Wild Stripes Vol. 2
Three weeks off of the wooden sea vessel and I still felt closed in by strangers.
This land hasnt seen trade in decades, now beggars and whores litter the bleached pavement, starving, watching each other, waiting for the next to die.
I had exchanged the padded flannel for a room tucked into the Subnurmals, a district at the outskirts of the city. I was told this area was the epicenter of the ongoing revolution but I saw nothing more than beads and dandies.
The flannel my former companion had given me was the only real possession I had. It was worthless amongst these pixie people. An old woman with dull red hair and three tongues was the only person I could find who saw its value. She eyed it ravenously from atop the stairs, two of her tongues lapping sloppily at her gums while she negotiated with the third one.
I deeply inhaled the flannel’s musk before I handed it to the old wretch. When she handed me a heavy copper key I choked and she barked at me.
The throaty triple-tongued bleat shot reluctantly dormant images of the zebra’s slaughter to my mind. It took a heavy blow to the temple from the butt of a rifle belonging to a burly woman we encountered in an abandoned village. She chased us out screaming in a language only my companion understood, evidenced by his doubled speed and his repeated demands that I follow suit. As we turned into the black jungle we heard the snap and splash as the woman tore into the bloated stomach of the equine corpse.
This new city is nothing like that jungle. Everyday here is hot and bright blue. The weather is hailed by its citizens as idyllic but I have yet to see these cloudless skies produce a perfect day. Demons of all shapes, sizes, colors and motives roam freely here. There is no need for them to hide. The townsfolk coexist happily with these clawed humanoids, dragging long spaded lazily tails behind them. I have recognized one or two of them as relations of the one my companion and I had evaded constantly in the Pelted Jungle. They passed me, watching for a moment before breaking into a chuckle.
I have sat down several times to pen a call to my former companion. The resulting feeling is an instant burst of imagery, I am called back to the hearth of his small mossy lean-to cradled in its dried out pond. The hunting party we banded is gathered at his small whittled table. There is an empty seat against the wall where a faded scent lingers. The seat is suddenly filled by crouching black cat.