To Thine Own Self Be Zoo
Vol. I No. 8
August 2023

CONTENTS:
[1] Two Knights
[2] Blue Guitar
[3] The Scraps
[4] Poetry;
     - Slippers and Observations
     - Untitled Anything And This
     - Blackout Or Just Slipped My Mind




[1]

Two Knights

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

What is that man doing? one had asked in pre-dawn, and another had
asked in the morning's bright hours.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

The answer, both times, had been more or less the same bitterly
passive information accompanied with the same joke.

These are not the actions of a man. He is a child who will get
himself killed by his petulance. Eaten by wild wolves because he
goes out to the woods thinking himself one of them.

This is not a man, but a boy who would starve himself in protest
because he cannot accept the death of his hamster.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

The long, slow walk from the forge temple to the bluff slope was
often a noisy, raucous affair. A celebration. A parade. As
Faer'yun made the walk, his ring in his hands and alone, only a
few made remarks among themselves, and most politely averted their
gaze. Most knew why he made this walk alone. Most knew that his
husband was his dog. Most had met the tall and personable hound on
Faer'yun and Mish's visits on market days.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

He had brought his ring into creation in the dead hours of the
night prior, stepping alone into the forge temple with his pound
of iron, his ten pounds of holy fuelwood, and a skin of his
husband's urine, enough to douse into the white flames now and
then and make the spirits hiss and pause and consider him. When
the ring was made he picked it up. Had the ring been forged by
normal means he would have felt only the pound of weight again
that he had walked in with, some climbers' tackle that he might
barely squeeze his hand through. Instead, the ring forged as it
was, though indeed still the same mortal weight, was also pressed
down upon heavily by the locked-away spirits whom he had pestered
all through the night. Upon picking up the ring, Faer'yun quickly
had need to hold the cumbersome object in both hands rather than
one, and would be hurrying if he trudged with it at a pace of one
mile to the hour.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

So, ring in his hands, in the pre-dawn morning, Faer'yun had left
the mouth of the forge temple on a straight and slow shot towards
the base of the bluffs that loomed over the thatched-roofed
dwellings, the bluffs that at that hour blocked out a region of
the stars.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

Most, thankfully, had not made remarks on the fact of his mannish
formal garb of a black tunic and grey trousers. His eldest uncle,
though the grey man had not said a word while looking at him,
rudely remarked to his own company that morning, I knew we were
wrong to ever tell her that her meddling was cute. Later, a young
boy to his mother had asked in what he thought was a whisper, Will
the spirits be angered that he used to be a girl? The mother, in
some of the best kindness Faer'yun had been given in town that
day, said in an equally loud whisper to the boy, I don't think so
Dea'yan, and then she began shuffling the boy away along a side
street. Will they care that he's alone? No, I don't think so
Dea'yan. Why is he alone? Sometimes people go to the other side
for reasons besides weddings, Dea'yan.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

The best kindness in town that day came from his boyhood friend
Silna'yan, now Silna'yun, who walked beside him. Briefly, but the
only one to do so. He hadn't said much, but the words that were
said, Faer'yun had hoped to hear some version of for so many
years. We don't chat much these days, eh? Both of us such
recluses. Such woodsmen. As one to another, and you the greater
than I, Faer'yun, not a drop of the profoundity of what you do
today is lost on me. Not a drop. My every blessing goes with you.

And with that said, Silna'yun had parted away, and left Faer'yun
to his business.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

In what was all in all a relative lack of ceremony, Faer'yun
arrived at the base of the bluff in the afternoon, and ascended up
a slight grassy slope into the mouth of the through-cave, into its
dark, into its cold breath. Once inside, the spirits of his ring
stopped pushing down on him. Indeed, as though arriving at a
different current in a riptide, the spirits instead began pulling
on Faer'yun, taking him lightly and swiftly through the tunnel
away from his planet, through his sun, and onto a planet in facing
rotation to his.

It was the way of all planets here. Opposite the fire planet,
called by some the big star, the little sun, or the candle, was
the ice planet, whose surface was so reflective that she was often
mistaken for her brother and called the same names. Opposite the
dwarf, the giant. Opposite the oil dot, the grey dot. Many dozen
others. And opposite the planet of deeds, which Faer'yun had left
on an afternoon with an iron ring in both hands, was the planet of
records, on which he had arrived with an iron ring in both hands
for to place it.

Though alike in rotation, the planet of records was not like the
planet of deeds in geography. Rather than emerge from the mouth of
another cave, Faer'yun had emerged from between two trees as
though stepping around a doorway. He stood in a grove of trees, a
vast grove, which grew atop a shelf along a mountain. Up and down
this mountain, at intervals, were more shelves, some bearing
groves, some only beginnings of groves, and a number of shelves
were yet blank. From his vantage a good way up the mountain he had
arrived on, Faer'yun could look out into the distance and see that
mountains dotted this planet too densely to count, with thick
jungle in between the bases. As Faer'yun had looked out at all of
this, he had made sure to keep one hand on his iron ring, and with
his other hand, he idly felt at an iron nail that rested along the
length of his sternum, hung there from a necklace of twine.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

As he had wandered through the grove, he had seen many trees with
totems fastened to them, and many trees without.

Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

He had known when he had arrived at his own tree, because it was
the only one that, when contemplating over it, he did not get the
impression that he would be immediately expelled back to his own
planet for tampering with it. And, though he was no great
spiritualist to read the details, the tree in fact looked like him
in some ways that were obvious enough, even to the layman. A scar
along one branch that looked like the scar on his left bicep, from
when a pissy horse had bitten him as a child. A thinner,
symmetrical, more purposeful pair of scars midway up the tree's
pale trunk. And, when he had approached from a distance, the
leaves had been a rough though remarkably true sketch portrait of
his face. The face of an infant as the wind stirred, then nothing
in the stillness, then in a building gust had been the face of a
small girl, then a small boy, then a teenager, and then the man.
The wind then died down, and did not presage what his face might
look like in its old age. Given his business there that day, he
had known that the wind was right not to.

Now, Faer'yun stood before his tree of records, held to its trunk
a ring forged of the essence of his husband, and was nailing in a
big iron spike from which to forever hang it. The wood did not
give way to this intrusion easily, and he stood working at the
tree for quite some time, every beat of the hammer another year of
his own life he was transferring to his husband. He drove in the
final taps: Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk. Thnk.

Then he stepped back, let the ring hang, and admired it for a
while.

With him done with his work, the spirits did not tolerate his
being there for very much longer. He politely closed his eyes,
took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he was again in the
dark and cold of the through-cave, a white veil of daylight
visible some distance ahead across the sandy tunnel floor. He
smiled, and took his first returning breath of the cold air into
his chest. Holding himself upright and proud with no great effort,
he walked forward to greet the remainder of the day.

--

On the trail approaching his cabin, Faer'yun eyed a dry branch on
the trail ahead. When he arrived at it, he stepped on it.

A moment later, an ink-black creature erupted out of the woods
onto the trail farther ahead, turned to Faer'yun, and sprinted
straight for him. In three seconds Faer'yun was felled by the
beast, and with counter-swipes of his hands he for a short while
fended off the harshest of the scratches and play-bites from his
husband Mish. The transfer of life had worked for a surety: this
love and familiarity with one another, Mish had blessed Faer'yun's
life with for the last five years and some, but this rabid energy,
Faer'yun had not seen in Mish since two autumns ago. The two
wrestled on the trail there, and Faer'yun intermittently tossed
pieces of the broken stick, which Mish snatched up in his jaws and
crushed to wet splinters before leaping back into it with Faer'yun
to take another swipe.

After a few repetitions of this, Mish leapt into a position of
standing a pace away from his human husband, panting, but his eyes
still gleaming with energy, daring Faer'yun to make a move. Mish's
tail still wagged so quickly that Faer'yun knew an attempt at
lowering himself in for a hug would only result in further swipes
from the imposingly clawed dog, and an attempt to go in for a kiss
would risk loosened teeth. So Faer'yun stepped forward
matter-of-factly, posture heavy and unplayful, and merely gave the
black dog's scruff a loving rub in passing as he got back to
walking along the trail to their cabin. Mish joined in the walk,
making galloping loops ahead and back to his husband, ahead and
back to his husband, always back to his husband.

As they came upon the small clearing of their cabin, Mish walked
beside Faer'yun. Then, the dog's tall ears turned towards
something in the clearing, and he blasted forth as though he were
shot from a cannon and his legs were trying to keep up with the
run. The squirrel began to flee at once, but made towards the
stream, encountered the water, turned left to scrambled over the
pebbles, and from that point the dog was upon him, and the
squirrel was made quick work of, pinned and then given a precise
and powerful bite. Mish stared down at the kill briefly to be sure
the swift thing would not run away again or bite him back. Then,
satisfied, Mish looked up across the clearing at Faer'yun, tail
wagging, expression proud.

In a deepened voice of mature praise, Faer'yun called to the dog,
Good Mish, o, so fast Mish! Good squirrel. Good kill.

As he continued to talk of praise, Faer'yun proceeded through the
clearing towards where the dog stood.

