May 13, 2017, 06:04 AM
(This post was last modified: June 22, 2017, 10:09 AM by Coelacanth.)
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“Quiet!”
Long, thick-knuckled fingers form a crude muzzle — trigger and middle clamped over the delicate bridge, thumb bone jammed against the soft hollow of the underjaw. Plagued by hyperacusis, the woman has lost her temper with Little Girl’s incessant piping. “Stop! Just stop! Please stop!” she groans desperately at the downy-furred, round-bellied puppy, who responds to the forcible silencing as well as anyone can expect a three month old Groenendael cross to. She whips back and forth like a live wire, reaching up with both forepaws to try to shove away the woman’s hand, hips bucking and spine snaking as she fills the air with muffled whines. Slivers of whalebone white frame cerulean irises, exuding panic, as she loses control of her bladder and her oversized ears fall back in shame.
The long forgotten memory forced itself upon Coelacanth, a self-inflicted hurt that unearthed a wellspring of other memories. This dingy prison was not so different from the veterinary clinic’s metal cage — the sting of disinfectant had not been enough to sufficiently mask the acrid tang of other dogs who had panicked and mourned and bled there. “Quiet!” when she howled for Amoxtli. “Quiet!” when she wanted her mother and father. “Quiet!” again and again, calling her by a name she did not recognize. “Little Girl, quiet!”
My name is Coelacanth.
Her tortured reverie was interrupted at last by a change in the air pressure — subtle, insidious, but easily identifiable to the hypersensitive creature — that brought her delicate head cautiously up and around.
Seelie lacked intimate knowledge of the Wolfskull’s secrets, and she did not expect to be accosted from behind. Her Neptune eyes were trepidacious, mournful, but far from expectant as she swept her sights in a wide arc — and when they landed upon the gray phantom they flew wide, slim muzzle parting to unfurl what might have been for others a shrill shriek but what was for Coelacanth a sharp expulsion of breath with no tone to encompass her fright. She jumped, momentarily airborne, landing in a soft tangle of ink and feathers. Her tender heart lurched unevenly in her chest; it leapt into her throat and beat against its confines like a trapped and frenzied bird; it dropped like a lead anchor into the pit of her stomach. Terror fashioned of her gamine framework a tight snarl, conjured a disarray of hackles along her sharply arched spine.
With her tufted ears pinned back and her cerulean eyes half-lidded in a timorous squint, Coelacanth regarded the young wolf who dwarfed her in size. Almost against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, she tried to warn him away: velveteen flews tautened, lifting just enough to reveal the tiniest glint of alabaster — barely the tips of her upper canines. The feral display was so unlike her that she stilled her expression midway through, though, licking nervously at her quivering lips as she conveyed a confusing mixture of, “Stay away or I’ll bite!” and, “I’m sorry; please don’t hurt me!” An airy whine stirred in her throat, warring for the space with a ticking growl no louder than a housecat’s purr.
Abruptly, she tucked her head beneath her paws — a canid’s equivalent of throwing the bedcovers over her head to discourage monsters — and when she emerged long moments later, the specter was gone, leaving her even more unsettled than before.
Long, thick-knuckled fingers form a crude muzzle — trigger and middle clamped over the delicate bridge, thumb bone jammed against the soft hollow of the underjaw. Plagued by hyperacusis, the woman has lost her temper with Little Girl’s incessant piping. “Stop! Just stop! Please stop!” she groans desperately at the downy-furred, round-bellied puppy, who responds to the forcible silencing as well as anyone can expect a three month old Groenendael cross to. She whips back and forth like a live wire, reaching up with both forepaws to try to shove away the woman’s hand, hips bucking and spine snaking as she fills the air with muffled whines. Slivers of whalebone white frame cerulean irises, exuding panic, as she loses control of her bladder and her oversized ears fall back in shame.
The long forgotten memory forced itself upon Coelacanth, a self-inflicted hurt that unearthed a wellspring of other memories. This dingy prison was not so different from the veterinary clinic’s metal cage — the sting of disinfectant had not been enough to sufficiently mask the acrid tang of other dogs who had panicked and mourned and bled there. “Quiet!” when she howled for Amoxtli. “Quiet!” when she wanted her mother and father. “Quiet!” again and again, calling her by a name she did not recognize. “Little Girl, quiet!”
My name is Coelacanth.
Her tortured reverie was interrupted at last by a change in the air pressure — subtle, insidious, but easily identifiable to the hypersensitive creature — that brought her delicate head cautiously up and around.
Seelie lacked intimate knowledge of the Wolfskull’s secrets, and she did not expect to be accosted from behind. Her Neptune eyes were trepidacious, mournful, but far from expectant as she swept her sights in a wide arc — and when they landed upon the gray phantom they flew wide, slim muzzle parting to unfurl what might have been for others a shrill shriek but what was for Coelacanth a sharp expulsion of breath with no tone to encompass her fright. She jumped, momentarily airborne, landing in a soft tangle of ink and feathers. Her tender heart lurched unevenly in her chest; it leapt into her throat and beat against its confines like a trapped and frenzied bird; it dropped like a lead anchor into the pit of her stomach. Terror fashioned of her gamine framework a tight snarl, conjured a disarray of hackles along her sharply arched spine.
With her tufted ears pinned back and her cerulean eyes half-lidded in a timorous squint, Coelacanth regarded the young wolf who dwarfed her in size. Almost against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, she tried to warn him away: velveteen flews tautened, lifting just enough to reveal the tiniest glint of alabaster — barely the tips of her upper canines. The feral display was so unlike her that she stilled her expression midway through, though, licking nervously at her quivering lips as she conveyed a confusing mixture of, “Stay away or I’ll bite!” and, “I’m sorry; please don’t hurt me!” An airy whine stirred in her throat, warring for the space with a ticking growl no louder than a housecat’s purr.
Abruptly, she tucked her head beneath her paws — a canid’s equivalent of throwing the bedcovers over her head to discourage monsters — and when she emerged long moments later, the specter was gone, leaving her even more unsettled than before.
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Messages In This Thread
step away from the window - by Coelacanth - April 28, 2017, 01:24 PM
RE: step away from the window - by Abraxas - May 06, 2017, 08:16 AM
RE: step away from the window - by Coelacanth - May 13, 2017, 06:04 AM