all the confidence of Moses. I pity you.
I've spent the last twelve years sharpening my fangs on these bars, and when they set me free, I'm going to feast on this city's underbelly until the starved beast they've kept caged is sated.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Welcome to Haven (Part 1)
This is part one of however many entries I opt to make it. And yes, this is the beginning of the "Gargoyles in the world of Raze!" silliness I've been blathering about for days now. Didn't edit this at ALL before posting, so if you see glaring typos or all around poor writing, sorry. I'll come back and tweak it later.
I arrived at the gates of Haven not long after night had fallen, the sky still more navy than black. The building was unremarkable from outside, a squat one story brick structure with a sprawling footprint, steel gray metal roof, and none of the artistic flare typical of modern architecture. It was too sizeable to pass for a house, but lacked the large showcase windows and idenifying signage of a business. It seemed like the type of place that might serve as a headquarters for something very menial; offices of the Department of Waste Management for a podunk town, or something equally humdrum.
Only the fence gave the building any air of importance. Heavy-duty chain link stood ten feet tall, a wicked curl of razor wire coiled at its top like a serpent lying in wait. I would later ask Lia what purpose the fence served when the greatest threats to Haven could fly. She told me that humans were the second greatest threat.
"Besides," she'd added with a playful wink, hoisting the double barreled shotgun clutched in one massive, clawed hand, "bullets can fly too."
One thing that struck me out of place upon viewing Haven's cold, institutional exterior was something I noticed before I even exited my car: peacocks. My arrival was announced by a shrill chorus of alarm cries, the birds noticing me well before I could spot their night-time perches in the two maple trees framing the entrance. Their long tails hung from the boughs as dense as spanish moss, a great flock assembled on the property. When I questioned the presence of the exotic birds, I was told that guard dogs frightened the pigeons. Very little of that reply made sense before a full tour of the facilities.
With such a noisy reception, ringing the buzzer was unnecessary. I heard the beat of vast, leathery wings only moments before Lia swooped down before me. Though she stood only five feet tall, she was a formidable sight, head lowered to display wicked horns, frill fully extended, mouth agape and crowded with sharp fangs. The claws would have been threat enough, but the shotgun clenched in her leathery grip was leveled with my chest just in case. Wings spread to give the impression of greater size, the gargoyle glared from beneath a heavy brow with eyes that appeared blood red from a lack of pigmentation.
"State your business," she growled, her voice a rich baritone despite her small stature.
I fumbled in my pocket for my MIPS identification badge, finally catching it between two fingertips.
"Trent Wiktor, Missoula Institute for Preternatural Studies," I displayed the badge, trying to sound official. "I spoke with Catalina about documenting the work being done here at Haven?"
The gargoyle contemplated me for a moment before giving her best approximation of a human smile, something made crooked and hideous by her curved tusks. She lowered her gun and unlocked the gate.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Wiktor. I was expecting a h..." Across the street, a man was walking his dog, and she changed the course of her sentence. "Well, your complexion is not very Polish."
Preternatural confidentiality; I liked her already.
Lia pulled the gate open, gesturing me inside with a sweep of her four fingered hand.
"Welcome to Haven."
I arrived at the gates of Haven not long after night had fallen, the sky still more navy than black. The building was unremarkable from outside, a squat one story brick structure with a sprawling footprint, steel gray metal roof, and none of the artistic flare typical of modern architecture. It was too sizeable to pass for a house, but lacked the large showcase windows and idenifying signage of a business. It seemed like the type of place that might serve as a headquarters for something very menial; offices of the Department of Waste Management for a podunk town, or something equally humdrum.
Only the fence gave the building any air of importance. Heavy-duty chain link stood ten feet tall, a wicked curl of razor wire coiled at its top like a serpent lying in wait. I would later ask Lia what purpose the fence served when the greatest threats to Haven could fly. She told me that humans were the second greatest threat.
"Besides," she'd added with a playful wink, hoisting the double barreled shotgun clutched in one massive, clawed hand, "bullets can fly too."