To one side of the clearing, where Mish stood, was a stream which
usually had running through it gentle clear waters that were good
for drinking, and smooth pebbles along the banks. Amid the
clearing, a campfire ring. And across the clearing, atop quite a
small hill that was a runt to the hills surrounding and a dwarf to
the hills nearby, was built a simple cabin. Small such that the
hearth could warm the room mightily in the winter. Homely with its
tufts of shed black fur forming little groups here and there
around the perimeter of the floor.

Faer'yun knelt at the dead squirrel, and turned it over in
thorough appraisals under Mish's eyes. Good, he finally said to
Mish, and reached over and gave the dog a couple of pats on the
side of the shoulder. Then Faer'yun took off his boots, picked the
squirrel up, and waded across the stream with it, Mish splashing
through the stream too alongside. They stepped through the woods
around trees and bushes until arriving at a grassy hillside, a
pocket in which to do messy work, away from the center of their
grounds.

Faer'yun dressed the squirrel while Mish observed with diligent
fascination. When the work was done, the small creature was
separated into a fur for Faer'yun, cuts of meat for Mish, and what
remained of the innards they left to the woods there on the
hillside.

The two made their way back to their clearing. Faer'yun got a fire
going, cooked the squirrel's flesh, and handed the pieces to Mish
as they were ready. The dog ate gently and gladly out of his human
husband's hand.

The two then walked a couple of laps around the clearing, not a
long task, as there wasn't much to it, but the men had an
appreciation for minding that no things were amiss in such spaces
as concerned them. Mish lifted a leg at a tree beside the
trailhead back to town and relieved himself for quite some time.
As he did, the husbands variously looked into each other's eyes or
off into the woods. On the second lap around the clearing, Mish
lapped up a great deal of water.

The two came back to the campfire. They sat at it side by side.
Faer'yun wrapped an arm over his man, and pet the dog as they sat,
Faer'yun's eyes to the flames, Mish's ears and nose to the woods.
Then, with just a slightly slower stroke to the scruff, the
husbands turned to each other, appraised each other's eyes, and
gave themselves over to each other's kissing, which shortly led to
a more intimate display there beside the fire.

In all, the two had a raucous night of abandon with one another,
chasing and feinting around their clearing, intermittent carnal
givings, splashing and swimming in the stream, feasting from their
stores of preserves, and ultimately falling into deep slumber
flesh to fur beside the burning fire.

In the morning, Faer'yun woke on the grass with his nose buried in
the scents of the thick fluff of fur at Mish's chest, and a
feeling of drool at the corner of his mouth. The warmth along the
front of his body connecting to the heat of the thinner-furred
underside of the dog was a sort of paradise. Faer'yun pulled
himself in closer with the dog. The dog, awakened, stretched
against Faer'yun, and then craned his head down to point his warm
muzzle to the human. As the birds chirped in the cool morning
around them and the smell of last night's fire ambled past, Mish
and Faer'yun shared some soft morning kisses, and then Faer'yun
cradled the dog for a while, the dog's breathing nose resting in
the pocket under the human's chin, as the human pet him.

Mish eventually stretched again and yawned, and with that, the two
men disentangled from one another and stood up. Mish trotted a
brief distance away to relieve himself and mark a middling section
of the clearing. Faer'yun stood in place, finding his joints
unusually sore that morning, and he did some stretches beside the
faintly smoking remains of the fire while Mish did some appraising
laps around the clearing.

There were easy enough days ahead of the two, for a time. Always
there was work to do, but for the moment, not so much of great
excitement. Faer'yun went to the cabin and dressed in his usual
attire for cool autumn days such as this. A coarse and undyed
tunic, brown trousers, thick wool socks, and boots. Mish came
trotting in through the doorway as Faer'yun was seated atop a
chest, bent over forward and tying the boot laces. The dog came
straight over and kissed the human briefly, then continued forward
and hopped onto the bed, and laid down to watch for the human to
be done with the knotwork.

When Faer'yun stood up, Mish stood up as well, wagging. The two
set out, Faer'yun closing the cabin door behind them. With a hand
axe in tow, Faer'yun went with Mish into the woods to add to their
stores of firewood.

There was no hurry to it. Faer'yun took to the work more lightly
than he normally might, in fact, as his joints still held on to
the soreness of that morning. He sighed a bit as he thought about
it, while carrying a few logs back to the clearing. He had
certainly heard no shortage of old men feigning horror at his
propensity to sleep on the ground. He had not gotten the joke, and
had more or less considered the old men weak of will, not made of
the same hardiness as himself. But, with Mish's age decreased and
his own increased, he was now perhaps getting his first true
impressions of the latter half of the balancing.

Faer'yun glanced up to see a black streak crashing around through
the brush, and he smiled. If the price of renewed youth in the dog
was that the human might now prefer to spend more of his nights in
his bed than on the grass, then he supposed he could own up to
some small ignorant folly from his youth, and join the ranks of
grumbling old men. He had already been a homebody. A curmudgeon
was not so great a step.

Faer'yun saw the edge of the clearing ahead.

Mish, tromping and sniffing, advanced far ahead of the human up to
the clearing's edge. There, the dog's posture shifted, hairs on
his back raised, and he shot forward into the clearing, barking of
enormous offense at some transgression.

Faer'yun ran forward to catch up, burden of logs still in his
arms.

When he arrived upon the edge of the clearing himself, he saw
Silna'yun, his friend, standing near the campfire ring. Mish
walked in fast circles around the intruder, all hair still raised,
though flying tail and lack of barks or growls gave away a
happiness that this abhorrent egregious intruder was a friend.
Silna'yun, though not daring to take a step, raised a hand in a
wave as he saw Faer'yun exiting from the woods.

Good guard, Faer'yun called to Mish, in a voice of deep praise, a
voice he so often had occasion to use with the man. Good find,
good spot, good friend, good help. Mish, in the midst of these
called praises, stopped his circling of the visitor, and crossed
the clearing back to his husband. Faer'yun dropped the logs aside
and met Mish in a crouch, so he could rub and pet the dog fully as
the dog walked back and forth against him and wagged.

Faer'yun then stood, and he and Mish came together to meet the
visitor.

What youth in him! Silna'yun remarked to Faer'yun, looking at the
lively dog. He's your same Mish? Not a wilder pup of his you'd
never mentioned?

Faer'yun, playing along, gave assurances that this was in spite of
appearances the very same dog.

Good, yes, wonderful, then if he is he and you are you then my
presents are all labeled rightly.

With that, Silna'yun unshouldered his pack. He set the immense
thing standing up at his feet, loosened a pair of fasteners
holding the top shut, and began withdrawing parcel after parcel
and setting the colorful packages around himself on the grass.
Mish took big sniffs of them all, nose pressed close against the
sides of them as he did.

Still rummaging and setting things out, Silna'yun went on and
said, I'll spoil his presents to your human ears, it's mostly
things from the butcher, and a little from the tailor. I even paid
visit to the cobbler, on rumor that some folks are having dog
shoes made for the winter, but in the course of our conversation I
came to realize, rather on my own, that of course if Mish had need
of such a thing, his master would have already got him it. The
offer stands that if you would like a two-pair of shoes for him I
can arrange it, but as it was I left the cobbler's shop with
exchange only of pleasantries.

By the time he was done and stood upright from his pack, there was
a score and then some of colorfully papered parcels laid out
around him.

Faer'yun stepped over to where Mish stood sniffing eagerly at a
package wrapped in bright green paper. The human knelt at the dog,
and pet him slowly as he looked around at the gifts.

This is so much, Faer'yun said, knowing that to say it was too
much would cause insult in how true of a hit it would be.

I did become carried away, perhaps, Silna'yun said with a warm,
put-on ruefulness. He stood behind his pack, hands resting over
the top of it, as though it were a soldier's tall shield. He did
not go on to offer any apology over the presents.

Still petting Mish, who had sat down and was watching and
listening upon noticing the pauses in the air between the humans,
Faer'yun offered, I take it these are in good tidings over
yesterday's doings. Why so many, is all that I ask.

Still standing with his hands resting on his pack before him, and
with a tightly guarded mask of joviality, Silna'yun sniffled, and
said, Making up for lost time. I was already far enough behind,
eh? Now, I worry you've set me back even farther.

Faer'yun tried to speak, and found nothing.

Already now both made sorely vulnerable, the two humans each
stepped cautiously aside from their shields, and hugged one
another.

The gifts were all very strongly to Mish's liking. Quite a number
of bones and smoked meats, much of which Faer'yun put away to
parcel out later, though certainly too with no shortage given now.
There was also a blanket for the husbands to share, a stuffed
rabbit toy and a stuffed deer toy for Mish which he gladly took
guardship of alongside whichever bone he was chewing, and a new
knife for Faer'yun excellently made.

Silna'yun remarked, I would have liked to get you something more,
in the line of spirits, ale, wine, tobacco, but when inquiring out
your tastes among the merchants, I've come to the impression that
you've become quite the abstainer.

Amused, Faer'yun pondered on that. Abstainer, no. I think I have
just tended to find my revels elsewhere. I haven't had a cup of
ale since we were last at the pub, the one bloody halfway up the
bluff face.

Faer'yun! Ye madman! That was four, five summers ago!

Faer'yun contemplated on that, and indeed, so it was.

