• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 08

Tear-Stained Skies

The cats he bought, though gentle and elegant, were fierce and cruel and cold; swinging from mood to mood like a pendulum, but unpredictable, harsh, without the satisfying rhythm to numb the inconsistencies.

The dogs were loyal to point of flaw, throwing themselves hither and tither to protect from ghosts that never existed, crying out the need for fulfillment and action and peace all at once; such easily excited creatures with no reason to be excited. The birds cried solemn cries like a heartbroken maiden with no words but for a shrill shriek; they cry for things that never happened, or ever will be told, never will be forgiven. It could be haunting, beautiful, calming or exciting; but he does not speak bird, so he couldn't know. He could never know.

The other animals were an organized chaos of things that belong, but don't belong. Like an orange in a glass; its juice is meant to be there, but without the peel. Like a tear-stained sky; the water in the wrong form, the wrong story, the wrong place.

This tear-stained sky of cries and growls and barks were a plethora of stories that he could never know; but he loved them just the same.