Pooping

Ykesha of Lynn · 03-15-2011, 02:04 PM

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Word count 1113. No need to match. ^_^ This could go either way. I wouldn‘t mind Ykesha getting into a brawl or making a friend. Whatever you want!

I’ve had a dream for three nights now. A child sits drawing in the dirt with his hands. In his lap lies a small pile of human fingers, bent and gray like chickens’ feet. He is humming an unrecognizable tune, but the rhythm and pace suggest he’s engineered the rhyme himself. He hasn’t noticed me, and for several minutes, I watch him while hidden amongst the insects and shadows. His eyes are wide with the wonder he creates upon the mud and his cheerful humming is broken regularly by the high hiss of laughter. Eventually, I approach him, and he looks up at me with the fixed curiosity of childhood. He smiles. His teeth are yellowed and uneven. With a sort of ticking akin to a wind-up toy his head turns unnaturally to the side and pauses once perpendicular to the ground. The grin which had adorned his face in mirth now splits wide and cuts his head into two equal halves. As I recoil and clutch my breast to still the thrashing of an unnerved organ, his tongue laps out, hanging to his throat. I now notice that his cheeks have been slit from ear to ear, although he feels no pain nor seems bothered by this deformity. He slowly rises to stand on legs which quake from dis-attention and are thin and shriveled like an apple turned sour. The fingers spill from his lap, rolling to the ground where they seem nothing but a sea of gray-studded worms. My breath falls quick within my chest and with both hands I clutch myself, jaw falling open in a voiceless cry. On uneasy, newborn steps, he limps towards me.

“Come, come, Lass of Lynn…Tell me, tell me, where you’ve been…”

When I finally wake, I feel unpleasant.

The air had turned so bitter in the last weeks. When the pack breathed, faces turned towards the sky as though to curse it for this sudden chill, columns of vapor rose from their mouths like spirits lazily leaving their bodies. Inferni seemed to be laden in a thick fog, each coyote’s nostrils expelling two bullets of white per breath. The appearance was murderous; the luperci were specters looming about the sea of vapor which covered their bodies from the neck down. An ocean of floating heads, each one apathetic and distant. The red eyes of the Lykoi and the black fur of jackals stood out heavily against the white mass caused by the pack’s condensed breath. Yet Ykesha’s weary-white faded into the dense fog as a name does within the library of a man’s memory. The woman was hardly aware of this, nor did she care. Her body was still too weary to pay heed to the difference between her and the others. They danced amongst the winter fog with ambition and lithe, while she crawled through it clutching calloused lungs. Inferni was a blessing she’d received when nearly dead. Only, she still didn’t feel particularly alive.

This was trickery on their part. Prestidigitation. She, a lone clown ambling across the broad stomach of a theatrical stage had fallen prey to the act ahead of her. Curse the magician! Curse the opera singer and the production actor! The silly bounce and jingle of a courtly jester had long ago entertained the kings of man, yet today this voluntary fool found no applause for his work. Had Ykesha the energy to shake her head, the fae would have. Alas, the cold held her like an aggressive lover, pressuring her ribs and chest with forceful and unyielding arms. Lethargy became her. And boredom. As she looked about her packmates swimming within the pools of fog she felt thin and ugly, much like a stray cat caught looting garbage. The white woman sat near a bare tree, its lifeless silver arms reaching towards the grey heavens with clawed and calloused fingers as though trying to tear through the clouds and release the sun upon an oppressed world. Ykesha looked up and blinked at the bleakness which greater her. The tree seemed so naked. Its limbs were almost rude. She frowned lightly. I should like to dress them up a bit, she mused. Something bright. Ykesha sat in silence while the chill picked through her fur with a chimpanzee’s thoroughness. Her skin rippled in gooseflesh.

A weak wind came, lifting the dense white that covered her packmates and tentatively touching the outstretched tree’s boughs as a man does his wife’s thigh. The luperci blinked her hueless eyes, lips peeling apart to reveal a mouth agape with thought. Her raspberry tongue rolled across the ribs of the roof of her mouth, absentmindedly fingering the intricacy found there. Ykesha then stood, face still open to the sky as if waiting for rain to fall. What purpose was hers; so large a world had produced such a tiny girl.

The fae straightened her back, tiger-like brindles quivering across her spine akin to quaking birds taking flight from a pond. She seemed to glow against the greyness of Inferni, yet her heart felt blacker than the majority of her kin’s pelts. With a heaviness unlike her, Ykesha’s shoulders fell, eyes tilling the earth as a plow does to fields lying fallow. Ykesha’s weary palm found the tree she’d previously leaned upon, pink pads feeling the dull ache of cold emitted by the silver bark. The lass didn’t remove her hand though it stung with chill; her nails, brittle from the dry and constant winds, clutched the tree’s skin and penetrated it with a sudden and violent force. Her teeth ground tightly as frustration drove each claw deeper into the plant’s flesh. Ykesha’s eyes narrowed, her face twisted into an aggressive display. From within the woman’s white chest a growl frothed, rolling like stew over simmering coals despite a shrill of her diseased lungs. They barked up at her, angry that in her frustration she had caused them further disquiet. Had the lass not been weakened from her year of fighting the disease she might have vocally lashed out, snarling and spitting vixen-like to the tree she’d wounded in her suppressed passion. What was she doing here? What the hell was she doing here?! For a brief moment the hybrids eyes flashed a menacing glow of contagious violence. She longed to hit something, to chew the ear off of the nearest luperci. The woman licked her chapped lips as her eyes darted around the bodies she had no blood ties with but called family. Her lips peeled back in a snarl.

What. The. Hell.

The hackles along the female’s neck rose as a choir does in their uniform robes.

What in the bloody hell.

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