Silna'yun, on invitation, stayed the evening and sat around a fire
with Faer'yun and Mish as the larger raw cuts of beef were cooked.
Silna'yun did in fact produce four skins of wine from his pack,
the very last of the pack's contents he assured, and the humans
drank as they chatted the night away. Mish was offered a portion
of wine as well, but refused it and gladly resumed work on a pig
femur. Faer'yun agreed, at one point, to visit the pub on the
bluff face some evening in the coming days. Late in the night,
with an empty pack, a full stomach, and good spirits, Silna'yun
sauntered away back up the trail towards town, loudly bellowing a
drinking song to the night frogs and crickets. Faer'yun made his
stumbling way to the cabin up the short hill, not helped by the
lively dog who took the stumbling as a game and made playful barks
and swipes. The two did engage in their usual revelry of sorts on
the doorstep, before then finally making their way inside onto the
bed together. There, they fell into a good sleep befitting of
their good night.

The following afternoon, Faer'yun packed a day bag, holding in it
some small furs to trade, a water skin, and some coinage, among a
few items of miscellany. The flint, for one, was more a woodsman's
totem of comfort than it was a likely necessity on a trip into
town. Mish laid at the edge of the bed, chin on his paws, watching
his husband pack. He then, with all the same interest, watched his
husband change into his formal wear, the black tunic and grey
trousers.

Late afternoon, Mish was ever the popular personality around town,
flocked to by children who crowded to pet the friendly, handsome,
large dog whose owner was occupied making small chat at the stalls
of long acquainted local barterers. He was given a fair deal on
the furs he sold. The most of them were from game that he had not
taken for the fur, being long since furnished enough in those, but
rather for the meat to smoke and be kept in stores for his husband
for the coming winter. For his own stock he had been at work
making preserves of wild berries and stores of wild veg and nuts
that, while some of the varieties were likely to survive the
winter, were also all certainly easier found before snowfall.

When his business at the market was done, Faer'yun was tempted by
the road out of town, back to home, where he could continue
squaring things away, sharing in Mish's good company and in Mish's
good company alone, as had more or less served him beyond
adequately in the preceding seasons. But a promise was his
business in town, and as he was an honest enough man and the
promise made to a wonderful fellow, Faer'yun turned instead up the
road towards the bluff. Mish came closely alongside.

Together, as the evening fell upon them, Mish and Faer'yun stepped
into the pub that was halfway up the bluff beside town. A din of
merry voices filled the air. Mish stalked hastily in and began at
making the rounds immediately, approaching groups at all tables
and booths to sniff at the humans and their foods. Some ignored
the dog, others delighted in his visit and offered praise and pets
and some portions of fried potato wedges, which seemed to be the
predominant dish that night. One man, upon being nosed at by the
dog, roared a curse and arose ready to kick the animal, only to
get a better look at which animal it was, and lift his gaze to
indeed find the animal's other half standing in the pub's doorway,
watching.

The man retook his seat, and glowered down at his potatoes.

Faer'yun continued to glare.

A moment later, the man glanced over to see if he was still being
watched, and then shuddered. Embarrassed, caught out, the man
called to Faer'yun, Well I didn't, did I?

Faer'yun raised his eyebrows, a show of incredulity that that was
all the man had for himself.

Mish glanced alertly between the belligerent and Faer'yun, waiting
for a verdict.

Faer'yun let out a puff of air, and turned towards the bar. Mish
came trotting over to join him. When Faer'yun sat at a stool, Mish
sat on the floor beside him, facing the belligerent man who kept
cautiously glancing back, until eventually finishing his drink and
making an exit.

Later into the evening, Faer'yun heard his name called, and spun
around on his stool to see Silna'yun entering, alongside a small
troupe of other friends whom Faer'yun hadn't spoken with for
longer time than he could properly place.

The night was merry, and in the years that followed, Faer'yun and
Mish became fixtures of the town's pubs, or at least, so it felt
when an excited rise would come over the din at the arrival of the
black dog. Twenty nine days out of thirty, the human and hound
husbands still kept to themselves in their pocket of the woods.
But when they did have occasion to go into town for trade and the
like, the two gladly made an evening of it as well, and the town
made no fuss at all of rewelcoming the stiff human and the lively
dog.

On a night over five winters after Faer'yun had given half of his
years to Mish, the two men walked through town from one pub to
another. Faer'yun had hoped to find Silna'yun or one of his
sisters, Mera'gan or Nes'gan, as he had brought with him into town
a small gift that he had wished to impart. An agate stone, near
the size of his fist, found as he and Mish had been on a hike
through the bluffs. Orange, the color of Silna'yun's birth month,
not Faer'yun's, which was a fine enough pretense to be rid of the
thing.

Silna'yun had not been found though, at the pub in the town's
center that night, and so the husbands, after waiting it out for a
pint, now made the trek to the pub on the edge of town by the
river. With them was Chim'gan, a friend who had been at the pub
who the husbands had sat with for the pint. Sober, she was a
quiet, modest woman. Drunk, she was a font of bold advice and
ravenous to pry at sensitive matters. This night, she had been at
the pub for some time before the husbands had arrived, and was
drunk.

As they walked, she said loudly to Faer'yun, The next time a
farmer around here kicks it, you need to jump on that opportunity.

Pardon? Faer'yun asked, trying to keep a serious composure.

You are going to buy a farm by this time next spring. You are so
good with animals.

Indeed, Chim'gan.

So good, Chim'gan repeated, and then went on, As a start, maybe
some breeding work, ah? Get Mish a little lady friend to suit him?
Would you like that Mish? Hm? Mish?

Mish looked uncomfortably up at Faer'yun regarding the way he was
being condescended to.

Faer'yun stooped for a few steps to give Mish a few assuring pats
to the side.

Chim'gan continued, Feh, maybe after this many years he wouldn't
even know what to do with a bitch, so used to his husband
accommodating. Arrarrarr, you want me to mount that flee-ridden
mongrel, that hairy beast? You want me, me! the great Mish! to
copulate with an animal? I think not! Down here at once, Faer'gan!
Let me show you what this studhood is deserving of!

Tears of laughter augmented Chim'gan's cheeks as she shrieked out
the last lines. Faer'yun felt he could do little other than blush
and bear it, and hope that more friends might provide the woman
other topics when the next pub was reached.

Eventually through getting the most of her laughs out, Chim'gan
wiped at her eyes, and said, I misspoke in there. Even with the
joke, even speaking as Mish, I should have called you Faer'yun,
not Faer'gan.

I was not so greatly pained by it, in the context, but thank you.

Does he think of you as his husband, though? Not as his wife? That
was what I stumbled over.

As she said it she stumbled over an uneven stone in the street,
and then caught her balance again on Faer'yun's offered arm. They
continued on like that, Faer'yun's arm weighed down as they went.

Faer'yun admitted, By scent, and by the pleasures of the flesh, he
likely does indeed think he has a wife. In all other matters of
living, he has a husband. Either way, my care as concerns him is
only that he think well of me.

Chim'gan gave a thoughtful hum as she walked along, eyes closed,
leaning on Faer'yun's arm.

Any strangers looking at us would think you were my father,
Chim'gan said.

Faer'yun thought on that, and then said, I suppose so.

How many years are left for you? Chim'gan asked sleepily.

Faer'yun answered, Some, but perhaps little more than five. As a
natural consequence of balancing our number of years left, I have
fettered the pace at which the years age him, and, in balance,
spurred on the pace at which the years age me.

The two friends and Mish arrived at the pub by the river.

More seasons went by. Faer'yun and Mish spent the springs on long
hikes, the summers splashing and lolling about in the streams and
lakes, the autumns in foraging and hunts, and the winters snuggled
together in their cabin on their bed.

On a night nearing nine autumns after Faer'yun had given half his
years to Mish, the two men sat at a bench outside of the pub in
the town center. Faer'yun, a bit drunk, sat with a pint from
inside in one hand, and his other hand rested on Mish, who had
climbed up onto the bench too and sat beside him. The both of them
had the startings of grey in their hair, Mish in the muzzle,
Faer'yun in some streaks at the temples. It was past midnight, and
much of the merriment from inside had died down, their friends
gone home, and last call now held in Faer'yun's hand. He took a
drink.

Mish turned his head over, and kissed his human husband on the
side of the mouth. The human, on lazy reflex, parted his mouth for
the dog, and turned in as well so the two of them could exchange
careful loving licks at each other's tongues.

Faer'yun leaned down and gave a parting smooch to the side of
Mish's neck, planting the kiss deep within the fluff, and then sat
upright again, and had another sip from his ale.

The two looked around the square. Across the way from them, a man
slowly walked across their view, some burden of wooden beams
balanced at his side. For a time, his were the only footsteps, and
the rest of the town was quiet.

The man paused. He set his burden down.

From behind him, another man quickly walked up, and struck him
with a staff. The stricken man collapsed. The man with the staff
turned, and began walking away as quickly as he had approached.

Mish, seeing what had unfolded just as well as Faer'yun, gave an
irate bark, followed by a concerned growl.

Faer'yun looked around the square once more. Barring some person
lurking in shadows or peering out from within some shuttered
window, none had seen this deed besides himself and Mish.

The retreating figure was nearly around a corner, off to some
minor street.

