18 June 2017

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The cat snakes were my favorite of all the gene splices.

I’m wearing one right now. Her name is Waffles. She’s coiled around my neck, turquoise fur with orange stripes, purring against my throat in a mutual exchange of warmth. An extremely fluffy Persian constrictor.

Cat snakes have been available domestically for years. Nothing poisonous for home use, of course. Warm-blooded with long legless bodies, their minds a wonderful combination of snake and cat. Utterly unreadable. Like a Cheshire playing poker. Moody, aloof and opaque.

My brunch friend Amanda has a meters-long albino pythelot draped around her shoulders, white with those black capital-C spots winding around its torso like stripes on a candy cane. A short-hair because she’s allergic. She calls it Twiggy. Its face is serenely dunked in a small bowl of dried mice on the table beside our food. This lunch spot caters to our class.

The cross between a meow and a hiss is wonderful and haunting. And those eyes. Two unreadable species put together to form eyes that are portals to another dimension of consciousness. Time does not exist in those eyes. Emotions are alien there.

Feral tomserpents dart through the alleys these days. Unspayed and unneutered Christmas gifts reproducing in the dumpsters. There are rumours of the massive cobra sphinxes used for security in the outlying corporate factories, rearing up in the moonlight in front of terrified trespassing spies. Fifteen-meter sabertooth tigercondas patrolling the fences of drug-lord fields, fat on junkies and mercenaries, hooked on opiates from digesting the hopped-up victims.

But domestic cat snakes were bred to be docile around people. Strong and fierce when it came to mousing, though. Vermin were a thing of the past in our gated community. Unfortunately, so were birds.

The entire body a tail that twitched when thinking about attack. More silent than a regular cat when crawling up stairs through carpet. Cat snakes were slow lightning. I loved my Waffles with all my heart.

I felt a ripple down the length of her. Embarrassed, I realized my little Waffles was about to cough up a hairball right here in public.

I excused myself from Amanda and our table and headed to the bathroom before Waffles’ undignified whorfing could begin in earnest. Amanda seemed none the wiser but Twiggy’s thin arrowhead face poked up from the mice bowl, one eye smirking at me.

In the morning I may take a trip to the pet store for an exchange. Come to think of it, the hairballs had always been an annoyance.

Maybe I was more of a fishdog person.




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The curves of Saint Monday call up the interlocking pieces of forgetfulness that I call life.
The carpet salesman will always undermine us.
Second place can be a nuclear power plant in the right hands.
If it’s bank left and hard right then it needs to be full throttle on the straightaways.
My face is relaxed in the storm.
You don’t slap fight with the hand of god.
You don’t high five the one hand clapping.
There’s a blue square in my chest instead of a heart.
A smear of paint where my worry used to be.
I don’t see a doctor about my brain.
I see a botanist.
There is ivy in my meat.

I want to fedex myself a real life by speedy delivery but that’s a serious charge.
Shipping slash fiction to greedy eyes can’t reproduce the big finish.
We’re all wireless but the server went down 4000 years ago and we’re still searching for a connection.
Art, religion, and science were all created to take up the slack.
More like opposable dumbs, amirite?
Give me the utility belt that Adam West took to the afterlife.
I want to use shark repellent in hell.

I don’t have a steering wheel big enough to turn my life around and besides, it’s hard to steer an elevator.
I’m infested with tourniquets.
Rechargeable batteries are sewn into my skin.
I’m a scratch and sniff house fire.
I’m a barrel roll in a monkey factory trying to make it more fun.
You twist my hoof and I’ll shit money and old glue.
I can’t see the future but I think it sure packed a punch in a suitcase for me.
I bank on the unsafe deposit box.
You can call me night cactus.
You can call me barbed lyre.
You can call me short-short cutoffs drying on a surfboard near a bonfire.

I chewed up the rewind button.
I made a smoothie out of my regrets.
It’s only by losing baggage that you can see what you won’t miss.
This flight’s a roulette wheel and I bet on blue.
The rain soaks my mind into being half sponge and I awaken.
I eat grilled cheese by osmosis.
I’ve imprinted on society.
My privilege allows me the luxury of the slow lane.
If I’m a kite then no one’s holding me.



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