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Species Jackal
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I did not realize my last submission had gained so many views.
So here is something short.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAG9IGoU6VQ
Rumors on echoes, in halls, among empty bookshelves. Chandeliers over puddles, sunset left on tables. The clock is stopped, the paint if fading. Banisters are falling, whispers still persist. The lobby covered in papers and mud, windows blown out, scorch marks against surfaces.
What had been familiar is now, by bodies, by bones, by blood, unrecognizable. What had once been cannot be imagined now. No amount of effort nor tears can bring back what has been lost. Their home, erased, and with it, its memory.
So she says, out-loud, anyways, in no particular direction. That her voice might add to the meaningless noise around her will suffice.
She cannot block them out. Sobs, angry conversations. A child is pleading, a children’s book will be burned next. Confusion. What is to happen now? Who is to save us now?
The four stories of displaced creatures.
The invasion made futile, but the retaliation, nonetheless, made an impossibility.
Gunshots in the distance. Who kills who?
What has been done?
What have we done, she asks, this time, to him. Who has sat by her side without a sound, who had led them here in hopes of reaching the evacuations, he cannot be made to answer. The revolver, griped in his paw, hid beneath the hoodie he wears. Jackal ears like hers, reflecting the last purples of the daylight. Grime on his snout. Eyes scanning without rest.
He knows they cannot be saved, he says. Food will run out. Someone will kill someone. Everyone will kill everyone. To stay is to die, to leave is to be killed. Outside are the remnants of armies, waiting to murder, to prolong their own lives.
It cannot be done.
He turns to her, he sees her golden fur in the amethyst twilight, her silver irises turned to smoke, rose patterns turned dull. A beauty, unforgivable, now to be wasted, in this land.
In this land, of silent prayers against primordial hatred. At long last, recovered again, not to be denied.
By night, they are asleep. What has not been settled is made to wait.
In dreams, in the halls, among the bookshelves, what cannot be challenged can, if only for a moment, be evaded, be forgotten.
So here is something short.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAG9IGoU6VQ
Rumors on echoes, in halls, among empty bookshelves. Chandeliers over puddles, sunset left on tables. The clock is stopped, the paint if fading. Banisters are falling, whispers still persist. The lobby covered in papers and mud, windows blown out, scorch marks against surfaces.
What had been familiar is now, by bodies, by bones, by blood, unrecognizable. What had once been cannot be imagined now. No amount of effort nor tears can bring back what has been lost. Their home, erased, and with it, its memory.
So she says, out-loud, anyways, in no particular direction. That her voice might add to the meaningless noise around her will suffice.
She cannot block them out. Sobs, angry conversations. A child is pleading, a children’s book will be burned next. Confusion. What is to happen now? Who is to save us now?
The four stories of displaced creatures.
The invasion made futile, but the retaliation, nonetheless, made an impossibility.
Gunshots in the distance. Who kills who?
What has been done?
What have we done, she asks, this time, to him. Who has sat by her side without a sound, who had led them here in hopes of reaching the evacuations, he cannot be made to answer. The revolver, griped in his paw, hid beneath the hoodie he wears. Jackal ears like hers, reflecting the last purples of the daylight. Grime on his snout. Eyes scanning without rest.
He knows they cannot be saved, he says. Food will run out. Someone will kill someone. Everyone will kill everyone. To stay is to die, to leave is to be killed. Outside are the remnants of armies, waiting to murder, to prolong their own lives.
It cannot be done.
He turns to her, he sees her golden fur in the amethyst twilight, her silver irises turned to smoke, rose patterns turned dull. A beauty, unforgivable, now to be wasted, in this land.
In this land, of silent prayers against primordial hatred. At long last, recovered again, not to be denied.
By night, they are asleep. What has not been settled is made to wait.
In dreams, in the halls, among the bookshelves, what cannot be challenged can, if only for a moment, be evaded, be forgotten.
Category Story / All
Species Jackal
Size 50 x 50px
File Size 13.3 kB
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