Faer'yun did hesitate. What he had just seen, he had seen other
versions of quite a number of times. A squirrel crushed in Mish's
jaws. A deer taking a fall struck by an arrow that he himself had
sent flying to it. And here, a human. A thought settled in
Faer'yun that, in his heart of hearts, he felt no affinity for
humans greater than any else. To see a man struck dead was a
surprise. Whether it was anything more than that, he wasn't quite
certain.

It was Mish's reaction that brought Faer'yun around. There was a
concern in the dog at what he saw. And indeed, now so directed,
Faer'yun saw it too, in two parts. The first was waste. The
retreating man took nothing from the fallen man before fleeing.
The second, true even if unpoetic, was threat. So often, the
husbands made laps around their clearing, searching into the
nearby woods for anything amiss, anything that might pose to them
a danger. Here in town now was such a danger, retreating such that
it might hide until able to later strike again.

Careful, follow, Faer'yun commanded.

The dog hurried down from the bench, and ran after the attacker
who was just leaving sight around a corner. Faer'yun ran after his
husband. The attacker did not so much run, even after glancing
over his shoulder and seeing that he was being pursued, but he had
gotten a head start, and evaded Faer'yun around several corners
and narrow streets. Mish, though no doubt able to close the
distance at a moment's notice, did not get ahead of the sight of
his human husband, and would stand at the mouths of alleys barking
the next way. In this manner the husbands pursued the attacker to
an edge of town bordered by the woods, which he quickly stepped
into. To one who did not realize he was being pursued by woodsmen,
it may have seemed like a tidy escape.

Faer'yun picked up his run to a sprint, crashing through the brush
alongside Mish after this man.

Shortly, they broke through out of the brush, into a small, even,
circular clearing, where long grass moved like the waves of a lake
on that night. In the center of the clearing, no longer fleeing
and indeed facing the men, was the one they had been after.
Faer'yun came to a kneel, sliding over the wet grass briefly, to
wrap an arm around the dog's neck, palm firmly holding him back at
the chest. At this asking, Mish did indeed come to a stop,
standing growling, hair raised, within five strides of his violent
desires. But, at his human husband's asking, he did stand still,
rather than close such a meager distance. Faer'yun, satisfied the
dog would indeed stay, gently took his hand off the dog's chest,
and stood to face and appraise who they had gotten.

The man stood in place, there among the grass, in the light of a
waning gibbous. He wore formal attire, a black tunic and grey
trousers, much like Faer'yun's very own which he wore that very
night. The man was, in fact, one whom Faer'yun had seen about town
now and then, though his name, he knew not. One hand rested on his
staff, which stood beside him, his very same height. Now seeing it
better, Faer'yun saw that it was not a staff in strict terms, but
a farmer's scythe. Faer'yun scoffed upon seeing the gleam of the
blade, given the man would look a fool in a wheat field harvesting
while dressed in his finest as he was. The man's face was
cleanshaven. The man's brow was pinched together and his upper lip
raised in something of a snarl. Confusion. The man regarded the
husbands who had pursued him with confusion.

What have you done? Faer'yun barked.

What have you done? the man asked back, though with none of the
same aggression, none of the same haste. His voice was both more
rasping and more highly pitched than Faer'yun had expected. It
sounded like the croaking voice one would give to a frog when
telling a make-believe story to a child.

In his same slow, frog-like voice, the man went on, You should not
have seen me. My calculations are without error.

The man looked down at something, which he lifted up to breast
height. A codex, open to some middle page. He then looked up at
Faer'yun, down at Mish, and then up at Faer'yun again, and said,
with his visage moved from confusion to warm amusement,

O, how interesting. Though my calculations remain as errorless as
the rotations of the planets, it seems I had not accounted for
your amendment to my data. Faer'yun, I presume, and beside you
where all those years disappeared to. Well met. I am Death.

Mish's posture recoiled suddenly, and he turned in to his husband
with a whine.

Faer'yun took a moment to realize what worried the dog. Not the
name. It was not a name he would have occasion to know, himself.
Kill, catch, and even the dead object of prey, certainly. The name
itself, Death, was in some ways too abstract. The night frogs and
crickets had utterly stopped singing. The wind did not blow, yet
it did not leave a calm stillness, but in fact a rather
tempestuous stillness. The grass stood in choppy waves frozen. The
trees craned all to one way, but quivered not a hair. The passage
of time had been halted.

Death went on, I am impressed, in truth. Ordinarily, I only cross
paths like this with those who have cheated me.

Faer'yun, his words alone Mish's all too airy shield, spoke, You
must be very busy. Would that we had known it was you, we would
not have slowed your haste.

Death laughed, the sound of it more frog-like than ever.

O, do not worry yourself. As the words seem to flick constantly
across my tongue now and here, rest assured that I have come and
gone from this conversation many times, and my hands have been
very busy elsewhere, in woods and in towns. As I have said, and as
many besides myself have repeated, my calculations are, more or
less, without error. Only anomalies such as yourself can muddle
things.

Faer'yun countered, Strew my brain thread from thread across this
yard, and nowhere in it will you find I ever had intention to
cheat you.

Death's ribbiting laugh came even more enthusiastically.

O, indeed, indeed! You misunderstand. We meet here with no malice,
none at all. You still have time left, good Faer'yun. Well.

Death vanished his scyth, and in its place held a pen. He made a
small mark in his codex.

Some time.

Be that you tell me it is fleeting, we may like to leave here and
be back to it.

Are you one for bartering, sir? Death asked.

Faer'yun, though in this moment wishing he had a more leery head
about him, was one for bartering indeed. He said to Death, You
have my ear.

Anomalies who cheat my calculations are easiest addressed by
anomalies alike. A keeper of the law transgresses the very law he
keeps that he may apprehend the ill-meaning transgressors. A
keeper of the law who never scrapped nor swindled would be a
dullard. If you both would become my knights, and end those whose
years have overstepped their course, then in fair payment I would
give the amount of half of those overstepped years to you, and the
other half to the very one whose ring is hung by a nail driven
through your tree. I would give you such powers as you would need
for the job. The freedom to move as spirits yourselves through the
planet of records, to find out your marks. The magic to kill
without my being there.

Death disappeared his codex and pen, and in each hand, held forth
a black apple.

In his mind's eye, Faer'yun saw the grey that was peppered among
Mish's black chin.

Faer'yun took an apple, bit it, and then took the other, and held
it down to Mish.

The dog took a bite of the apple offered.

Death stepped forward, and kissed the cheek of each of the two
husbands before him, one and then the other.

Good hunting, Faer'fey, and Mish'fey.

--

Hollow cheeks. A missing ear. An interrupted halo of thin hair
remaining. A poor audience of teeth in the theater of his mouth.
Faer'fey had stood, arms crossed, looking at this tree of records
for some time, as Mish'fey sniffed up and down the trunk. Eight
years, the man had lived past his mortal term, and he did not look
otherwise. The leaves of the tree in a gentle wind showed the face
of an ordinary enough boy. In a stronger wind, the leaves shifted
to show an ugly enough elder. And in a wind that howled was shown
that the man's extra years had not been kind to him. Stepping
closer, Faer'fey examined the grooves in the bark of the tree. The
man had attended school as a youth. His first kiss had been with
another boy at his school. On two occasions, he tortured rats to
death. He enjoyed helping the cook-maid in the kitchen but was
scolded if caught mingling with the help. When he married, his
marriage lasted fifty and one years, until the death of his wife
to ailments of the lungs. They had three sons early in their
marriage, and one daughter some years later. He was a devoted
husband and loved nothing more than attending social functions
with her at his side, particularly delighting in the gossip the
two of them would share during the carriage ride home. For a
career, he was a brilliant mathematician, and had broken open
theorems that seemed to be becoming the bases for new branches of
mathematics entirely. He spent the years after his wife's death
secluded in his manor. He was to die of heart failure having
attained the age of eighty and one years, but had hired a powerful
witch to detach his mortal body from all conception of any of his
deeds, and hired a physician to remove his heart and replace it
with a pig's. The play had given him eight more years to stew
about in his manor. Perhaps in his writings, there were
conjectures on mathematics that would turn the world on its head.
A grey man and a black dog came in through an unlocked door one
day and cut out the pig's heart, putting the mathematician's
extended term to rest.

A tightly curled beard. The bones of once-brilliant birds now
piercings in his ears, nose, and lips. The tree of records for
this man was littered from trunk to twig with scars that spoke of
broken bones, gaping cuts, strong poisonings, searing burns. The
man was a high leader of a holy order of conquerers, his writhing
proclamations gospel. He had never known any life but torment,
branded on each heel before he had fully left his mother's dead
womb. He was to live zero minutes, but had in all his hours lived
among such a miasma of death, a quota of animals slaughtered and
their blood never not upon him, that he had become a part of an
undetectable blot within Death's formulas, and he lived twenty and
one years before a black-hooded assassin stole matter-of-factly
across his camp, and with a simple knife ended what Death's
grandeur had not been able to sting.

