Stories for the Harpies [Original Pieces]

[Beaver Dude]

Author's notes: Once upon a time I read a book where the afterlife involved having to tell your 'story' to a bunch of harpies and they'd judge its worth, kind of like Anubis and the scale. A bit preachy but I liked the motif. None of this stuff is remotely me so I'm prepping my LIES to get into heaven. Bwahahaha.

Theme: Dogs[/u]

Imaginary

"You bit the hand that fed you, didn't you?"

The look in her eye isn't hard anymore - not quite soft and mushy, but not the sharp crystalline fragments that tell you of hope honed on the edge of quiet despair. He doesn't know what it means - if she's given up on him, or if she has found out what maternal love's supposed to be or what and it nags more than the cuts and bruises. Stings, that's all that they are. But she's gutting him quietly like the fish she prepares when something good happens.

"Sure, Ma." He rolls his eyes, because that's what this long charade has always been. Something, someone, pretending always.

(Are we human? He had the temerity to ask, once.)

She tsks. But there's nothing in there. Just more emptiness. And it jars instead of gels so he thinks his mask is cracking when he grins, all slapdash and manic but so terribly not. He wonders if she'll grieve when he's dead, tell them all what a good child he was. But he's not suicidal anymore, so he gives the thought up. And besides, they've been liberated. The police state's not a police state anymore. Acceptable martyrdom has an orange detour sign on its rocky road.

At the bathroom, he notices how odd he looks even before the water drains down the sink, and you'd think it'd be pink but no, it's all red, even diluted.

(She had looked at him strangely, the sort of look that asks you: "Where the HELL did that come from?" and that was all the answer he'd ever got. Later, she'd tell him about nails that stood out.)

His fingers curl into fists. He'd tried his hand at property destruction once. Managed to dislocate his middle finger. Not something he's going to do again. He's the type to stare, not to answer; think, not act; and remember... yes, always damnably remember.

But he hasn't been indulging in that trite supposed, and I am's lately.

The cuts he can hide. The bumps - eh, maybe. He does his best. Because that's all anyone's ever been managing, world included. Except when it's not.

"Ma, I'm going out."

She doesn't answer as he shuts the door and carefully locks it.

[Beaver Dude]

Thème: Chats

Parfois-

et non toujours, jamais toujours

-elle hésite avant que le mort les saisissent, avant que le sang chaud-étouffant-collant la couvre comme un deuxième peau, avant même que la lame se gorge de la brillance qui est leurs yeux et elle...

Non, c'est peut-être mieux qu'elle ne s'en souvient pas de ces épisodes.

Et puis, après tout, ils ne sont rien que des animaux.

=========

Translation:

Sometimes-

and not always, never always

- she hesitates before death claims them, before the blood hot-choking-sticky covers her like a second skin, even before the blade gorges itself of the brilliance that is their eyes and she...

No, perhaps it's better she doesn't remember theses lapses.

And, anyways, they're nothing but animals.