literature

Road Trip

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Literature Text

Two immortals scratching itchy feet on the sidewalk.

Coyote in the lead, too drunk to remember where they are. Mangy-minded Coyote, always dying but never staying down. A dozen cans of Bud assault a bladder the size of an apple. He stops to lift his leg against a street light for the third time in an hour. His costume jewelry tinkles, grimy tags swinging from a pink collar. Odie- no address given.

The piece of Wendigo called Prankster waits, leash in hand, patient as a trained puppy. That splinter-souled elemental is a festival of color. Banana-yellow rain jacket, red t-shirt, green shorts blooming with purple flowers. Their supplies are slung over his shoulder in an orange backpack. A triangle of white, three black dots, and four lines turns the front into the face of a fox. His eyes are made of bleached-blue ice. They follow moths which dart, hypnotized, around the light. The former mangeur de lard has broadened his palate.

Coyote horse-kicks him in the shin. “Leave the sky popcorn for later. I need a nap.”

A car passes with hurried slosh, white lights sinking a vertical mirage into the asphalt. The air smells of mud and oil slicks. Cigarette butts squish beneath padded paws and bare feet. Prankster hums an old tune summoned from memory by Coyote’s inspiring display of debauchery.

Buvons bien, là buvons donc
A ce flacon faisons la guerre!


Coyote stops to examine a sign guarding a blot of grass.

Park Closes at 10:00 PM
No Trespassing


A picnic bench, a trash can, and a few trees. Sidewalks for borders. Park. He laughs until his belly hurts, long muzzle split like a yawning crocodile’s maw.

Prankster laughs along. He’s not disappointed by his inability to read the joke. They are never as funny as his companion.

Coyote unbuckles his collar and hands it over. He flops on the damp concrete beneath the bench and wonders what bone-head designed those wooden planks with just enough space between them to let the rain through.

Prankster crouches and gives him a pat on the head. “Good night Doggy.”

A sigh of grudging acceptance.

Prankster is proud of winning this battle of attrition. There will be pets, and hugs, and chin scratchies. In moderation. He leaps onto the top bunk and exchanges the collar and leash for his new chew bone. Works it over for a few minutes, covering the Rottweiler’s surface scratches with deep gouges. He stops short of tearing it in half. This too demands moderation. Dangling over the side, his hands twitch in his sleep.

Approaching: a more familiar kind of predator. A young lion with a generous territory. He’s slow to learn an honest hunt; the pride has always kept him well fed. A confrontation at the watering hole has him riled up. He staggers home full of nervous energy. Gotta feed that fragile ego. Not content to pick on someone whose purse strings are the same size. He spies the sleeping form and pounces with a stick thick as his wrist.

Prankster receives the blow with a bellow fit for a zoo escapee. Instinct disarms the threat and Coyote keeps the threat’s arms intact. Coyote’s influence. Even the worst of us get it right sometimes.

The boy tastes dirt. He gnashes grit between his teeth. Thrashes furrows in the soil with expensive shoes. Pressure pins him still, presses air from his lungs. Hot breath tickles his neck with huffs like a tiger studying steak scent. Fight or flight? The wise subconscious chooses option three- freeze.

An apparition kneels beside him, dog-legged, a grinning man’s face framed by wild hair. It tisk-tisks. Pats him down, swipes his cigarettes and wallet. “Lucky you,” the nightmare says. “Not many people get a chance to reevaluate their life choices at such a tender age.”

Catch and release. Now more deer than lion the boy runs into the street, arms waving, seeking protection in the herd.

Prankster licks blood from thickened nails.

Two immortals scratching itchy feet on the sidewalk, Coyote in the lead. Selfish spirit, complicated canine. Savors a mansion but the underside of a bridge will do. Any night spent with friends is a good night.
For the :iconlive-love-write: prompt: must end with the phrase “good night.” Word count: 699.


More from: Coyote leonca.deviantart.com/gallery/… Wendigo leonca.deviantart.com/gallery/…


Writing has lost some of its spark for me, but I’m always reading. Inspired in part by an anthology of stories published last year which included one composed of message board posts.

© 2016 - 2024 Leonca
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FaolSidhe's avatar
Quand je bois du vin clairet,
Ami tout tourne, tourne, tourne, tourne,
Aussi désormais je bois Anjou ou Arbois,
Chantons et buvons, à ce flacon faisons la guerre,
Chantons et buvons, les amis, buvons donc!

I love this song.