The beak and eyes of an eagle. The antlers of a great stag. A scar
along the back of his neck where a guillotine had once
malfunctioned. This man was a king who on fifty occasions had
eluded Death under the protection of another god-spirit. He was
eight hundred and ninety and eight. On the day the last of his
protections expired, the castle's corridors were abuzz with
Death's knights, and Faer'fey and Mish'fey were not the ones to
secure the kill on him, though they had seen it.

Such were the records of Faer'fey and Mish'fey's service as
knights under Death.

One day, some decades after a then-Faer'yun had given half of his
years to a then-Mish, the husbands were exiting the mouth of the
through-cave at the base of the bluff. As Faer'fey's eyes
readjusted to full daylight, he all at once noticed the presence
of a figure standing beside him, and he wheeled to face them,
taking a hop back, hand reaching to hover at the hilt of his
knife. Mish'fey wheeled around likewise and barked, bared his
teeth.

Peace, Faer'fey, the man said. He was dressed in a dark blue robe
of fine materials, hood drawn up upon his head. He wore a goatee,
and smiled as though the husbands before him were about to be his
playthings.

The robed man continued, Would that we had more time for
introductions, but alas, you will have to take a stranger at his
word. I am a defected knight of Death, come to warn you that Death
has gone to your tree of records and had you marked.

And Mish'fey's tree as well?

Yes, the robed man said.

His calculations are indeed as predictable as he has always
bragged, then, Faer'yun said, and resumed walking away from the
mouth of the cave, towards town. Mish came along beside, ears
attuned to hear if the stranger took any steps to follow.

The stranger, now rather more alarmed than gleeful, called after
the husbands, If your next mark be in this town, killing him will
no longer earn you any favors.

Faer'yun stopped, and looked over his shoulder at the man to say,
Indeed. We are no longer killers. Our bargain with Death never
included the word eternity. And even so it was generous. We have
seen many more good seasons come and go in our woods than I should
have once though possible. But I am a woodsman. I have known, from
the hare whose flesh feeds my husband to the riverbed whose water
has run dry, that eternity is not the way of things here.

With that, Faer'yun and Mish continued down towards the town,
passed through it with no great ceremony, and proceeded on to the
path to their clearing.

There in their woods, Faer'yun and Mish splashed through their
stream, and Mish was given a feast of the last of the stores of
dried meat. Lastly, the husbands went on a walk together. Faer'yun
was struck down midway through taking a step, and at the same
instant, Mish was struck down midway through taking a curious
sniff of his husband's hand.




[2]

Blue Guitar

August 1st, 2023

Mrs Michaels stepped into the pawn shop off the highway, and was
greeted by a rush of air conditioning and the chime of a digital
bell sounding over the door. Looking around the brightly-lit
space, there were rows of DVDs, a bunch of power tools in the
back, a wall of various VCRs and other TV accoutrements, and,
hanging on the wall behind the glass counter full of jewelry,
there was what she had come here for: a selection of electric
guitars.

As Mrs Michaels began making her way there, a clerk poked his head
up from one of the DVD aisles. "Help you find anything?"

"Well, maybe! I wanted to get a guitar for my son."

"Everything we have is up behind the counter there! See if
anything catches your eye, I'll be right over."

The clerk looked blankly down at the stack of DVD cases he held,
and then at the shelf of other DVDs in front of him, and then
resubmerged into the aisle.

Mrs Michaels went over to the guitars and had a look. Some of them
looked a bit ridiculous: one was pancake flat, and another only
had the neck where the strings went and no body at all. Two of
them were pink which was an immediate big fat N-O.

The clerk came around behind the counter. Polishing a moose-themed
novelty coffee mug, he asked, "Anything catch your interest?"

Wearing her consternation on her sleeve, Mrs Michaels informed the
clerk, "I don't really know what I'm looking for here. Do all of
the electric guitars for boys work?"

The clerk moved past the idea that guitars were gendered like a
kangaroo past a speed bump, and turned to face the guitars with
Mrs Michaels. Still polishing the mug, he said, "Well, I'll be the
first to admit I can't make any of them play The Rolling Stones,
but let's see. This one has... two. Two strings. Should have six.
This one has, four. We're getting closer." Going down the line, he
did ask, "Your son doesn't like pink?"

"It's a birthday present, I'm not trying to punish him."

The clerk gave a customer service laugh, did nothing to call
attention to his pink hair, and arrived at the last guitar that
was hung up. It was a blue electric guitar, with several faded
stickers on it of foxes.

"Six strings! Promising!" the clerk announced. He set the mug down
on a foam-padded section of the glass counter, and reached up to
take down the guitar. Flashing a little grin, the clerk said,
"Now, refrain from being too impressed, but I did learn ONE chord
to be able to test these."

"Ooh, further along than me."

The both of them chuckled. "Let's see here..."

The clerk laboriously positioned his fingers around the neck of
the guitar. Then, once the hand was in place, he again flashed a
smirk at the customer, looked down at the guitar, and used the end
of his thumb to give the strings a strum.

All at once the fluorescent lights overhead flashed bright and
then shattered. Mrs Michaels covered her head, while the clerk hit
the ground behind the counter shouting "TAKE THE MONEY I DON'T
CARE!"

For a little bit there was silence in the shop, as Mrs Michaels
stood there and the clerk laid there.

Curtly, the clerk then got up, and set the guitar out on the foam
padding on the glass counter beside the novelty moose mug.

"Wowza," he said, "wonder what did that."

24 years earlier

Gretchen was in her attic hangout in July with the window closed
wearing her fursuit and hotboxing the fursuit head while jumping
around and playing her guitar. The guitar was blue and had
stickers of foxes on it, matching her fox fursuit.

When the heatstroke began to set in, Gretchen, or Poisonberry as
she was called in the suit, fell into a series of only striking
the D5 power chord on the guitar, sluggishly. Again and again,
slower, and then slower, and then, done.

If anyone ever played an open G on her guitar she would blow up
all of their light bulbs.

back to present

"Maybe some kind of power surge?" Mrs Michaels offered.

The clerk took in a deep breath and gave a big, well-this-sucks
sigh, looking around at all of the broken light bulb glass around
the pawn shop. The glass's shimmering was, in some ways, kind of
pretty as it caught the sunlight that came in from the windows.

"Yeah, maybe some kind of power surge."

The glass had, fortunately, not fallen within a perfect 6.66ft
radius circle from the shop's two occupants, or, more
specifically, the glass had not fallen in a perfect 6.66ft radius
circle from the blue guitar with the faded fox stickers that was
on the counter.

"Um, tell you what," the clerk said. He ran a hand back through
his hair. It wasn't really on his mind or Mrs Michaels's that it
was pink. "I got a lot of glass to sweep and probably a few light
bulbs to order. Price tag on this guitar says two hundred bucks.
I'll knock that down to five dollars and throw in a case and some
picks and an amp and all of the cables too, and if any of it
doesn't work you can come back and return it tomorr... well,
whenever we can re-open."

Mrs Michaels reached into her purse, took out a five, and slapped
it on the counter. "Deal."

a few hours later

Mrs Michaels's son Jackie was getting a ride home with his
friends.

"Shut up, shut the fuck up!" Jackie said faintly through gasping
breaths, tears in his eyes, stomach muscles hurting from laughter.
Bent forward onto the passenger dash, he choked out, "I can't
fuckin breathe!"

"Okay," Hank said from the back seat, voice flat, dropping the bit
he had been doing. "All done. No more joking."

"Ohhh I don't trust you," Jackie said, and had a few lingering
fits of giggles, then he sat upright, straight, trying not to
think of the gay furry voice Hank had been doing. It had been too
good.

"Hey Jackie?" Hank asked from the back, deadpan.

"What, fuckface?" Jackie asked back, trying to equal Hank's flat
delivery, but the voice came out lilted with a smile and an almost
laugh.

Hank went on, "No, hey, turn around and face me for a sec, I'm
serious. You got something on you, I'm gonna get it."

Jackie steeled himself, and twisted around in the passenger seat,
getting tangled up in his seatbelt, and contorted himself around
over the center console to face the back seat.

Hank looked worried, and leaned to see the side of Jackie's face.
"Yeah, you got... hold still. Hey. You got something behind your
ear--hold STILL." Hank reached behind Jackie's ear. Keeping his
hand there, his face scrunched up in confused worry. Under his
breath, he said, "owo what's this?"

Jackie almost ruptured something laughing so suddenly while
twisted around like that. He tried to slap Hank, but could barely
lift his arm in his giggles, and Hank, giggling evilly himself,
had got up off his seat and huddled back up into the corner out of
slapping range of the passenger he had enfeebled.

"Alright, alright!" came the voice of Dianna, the annoyed driver.
"Children! Driving! I will kill us!"

"Older than you," Hank countered, scampering to the other side of
the back seat to get farther from Jackie, who had caught his
breath again.

"I'm eighteen now," Jackie added, and shot a hand out to grab
Hank, but was repelled back by a karate chop from the fucker. It
was dumb but actually a really solid hit. Jackie turned and faced
forward in his seat again. He rubbed at his wrist with his other
hand. It was for sure going to bruise.

Hank settled in in his new place in the back seat on the driver's
side.

"When's your birthday?" Dianna asked.

Jackie shrugged. "Today."

"oh my god, happy birthday!"

"Yeah."

"Hank say happy birthday!"

