It started with a whisper then a touch by the window in the cabin in the forest in the skull of a tiny speck on this reality.
The fox swiped its tail under the mask-creature's chin, orange fur lighting crimson-cheeked fire beneath the wooden face--a spark and then a supernova's glaring heat, catching like disease in a body-piled gutter.
The creature's toes are blistered now, curled against the hardwood and pointed inward with its knees. Leathery skin peels from its shoulders and molten flesh melts from its thighs, mock-body shedding paint and coarse hair and meat and costume. Scars encircle its fingers and cross its sweaty palms. Desperate words leave red chapped lips, evanesce, all smoke, slipping up the chimney and out the cracks beneath the doors.
The fox set the creature ablaze by innocent accident or knowing acceptance, but either way the creature's no phoenix suited to taking the abuse, neither another fox who can match the temperature in turn. It's a conflict of passions; or rather the presence and absence of such.
The mask is nothing now but charcoal, we'll soon see the creature's gnarled face. And the fox will devour the perfectly blood-boiled heart.
It will be fine, this is how things go.
No comments:
Post a Comment