One thing that struck me out of place upon viewing Haven's cold, institutional exterior was something I noticed before I even exited my car: peacocks. My arrival was announced by a shrill chorus of alarm cries, the birds noticing me well before I could spot their night-time perches in the two maple trees framing the entrance. Their long tails hung from the boughs as dense as spanish moss, a great flock assembled on the property. When I questioned the presence of the exotic birds, I was told that guard dogs frightened the pigeons. Very little of that reply made sense before a full tour of the facilities.
With such a noisy reception, ringing the buzzer was unnecessary. I heard the beat of vast, leathery wings only moments before Lia swooped down before me. Though she stood only five feet tall, she was a formidable sight, head lowered to display wicked horns, frill fully extended, mouth agape and crowded with sharp fangs. The claws would have been threat enough, but the shotgun clenched in her leathery grip was leveled with my chest just in case. Wings spread to give the impression of greater size, the gargoyle glared from beneath a heavy brow with eyes that appeared blood red from a lack of pigmentation.
"State your business," she growled, her voice a rich baritone despite her small stature.
I fumbled in my pocket for my MIPS identification badge, finally catching it between two fingertips.
"Trent Wiktor, Missoula Institute for Preternatural Studies," I displayed the badge, trying to sound official. "I spoke with Catalina about documenting the work being done here at Haven?"
The gargoyle contemplated me for a moment before giving her best approximation of a human smile, something made crooked and hideous by her curved tusks. She lowered her gun and unlocked the gate.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Wiktor. I was expecting a h..." Across the street, a man was walking his dog, and she changed the course of her sentence. "Well, your complexion is not very Polish."
Preternatural confidentiality; I liked her already.
Lia pulled the gate open, gesturing me inside with a sweep of her four fingered hand.
"Welcome to Haven."
Friday, January 14, 2011
An Obvious Metaphor
Ever wonder what Sreya was probably like in high school? Apparently I did.
"She paces the corridor nervously with wide, rolling eyes, hobbling on swollen, calloused feet. Her toenails are overgrown, toes twisted with arthritis. Flies swarm the feces smeared down the backs of her legs, her knees are bruised and begrimed. Her hair hangs in a wild, tangled mat over protruding shoulder blades. Swollen breasts, inflamed and irregular with infection, hang loosely over her too-visible rib cage. Her belly sags in a paunch, once cradle to seemingly countless infants, now barren with age and abuse. This is why she is here; there is no use for a woman who can no longer bear young.
Lice and ticks worry her skin, and she attempts to scratch them free, but without nails it is a futile effort. Her fingertips had been cut off at the last joint when she was a baby; when crowded, children tend to bicker and scratch at one another, after all. This and the confinement that has softened her constitution keep her from being much of a threat to the workers who stick canes through the bars, jabbing at her ribs and buttocks to prod her towards the chute.
She lets out a pathetic, braying cry of fear and confusion, attempting to turn away from the din of the auction ahead. A rod strikes her across the bridge of her nose, seperating flesh and fascia as a bruise instantly swells beneath her skin. The woman falls to her knees with a shriek, the -"
"Ok, that's enough."
Sreya raised her eyes to meet her instructor's disapproving gaze.
"Excuse me?"
The man looked over the rim of his glasses, bushy eyebrows shadowing the steel gray glare below them.
"I realize that I requested you create a piece of writing around a metaphor, but don't you think the analogy of humans to animals is a bit obvious?"
Sreya contemplated her teacher's question for a moment, and a fierce smiled appeared on her young face.
"It ought to be, shouldn't it?"
"She paces the corridor nervously with wide, rolling eyes, hobbling on swollen, calloused feet. Her toenails are overgrown, toes twisted with arthritis. Flies swarm the feces smeared down the backs of her legs, her knees are bruised and begrimed. Her hair hangs in a wild, tangled mat over protruding shoulder blades. Swollen breasts, inflamed and irregular with infection, hang loosely over her too-visible rib cage. Her belly sags in a paunch, once cradle to seemingly countless infants, now barren with age and abuse. This is why she is here; there is no use for a woman who can no longer bear young.
Lice and ticks worry her skin, and she attempts to scratch them free, but without nails it is a futile effort. Her fingertips had been cut off at the last joint when she was a baby; when crowded, children tend to bicker and scratch at one another, after all. This and the confinement that has softened her constitution keep her from being much of a threat to the workers who stick canes through the bars, jabbing at her ribs and buttocks to prod her towards the chute.