Hank gave a deadpan echo of "happy birthday."

"Thaaaaanks," Jackie droned.

Dianna slammed the brakes. Jackie's seatbelt locked and caught
him. Hank got body checked by the back of Dianna's seat, his
breath leaving him in an unflattering wheeze. A groaning "ow" came
from the back seat. Jackie and Dianna snickered, looking at each
other.

"Your house, almost missed it," Dianna said, eyes flitting briefly
past Jackie to his house that was visible out the window behind
him.

Jackie's eyes hung on Dianna's eyes for a second. Thoughts raced
through his head daring himself to ask her for a kiss. Or to be
crazy and just start leaning in for one without asking. He could
say it was a joke after. Or something about it being his birthday
present.

But when her eyes came back and looked straight back into his, he
chickened out immediately, looked away, unclicked his seatbelt,
and got out of the car.

"Thanks for the ride," he said as he got out, not even able to
look back at her.

The car drove off as Jackie walked up his driveway. His mom's car
wasn't parked there.

Taped to the front door, there was a note:

'Forgot some groceries! Home soon. Your present is in your room.'

-Mom

Jackie yanked the note off of the door and crumpled it up. He
really, really did not like his mom going in his room.

He opened the door. On the other side, a poofy poodle overdue for
a haircut was there to greet him. He leaned down to pet her as her
tail thumped against the walls. While petting her, waiting for it
to have been long enough for her to settle down, he repeated, "Hey
Bonny, yeah, hey Bonny..."

Jackie closed the front door behind himself. He stepped into the
kitchen and grabbed a soda and threw away the crumpled up note.
Seeing he was followed by Bonny, he also grabbed a treat out of
her treat jar.

She sat down politely, staring at the treat in his hand, wagging.

"Want it?"

Bonny barked loudly.

"Lay down. Sit. Lay down. Sit. Shake."

Bonny did all asked, lastly offering her paw to be shook.

Jackie did shake her paw, and then gave her the dog biscuit.

Bonny crunched up the dry treat in her teeth, wagging.

With his soda, Jackie made his way over to the stairs and went
down into the basement. There, there was an unfinished part of the
basement that had the boiler or whatever, and a bunch of plastic
boxes that were filled with Christmas decorations, off-season
clothes, old papers and stuff. And, after walking through a valley
of that stuff, was the door into Jackie's room. Jackie and Bonny
arrived there, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

He flipped his light switch on, illuminating his blue walls with
gaming posters taped up, his flat screen, his couch, his computer
desk, his bed. His wastebasket beside his bed that he cringed at
the idea of his mom going through, and the box of tissues on the
bedside table. And, in the space between the couch and the TV,
next to an amplifier, on a guitar stand, was a guitar!

"Woah, Bonny, look at this!" he said, coming around the couch to
go look at the instrument. Bonny came with, wagging, although the
poodle did not care about the guitar whatsoever, and hopped up
into the bed, grabbed a pillow with her teeth, set the pillow down
at the foot of the bed, and laid there at the foot of the bed with
her chin on the pillow.

The guitar was blue, and had a bunch of faded fox stickers all
over it.

Jackie got his phone out of his pocket, and texted his mom,
'Thanks mom!'

He saw the indication that she was typing, and then a second later
he received a heart emoji. Then more typing, and then, 'At the
checkout line. Looking forward to getting home.'

Jackie also took a picture of the guitar, and sent the pic to
Dianna, Hank, and his other friend John J.

"Does it work, Bonny?" Jackie asked.

Bonny just looked at him, not really caring at the moment about
whatever his question was, as long as it didn't involve her having
to get off the bed or have her comfy pillow taken.

Jackie found a place among his outlet strips to plug in the amp,
and then plugged the amp into the guitar. He slung the guitar on
with its black strap, grabbed a pick out of the baggie of them
that sat there, and finally, flipped the amp's power switch to ON.

The speaker came to life with a pop and an awaiting fuzz. Jackie
got excited shivers up his body. He played John J.'s dad's guitars
on sleepovers pretty often, and had gotten some pointers from the
old hippie. He hadn't learned to shred or anything, but between
the pointers from John J.'s dad and from being forced to play
clarinet in band class, Jackie knew a little bit about notes and
could proudly play power chords all the way up the neck.

He started with the lowest, E.

BWAAAAAAAAAMMM...

Pens rattled on his desk. Bonny sat up and barked. Jackie giggled
in pleasure to himself as the sound washed over him.

He went up the power chords one by one, not to any scale at all,
just loving the volume of it reverberating deep in his ears.

When he got to D5, a flash exploded out of the amp, and then one
second later some chick was standing there in front of it.

"AH WHAT THE FUCK" Jackie yelled, flinching so hard at her arrival
that he had ended up all the way back at his door, hanging on for
balance by the frame. Bonny darted past him and ran away across
the basement and up the stairs.

"Woah," the woman said to herself, looking down at her hands,
wiggling her fingers around.

Jackie didn't realize until then that the woman was see-through,
kind of, and had a chromatic glowing tint to her that slowly faded
between green and blue, back and forth. Her clothes, a tank top
and baggy cargo pants, seemed to be of one piece with the rest of
her body, having the same ethereal qualities.

She took her eyes off of her hands and looked up at Jackie. "Ohhh,
far out," she said. "I actually died that time, I think. And
now... this. Sorry to crash your digs."

"Th-that's fine," Jackie said with a stutter. He stood upright. He
thought about following Bonny's lead and running, but this
ghost--it definitely seemed to be a ghost--wasn't attacking him or
anything, and he didn't want to make a rude impression. He looked
down at the guitar he had. "Is this yours?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it. Wow."

"Are you a ghost?"

The probably ghost snorted in a laugh. "Yeah. What's that all
about, right? I think I was kind of high and had weird ideas about
haunting people if I died and it... worked? Or did you summon me?"

"No I don't think so."

"Yeah probably the first thing then." Putting a ghost hand on her
ghost chest, she mentioned, "Gretchen."

"H-hi, Gretchen. Jackie."

"Isn't that a girl's name?"

"IT'S--" Jackie started, and then gave a defeated flail with his
arms. "It's really Jonathan but my schools have all had like fifty
Jonathans so I staked out Jackie, okay?"

Speaking quickly and trying not to laugh, the ghost said, "No I
like it I was just asking. Here. Handshake. Truce."

Gretchen offered out her hand.

Jackie came back to the center of the room, and shook.

Upstairs, a door opened, and the two could hear a call of, "Jackie
I'm home! Come get cake!"

Gretchen and Jackie looked to each other. Then realizing they were
still holding hands, Jackie quickly pulled his hand back, and took
off the guitar, and set it on the couch for the time being.
"That's my mom," he mentioned. "There's cake if you..."

"Normally I would say yes to that so fast but I'm kind of um,
having a moment."

"Well I do have to head up, at least for a sec."

"Please, don't let me stop you."

"I'm probably not going to mention you."

Gretchen laughed a little to herself. "Yeah that's probably not a
bad idea, huh? Oh, what's the occasion? Or do you just get cake
sometimes?"

"Birthday."

"Yours?"

"yeah."

"How old?"

"Eighteen."

"Right on. Anyways, go! I'll be here, I think. Don't let me hold
you back from cake."

Jackie nodded, and then did turn and head upstairs.

Upstairs, Jackie's mom was setting out a big chocolate cake on the
dining room table. After shouting happy birthday at him, she
asked, "Talking to your friends on your games?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes."

"Does the guitar all work?" she asked.

"Yeah! Yeah it sounds uh... really cool, actually."

A while later, Jackie returned back down the stairs with a piece
of cake for the ghost from his new haunted guitar. They sat side
by side on the couch, her eating the cake, him toying at the
guitar, and they chatted the evening away.

about a week later

Jackie's ass was falling asleep in his plastic desk as he sat
through the bullshittest class of the day. To begin with, it was
the middle of summer, but his school did more frequent breaks year
round, meaning that the end of the school year was still yet to
come. Besides that, it was final period study hall. Most of the
time, at Jackie's school, if you had a first period study hall or
a final period study hall, you were fully allowed to skip. But
that was at the discretion of the teacher, and Jackie's teacher,
even after he had become a legal adult, still took attendance.
Jackie spent most of the period on his phone.

Lately, he had been following a lot of cringe tags. He had secured
a back corner desk where nobody could look over his shoulder and
see his screen, so for this period he didn't even have to be
conscious of only dipping into the light stuff. As the last five
minutes of the hour were ticking down, and some people around the
classroom were starting to pack up, Jackie came across a callout
post on some brainlet who ran an entire account posting about how
much he liked shitting in diapers. He had entire brand reviews,
live commentating sessions of days he spent doing this, even
posted actual filthy pictures of his fat body from the waist down
in his fetish clothes.

'Kill yourself,' Jackie typed into the comment box, and hit send.

Very quickly, it got a few hearts.

He spent the remaining couple of minutes of class scrolling back
through each of his comments from that day to see how well each of
them had done.

