Aurora(wt) excerpt

I bend my head over Jacob’s back and bury my tear-streaked face into his warm fur. The reek of deer blood and his strong musk hits my heart like a logging truck. As each log rolls uncontrollably onto the highway I feel my heart smashed and rolled. I can see it in the moon-drenched streets, my heart sobbing as tree corpses bounce and collide around it. The driver of the truck swears at the coyote as he wrenches hard on the steering wheel to avoid the mangy creature.

The beast looks back, and through the jumble of logs, we make eye contact. I drift here for a thousand years, caught in this hormonal nimbus. I hold my position, straighten my posture like I’ve seen my mother do: stern brown, slightly protruding lower lip, and vacant eyes.

A warm sock envelops my vision and I hear a familiar voice, “Hey, Renesmee!” I swivel my head trying to locate the voice. The road beneath me juts and tosses. The log truck is swallowed by a sudden crevasse and the coyote is nowhere to be seen. “Renesmee!”

The voice is urgent, but I can’t find it. “Jacob!” I shout I scream, I bleed, I gnash. I release a desperate howl and claw the air as a log tumbles into my heart face.

Our fires are low and seldom burn for long. “You know, you don’t have to like, have one every night.”

“I don’t light them every night.” He coughs out the words as he tends the fire with a long stick. Dark shadows play across the surface of his corded and toned back. His shoulders or knotted and I can tell from his movements he is stiff from the day’s run. “I light them when we need them.”

“Won’t they give our position away? Our trail?” I twirl my hair and listen to the forest creatures fleeing from our small fire. My stomach growls.

Jacob finishes tending the fire and squats next to me. He’s been doing this a lot recently. I keep my eyes focused on the flame but the hairs on my arms and neck begin to tingle and rise. Something inside me is clawing to get at him, to consume him, to make him mine, to own, to tame, to claim, to fillet the wolf and rend the man. To skin his dreams and melt into his solid presence.

San Pedro

Polly shakes her head at the taxis occasionally slowing by to entice. Frustrated honks glide off into the rain. She strides past derelicts, street heavies, and closes her eyes tight against the wall of graffiti that hems in San Pedro.

Fibrous cylinders fountain like fast forward spaghetti from a prehistoric non-vascular aquatic life form that resembles a toilet paper roll. The cylinders collide mid hologram with a trophy touting lion’s head sewn to the prehensile breasts of a mother kangaroo in whose pouch a tangled mess of electric wires squirm and sizzle. Their googly eyes flying out over the street in clumps of four. Behind the Kangaroo a long vanishing point type rainbow stretches back to the primordial past where giant sloths feed Jesus goldfish crackers. A sagebrush jack rabbit, cartoonish and cute, supports a pack of boner pills that dance along the animal’s tongue. Balloon letters bleed from the rabbit’s asshole, “Best of Luck!” As the sea spaghetti wriggles ever up the walls of San Pedro they encounter the level wherein no birds dwell. Figures of aged folk, in an early Raphaelite style swoon over benches their outstretched dying palms filled with dripping bird seed. Crows knacker silently and gurgle down the seed which wriggles in their distended bellies. Though the horizon of the San Pedro walls imposes a creative restraint on the gang of artists responsible for the duelling graffiti, each has interpreted that final moment uniquely.

From the East, the wire joeys braid together as nautical vessels of war, gliding through a mine rigged dark up towards the surface. Torpedoes launch from tubes and spring forth hyperbolic flower arrangements of surveillance clouding chaff clusters. Their broad hulls brush spiralling crustaceans and squid aside as they move upwards towards the white-capped limit of this space.

From the West, a bounty of grotesque deformities, long-limbed torsos astride abominable sets of twelve legs with each ending in a cracked yolk wherein curdled foetuses blow bubbles in the first and last breaths. Test tubes crack open upon smoking wounds in disembodied arms. Ink spills from a sodden cloud at the upper limit. It rains down from above and as the drops fall they transform into a series of political caricatures of the hated politicians of the day. The multi-limbed beings spread out in the rain, some bask and others shelter under one another with the occasional hands wriggling digits at the submarines rising above.