She lets out a pathetic, braying cry of fear and confusion, attempting to turn away from the din of the auction ahead. A rod strikes her across the bridge of her nose, seperating flesh and fascia as a bruise instantly swells beneath her skin. The woman falls to her knees with a shriek, the -"
"Ok, that's enough."
Sreya raised her eyes to meet her instructor's disapproving gaze.
"Excuse me?"
The man looked over the rim of his glasses, bushy eyebrows shadowing the steel gray glare below them.
"I realize that I requested you create a piece of writing around a metaphor, but don't you think the analogy of humans to animals is a bit obvious?"
Sreya contemplated her teacher's question for a moment, and a fierce smiled appeared on her young face.
"It ought to be, shouldn't it?"
Monday, January 3, 2011
Keep Off The Grass
Some more Lucas and Claire. I really like this pairing, if you can't tell yet.
"Come on, we'll be late for Trent's presentation if we don't hurry," Lucas extended one hand and stepped out on to the lawn.
Claire started after him, then paused, one foot floating over the soft, verdent grass as though testing hot water. Her eyes flitted to a "Keep Off The Grass" sign glaring up at her with silent reproach from the ground a few feet to the left. Her bottom lip curled beneath clean white teeth, and she wrung her hands tensely. Lucas regarded her with a soft smile, trying to meet her lowered gaze.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Claire pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears as she always did when she was nervous. It had become a familiar gesture to Lucas.
"I don't feel right, walking on the grass, I mean."
Lucas considered her for a moment, then errupted into a burst of laughter that startled the woman.
"Well isn't that just civilization in a nutshell?"
Claire met his comment with a perplexed frown. He reached out and gently tilted her chin with one hand so that their eyes met.
"How can you possibly feel guilty about something as simple and natural as walking on grass? I feel guilty about walking on pavement - it doesn't belong there."
Claire laughed too then, her brilliant smile flashing before her hands hid it as always. Lucas offered the crook of his elbow.
"Shall we, then?"
She nodded quickly, looping her arm through his, and they set off across the lawn together. Even with her graceful strides contrasted to his hobbling lean against the cane, it was obvious who was actually supporting who.
"Come on, we'll be late for Trent's presentation if we don't hurry," Lucas extended one hand and stepped out on to the lawn.
Claire started after him, then paused, one foot floating over the soft, verdent grass as though testing hot water. Her eyes flitted to a "Keep Off The Grass" sign glaring up at her with silent reproach from the ground a few feet to the left. Her bottom lip curled beneath clean white teeth, and she wrung her hands tensely. Lucas regarded her with a soft smile, trying to meet her lowered gaze.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Claire pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears as she always did when she was nervous. It had become a familiar gesture to Lucas.
"I don't feel right, walking on the grass, I mean."
Lucas considered her for a moment, then errupted into a burst of laughter that startled the woman.
"Well isn't that just civilization in a nutshell?"
Claire met his comment with a perplexed frown. He reached out and gently tilted her chin with one hand so that their eyes met.
"How can you possibly feel guilty about something as simple and natural as walking on grass? I feel guilty about walking on pavement - it doesn't belong there."
Claire laughed too then, her brilliant smile flashing before her hands hid it as always. Lucas offered the crook of his elbow.
"Shall we, then?"
She nodded quickly, looping her arm through his, and they set off across the lawn together. Even with her graceful strides contrasted to his hobbling lean against the cane, it was obvious who was actually supporting who.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Immortal Goldfish
You know what I'm in the mood for? Some totally unproductive writing, first person, from a character that doesn't even show up in the series until Vol 3. In fact, let's write about her before she was even a wereanimal. Yeah, that's a good allocation of my time. I give you Claire.
Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.
For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.
When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.
Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.
I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?
One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,
"Why are those fish so sleepy?"
I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.
"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.
"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.
"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.
"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"
I stopped, taking a deep breath.
"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."
Sated, the child smiled.
"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.
I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.
The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.
Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.
For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.
When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.
Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.
I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?
One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,
"Why are those fish so sleepy?"
I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.
"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.
"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.
"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.
"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"
I stopped, taking a deep breath.
"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."
Sated, the child smiled.
"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.
I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.
The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.
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