It’s just another day just another in the forests just another captop colourful cream-sky evening with floating chiclets and caveat dreams… no sleep tonight. Tail flickers fish-belly soft in the pink moonlight, and so we too are rose coloured, tabby-dashed with merlot echoes of laughter. A little one, wet with flush and it’s a good hand, thirsty, hungry, thin pale cottonshelled creature of revolting meat, skin as though blushing, lips like bloodied bee-stung reddened and ripe; magpie’s eyes wide, she drinks. As it so happens I have just come back from flower-town. That repast was not laid out for you little thief with lily-white fingers, little even teeth thoughtfully crush fleshy mushroom meats and now, now she is softly curving onto my side.
Now she will see me.
Seduce, subdue, steal her away to be my little mouse, to be my player, to be my queen. She who came before is accreting disappointment, pulled from me I spit her name with other swear words, nestled in pink jaws with daggers and sticky little bubbles and runnels of blood. I’ll paint her roses carmine with jugular spray, must be enough in that fat cow to do the whole grounds at once. The Little One makes her way with the usual level of difficulty that I am able to bring to the most elemental of tasks; the will declines as will is want to do in little girls breaking down, a dissolve, it is numbing her as she prances with little beetle-feet through creaking, honest, oppressed forestrees softly crying unnoticed, static and biting at my ears round the neck with a summons. Too few players such as myself in action. There is never, never enough time.
Caught with the brush in hand, jury-tried and true, she upsets the nest.
Good child. It will all be over soon.
Forty-two hundred years ago when I wasn’t much more of a speck in the eye of Bastet, the wind blowing through a stray slip of desert starlight brought this place careening into purpose, parallax-gravity-vortex pulled by the sling of a darksun, balanced between two, counter-extinction, control, my long hair descends without me from the tree as I go into a wandering mode with purpose, see to it every milk carton has a portrait, every missing babe a good story before we trudge them off mortally coiled feet hanging, Little One’s limp head rolls down, plucked up, body drained to buckets, head wrapped in waxed paper, piked on a board of hearts, roses red, always the roses must be red, like the rivers, like the dust, at apex, like the moon.