One in particular was getting a lot of likes and shares. Jackie
quietly giggled to himself in pleasure at seeing how big the
numbers were getting. A furry had posted that they missed colored
pencil art of old cartoons. Jackie, under his anonymous alt
account with the profile picture of Sasuke, had pointed out that
colored pencil drawings could be found by children going through
someone's desk drawers and that this degenerate should be glad it
was all digital now if he wasn't trying to groom children into his
sexualized furry shit, and told him to get help and that he was
the reason nobody took LGBTQIA+ issues seriously anymore, when
they made a whole social justice movement out of jerking off to
cartoons and demanding everyone else watch them do it.

On that day, he caught a ride home with Hank. He was glad it was
just the two of them, just the guys, so he could talk all about
what he had seen. "It's so fucked up," Jackie said at one point,
after explaining the diaper guy thing, and someone else he had
seen who liked it/it pronouns like that was anything that humans
were ever actually called. "Like, just look up boobs and beat your
meat to boobs, what the hell is so complicated about that?"

"They're weird," Hank agreed, and then slammed on the brakes.
"Your stop."

Jackie unclicked his seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."

"Have fun beating your meat to boobs," Hank returned, and then
blasted the radio volume to max and peeled out before Jackie could
muster a witty comeback.

Jackie saw in the driveway that his mom's car was gone. And it was
a late workday for her. House to himself. He had a full hard-on
trying to raise its way out of his pants before he even got to the
door.

He opened the door, and there was Bonny, wagging to greet him. His
heart raced as he pet her, knowing to himself already what he was
about to trick her into doing while he was home all alone with
her.

He shrugged off his book bag by the door and then went straight to
the kitchen. Bonny followed after, clueless of what the horny
human had in mind.

There in the kitchen, he dug around in the cupboards, and pulled
out a jar of peanut butter. He let out a nervous, shuddering sigh,
and then turned around to face the poodle who stood in the kitchen
with him. She met his eyes with not much of any emotion at all,
probably just waiting to see whether any snacks were on offer.
And, there kind of were.

Jackie unbuttoned his pants, and then zipped them down. Then, with
another deep, shaky breath, he pulled his pants and drawers down
to around his knees, letting his dick and balls out to the exposed
air in the middle of the kitchen, right in front of his dog.

Bonny looked at his package briefly, and then back up at his eyes,
with the same non-expression. She didn't see his hard-on and
immediately come over wanting it, curious what it was about. She
also didn't run away or anything. It--and what they were about to
do--was nothing to her.

Jackie opened up the top of the peanut butter, stuck his finger
in, and scraped some out. With a trembling hand, he spread it from
his finger onto the underside of his erect penis. Bonny craned her
head forward to try and lick his finger, but he held his hand up
away from her, and waved his thing in front of her face instead.

Taking the alternative, she started giving it licks. Having actual
mouth on his thing was unlike anything else in his life. Unlike
talking on social media, unlike playing video games. Definitely
unlike doing it with his dry hand. It was like porn videos had
come to life. It was exciting, it felt straight-up pleasurable, it
felt like a load off after a long week.

When she stopped licking, he put on more peanut butter. She got
back into it and he couldn't be happier for her to do so.

Someone snickered.

Jackie leapt away from the dog giving him a blowjob like she was a
hot stove, and pulled up his pants as he looked around. By the
short time later that the pants were zipped and buttoned, he still
hadn't seen anyone, and he began to halfway wonder whether he had
been paranoid enough to imagine it.

He stood stock still for a bit, holding his breath so he could
hear better if there was any other noise.

Nothing.

"Hello?" he called out.

Gretchen stuck her head out from around the corner, cheeks raised
in a just-been-laughing face.

Bonny, at the arrival of the ghost, scampered off to be somewhere
else.

"Oh hey um, I didn't um, I didn't know you could leave the
basement," Jackie said. He had also kind of just completely
forgotten she was around now.

"I didn't know you were into bestiality," Gretchen returned.

"I'M NOT--I'm not 'into bestiality,' what the fuck," Jackie tried,
avoiding eye contact super hard.

"Okay, well, you're an adult getting a dog to lick peanut butter
off your dick, WHICH I SAW, so whatever you want to call that."

Jackie felt his cheeks burning up. He muttered, "Just blowing off
steam."

"How many times have you 'blown off steam' with her? Ten, twenty,
a hundred--"

"Four!"

"Four!" Gretchen echoed back in a squeal of laughter. "Is she your
first?"

"She--it doesn't count!"

"Hey, THAT'S fucked up, kinda," Gretchen said. "I don't actually
care, to be clear. Just asking."

"I just... I'm bad at talking to girls."

"She's a girl."

"You know that's different!"

"True, I don't think your girlfriend from school would fall for
the peanut butter as easily."

Jackie, still avoiding eye contact, kind of shrugged. "Dianna and
I aren't together."

"Wait, Dianna? That's her name?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh my god, little story bout Jackie and Dianna?"

"What?"

"What do you mean what! Jack and Diane!"

"I don't know what that is."

"Wait, what year is it?"

"2023?"

"Whaaaat the fuck, I thought it was like, 2002 or something. How
long was my guitar in that pawn shop? Anyways, off topic. Look. I
wasn't even trying to interrupt, I was about to turn around and go
back downstairs when I saw what was going on, it just surprised
me, you didn't seem like the type."

"I'm not."

"Mmmmmmm."

"I was just trying it out."

"Foooor the fourth time."

"It is kinda nice," Jackie admitted. "But I'm not 'into
bestiality,' it's just, she's the only one available."

"Who cares if you are?" Gretchen asked.

"Are what?"

"Into bestiality," Gretchen said.

"Everyone would care?"

"Noooo, try like, maybe your pastor or your principal. Look,
you're not even hurting her, which is why I don't care. If you
were, I might be like, blowing up light bulbs and shattering
windows and stuff. But from what I saw? I would definitely say
you're being weird, and like, pervy, but there's no shame in that.
Anyways. I'm going back downstairs. I got you to level 72 in your
army guys game by the way."

"Oh um, cool."

"Have fun," Gretchen said with a smirk, and then scampered away
back around the corner, towards the stairs to the basement.

After letting a few seconds pass, Jackie punched his fist into his
palm a few times, let out a silent mock-scream into the crook of
his arm. Then he took his phone out of his pocket, opened one of
his socials, and typed 'dog peanut butter' into the search bar.
After scrolling past a number of results that were people just
posting about treats they had baked for their dog, he got to one
post of someone actually saying, 'Just got my dog to lick peanut
butter off me :3'

Jackie went to the comments, typed 'I hope you die, rapist,' and
hit send.

Bonny came trotting back around the corner, and looked at him.

Jackie came over to her, and gave her a pet on the head as he
peeked around the corner for Gretchen.

Nobody.

"Little more," he whispered to Bonny, and then pulled his pants
back down and went to the peanut butter again.

It took him a sec, though really not that long, to get back in the
mood again. Gripping the edge of the counter, he finished into her
mouth, the cum disappearing in her licks as soon as it came out.

"Good girl," he said breathlessly. He leaned down and gave her a
few pets. Then he grabbed three treats out of her jar, and gave
all three of them to her, one after the other as she wagged. He
then washed his hands, and dick, and pulled his pants back up.

Jackie then sighed, grabbed a soda out of the fridge, and headed
for the basement. Bonny stayed upstairs on the couch, knowing
there was a ghost down there.

Jackie entered his room, and closed the door behind himself.
Gretchen sat on the couch, leaning towards the TV, rocking left
and right along with the shooter game she was playing. She let out
a loud "FUCK" as her guy got blown up. "Why is that in the game?
Why is that fun for anyone?"

Jackie came over, turned on the amp, and sat down on the other
side of the couch with the guitar and his soda. He strummed a few
power chords, and then sat practicing scales.

"Did you finish?" Gretchen asked, gaze still dead locked on the
flat screen ahead of her.

"Yeah." Jackie continued to play up the scale he was on, until
fucking up one of the notes. He started over again, and fucked up
earlier. He shook his head. "Hey um, I know you were like, a
furry."

"Yes," Gretchen said, "and if you were wondering, very pissed off
my ghost form is me instead of Poisonberry. That was my character.
Vixen whose claws would poison you. FUCK. THAT. ROCKET LAUNCHER.
OH MY GOD."

"Wait, like, poison-poison claws? You would kill other people?"

"Pff, yeah, a lot of people were actually pretty into that role
play."

"That's... a little fucked up."

"It was role play."

"Still--"

"No, not 'still,' it literally never happened."

Gretchen continued to play the game. Jackie sat with his arms
limply hanging over the guitar for a bit, watching the game, and
then he leaned back, and strummed a few non-chords, leaving his
left hand completely off the instrument.

Gretchen asked, "If Dianna wanted to date you, would you say yes?"

"Yeah, I would love that."

"You'd get head from her instead of getting lickjobs from your
dog?"

"Of course." Jackie also blushed at that. He hadn't thought of
that name for them.

"But do you dislike getting licked by dogs?" Gretchen asked.

Jackie sat watching the game, and didn't answer.

Gretchen tried again, "Put it this way: If you had a girlfriend,
but she wasn't available 24/7, would you be disgusted by the idea
of filling in the gaps with a poodle if she said that she was
really turned on by the idea of you using her dog like that?"

"I um... if the poodle didn't mind I don't see why not."

"I think you're a little attracted to animals," Gretchen said.
"Which is like, normal, a ton of people are. You just seem really
in your head about it."

