"Life is a feast," said Pavlov, ringing his bell. But no food appeared. "I am a wolf,” said Djinn, tearing out life's throat. "I eat what I want and fuck what I want and roll in the aftermath." Perhaps one half of those things would prove true. Her sore feet moved through the brush. She once said, “A wolf without a pack’s just aimless teeth.” Her nose spoke of deer. Her body answered, belly to the dirt. Precision rendered coarse black fur invisible. The wind turned and hooves struck the earth ahead. She leapt, ran, made the dirt and trees a blur.A speck of brown sailed far away. The cloven hooves bucked, laughing, and she thought – if I could be a little faster. Then her face would be up in those hooves, jaw torn away by perfect torque, teeth flying through the dew. She thought, thank luck I am unlucky, and her stomach growled. Every now and then Djinn wished – she wasn’t quite so keen. If she were dumb she could be feeding worms and not chasing the light through strong, fast hooves. Djinn growled. She searched her mind for truth to ease the isolation, but found only thoughts on the taste of blood. She sniffed the earth and thought, so find a new pack. Damn that proverbial bell. She knew: her ancestors and future children all bled wolf. Coincidence enslaved their dreams. She ached to play the chess game of stalk, reposition, stalk. Her teeth ached for the crack of bone. A pink tongue rolled across her jowls. Sore feet moved again – left, right, left, right, left – ad infinitum. Forward. The wolf’s gait is a thing of distance. The wolf’s hunger fuels it. The need for other padding feet drove her to smell strange piss somewhere between the bracken fern and toppled tree. She paced the walls of a stranger’s home. Hungry. |
(This post was last modified: Sep 24, 2012, 11:29 AM by Djinn.)