Jackie gave a few more non-chord strums. "Maybe. Yeah."

"Who told you it was bad?"

"Internet."

"What! Oh that's so sad. The internet used to be cool. Does it
suck now?"

"No, it..."

Jackie had an epiphany.

"Yes. It does, actually."

Jackie took out his phone and deleted his social apps, making the
taps with all the power of killing the final boss in a really
tough video game.

He texted Hank, 'Sorry if I've sounded like an asshole lately. I
think I'm bi and was kind of lashing out.'




[3]

The Scraps

We should have done more. More of us should have voted better.
More of us should have gotten informed about more things, and
realized that the problems were deeper than voting better. More of
us should have protested. More of us should have realized that
protesting was never enough and taken direct action. More of us
should have engaged in mutual aid. More of us should have
established a parallel system of power to show the existing one
that we weren't beholden to a machine that was killing us. More of
us should have a lot of things. Not enough of us did. Now I'm out
here with Ash, picking up a few of the scraps of should have.

We aren't in a rush, too much. Ash saunters along the dirt beside
the long blacktop road, and I don't hurry him. We got off the 94 a
few miles back, after I'd stopped us to check the map and to let
Ash graze in a not-as-common-as-before patch of greenery. I also
gave him an apple from our supplies. Now we ride towards a line of
dead trees, and a couple that are still green. The fields around
us that likely once grew soy beans or corn now grow nothing. They
are dirt parched in the sun, and I am grateful that there is an
uncanny lack of wind today, because even a breeze would make this
pleasant saunter into an ordeal.

We come up to the trees. Now that we're at them, I can see the
farm up the road amidst another dead field. A mile longer. "Almost
there, bud," I tell him. We go past the sign warning TRESPASSERS
WILL BE SHOT. If there's anyone here to shoot me, I'll be
surprised and then relieved before I die.

I am not shot. Drawing closer, it looks like the area immediately
around the buildings has done better than the area not. Grass
grows in the shade of the big red barn. I stand in the shade and
look out at the vast fields. A river winds through in the
distance. I can't see the water, but I can see the line of
not-death snaking through the dirt.

I wander around until finding a manual water pump. It screeches at
me as I work it, but it ain't broken. Eventually, a trickle of
water comes up. I pump until it's run a little while, and then
from a pocket of my cargo pants, I take out a test strip and run
it under the stream. Ash is watching me. "We'll know soon, bud."
We aren't in a rush, but if we can save time and effort by
drinking here instead of going to the river, it'd be nice.

I wander around the outskirts of the buildings, idly holding the
strip, whistling an old patriotic tune. When I come around the
house, I snort in a laugh. In the field of dirt, there is the door
of the missile silo that we're here about. It's painted to be
camouflaged among grass. Swing and a miss.

Ash bumps me with his nose, and I reach over and pet him. I look
down at the strip. I gladly let him know it looks good.

We go and get him some water. Once that's taken care of, I make
camp, taking off Ash's saddle bags and pitching a one-woman tent
near the grass by the barn. I have dinner--pickled eggs, venison
jerky, and iron-flavored water. I give Ash a few carrots. It's
getting to be late around this time. I wish Ash a good night,
crawl into the tent, and conk out in my sleeping bag.

In the morning, I exit the tent to find a light breeze. The breeze
carries the dirt, which pecks at me as soon as I leave the shield
of the side of the barn. I take a paper out from one of the
saddlebags sitting on the ground, and I sit with my back against
the barn wall, studying the paper. I hardly need to, at this
point. I've been to a copy-paste of this barn four previous times.
But a little double-checking now could save me a lot of redundant
work.

In the basement of this farmhouse, past a booby-trapped basement
door, there is a steel wall with a steel hatch embedded in it,
with lead lining on the inside and six feet of concrete behind
that. Outside on the surface, comically disguised to look like
grass, is a similarly impenetrable entrance. Ventilation, you
might have been able to make a drone that could breach through
there, back when there were global supply chains connecting
slave-mined minerals to tax-funded weapons manufacturers. But at a
certain spot, nearer the silo than the basement entrance, is a
point where the septic tank is only guarded by a few inches of
concrete, and it's the best I've got here and now. I study the
paper, a floor plan of this cookie cutter missile bunker, and then
I go find my spot, squinting against the dirt on the wind.

I start digging.

It's getting late into the evening by the time my shovel hits the
concrete.

I take the rest of the day to rest. We aren't in a rush. I'd
rather do the next part unweary and in full daylight. I sit on the
front porch, eating pickled eggs, still drenched in sweat. Beside
me, I hear a meow. I gasp and scoot away. There on the porch
beside me, a cat with long grey hair is walking back and forth
over a little spot. I want to cry I want to pet her so much, but
I'm also cognizant that touching the cat might not be wise. The
cat's fur is tangled and dirty, and she is missing an eye, lost to
a wound that does not look fresh nor well-healed. She seems old
enough that she damn well might be pre-collapse.

I get up slowly, trying not to scare the cat away. I jaunt over to
the saddlebags and take out a ring of keys, and bring it back to
the porch. I unlock the house's front door. The cat follows me in,
very vocal. I go to the kitchen, into the pantry, and hold my nose
at the proliferation of mold. Stacked across one of the shelves
are dozens of tins of cat food. I pick one up, check the
expiration date, and marvel at how many years this tin would still
be good for.

As I'm reading, she walks against my leg back and forth, meowing.
She is definitely socialized. Almost definitely pre-collapse. I
open the tin for her and set it down. She devours it. When she's
finished, she comes and walks against my leg again.

What the hell, anyways. I crouch down and pet her. She begins to
purr. I'm doing this for them, more-so than my own kind, anyhow. I
want to get her to a vet, but I don't think she'd be willing to
make the journey with me and Ash, and what few professionals are
left in the world are certainly not making house calls. Not this
far out. I open some more tins for her.

The next day, she is waiting for me on the porch. I pick her up,
put her in my tent, and zip her up in there. She is angry as I'm
leaving but it's for her own good. From a saddlebag, I retrieve a
large quantity of homemade explosives. I put them down in the hole
I dug yesterday, make sure me Ash and the cat are far away, and
cover my ears when the explosives go boom. Ash rears and goes
running. I watch him to make sure he's alright, but he eventually
comes around back to the farm. I give him some reassuring strokes,
let the cat out of the tent, and then go to see the damage.

The septic tank was unused and I feel very blessed. I crawl in
with a crowbar, bust out the toilet overhead, and emerge into the
lavatory. I exit that into a narrow hall, a bunk room to my right,
an office across, and to the left, the command bay. I take a
narrow set of stairs down from the bay, unlock the door with a key
from my ring of keys that I borrowed from far elsewhere, and enter
the silo. With a screwdriver, I open up a panel on the missile
head, and take out the payload, along with a few other necessary
bits. I bring them outside, go far out into the field, and dig a
new hole. I bury the scraps.

I leave the cat a feast of opened tins before me and Ash head off.




[4]



Slippers and Observations

I wore slippers out today
instead of socks and shoes.
Perving on the reflection in the glass door as my dog and I return
   from a walk
I can see why there was a time when ankles were considered
   indecent.
Some things are just too bombastically sexy for general interest.
In the reflection of the glass door, and with the same reasoning,
I can also observe why bestiality is so taboo
in the handsome, roguish, and charming image of the dog who here
   in this hot, youthful, summer moment struts beside me.



Untitled Anything And This

Sometimes it's hard to put into words how much it can mean to kiss
someone on top of a few items of dirty laundry on the floor. Being
alone together with your best friend, anything in the world to do
that day, laundry, making food, writing, reading, playing a game,
watching a show, literally whatever, and deciding to carve out
time indefinite to lie down together and make out with your best
friend, yes he is a dog, to make out with your best friend,
goddamn he loves you, to make out with your best friend on the
floor on the carpet on some pants and the underwear that you wore
yesterday and have since showered and changed into a cleaner set
of pants and underwear and also a clean shirt, to take hold of a
moment to make out for an amount of time that says I don't care
about the time, I care about you, I care about you more than time,
to make out with your best friend and tell each other by the
kissing and the intaking pauses in the kissing just how much you
care about each other as the outside air seeps in through the open
window and the closed curtains, into the room where you and your
best friend who is a beautiful dog make out on top of some laundry
on the carpet on the floor beside the bed that you both sleep on
every night. These words are forthcoming and this is the way they
are falling, I will not put them into verse because the slab of
them deserves to be an unadulterated block. Sometimes it can be
hard to put into words how much it can mean to make out with your
friend on top of some laundry on a day, but the point at least in
that moment is not any words or any lack thereof, the point is
that my god, my dog, I love you.



Blackout Or Just Slipped My Mind

last night
I don't remember
if I nutted at any point
but I definitely do
remember that
you used my hand
to get your doggie self
off quite
a number of times
and you seemed to
really enjoy
it, mounting my upper
body again and again to
grip my elbow in
your doggie claws and arms
and plant your sweet chin on
my shoulder and
use all that for
leverage and pleasure to
fuck my veterinarian lube coated hand
with your awesome doggie penis
again and again
coming back for more
and so for that
reason
alone I
know that it
was a good, good night.