It was a small town, not unlike his own. He found a church, a library and a pond full of mallard ducks. Hungry, exhausted, miles and miles from Jeannie, he began to regret his latest decision, and then an earlier decision, and all the other ones that had come before. His life seemed hinged together in a faulty, inexperienced way, allowing whims and fate to beat it thin, and now it felt like a doomed thing he carried around with him. The ducks laughed. He picked up a rock wanting to nail a duck, but this pond was the center of town, these ducks weren’t game. How had it gotten like this? Animals were now citizens, now performers too? The world was getting soft. He paced around the lake. The ducks laughed and laughed at him.
* * *
Stan Brady tried to calm his crew, but once one animal started squawking, the others couldn’t resist. His raccoon, typically well-behaved, got aggressive towards the rooster, who was a new addition. The ostrich, which had cost him a fortune, spent the whole show trying to escape its dress, clawing at it with grotesquely large legs. The audience was a small but riled bunch that found the chaos hilarious, much better than the original plan of organized dance and ventriloquist song. This wasn’t unusual. This work had its nights. After a bad show, Stan would lock up the animals and venture out for a drink. Once or twice he’d returned with a devastated feeling, pacing the cages past midnight. The raccoon staring with its bright marble eyes. In Stan’s hands, he’d held his rifle, but no animal knew that. Every time he’d ever thought of it, his raccoon would stare him down, and worst he ever did was free the misbehaving members of his crew. And who would call that bad. Animal is an animal and no nicer place to live than the world, sprawled and open, to live natural as an Indian. But who knew how training changed an animal. If somehow he had bred a desire to perform in these creatures.
This time, however, Stan’s nerves were shot. The audience laughed at all the wrong places. The dog crouched in an all too familiar way and Stan panicked. The rabbit was teething on a bit of oat stuck to Stan’s sock and he bent down to brush it away. It was a liquid anger, a foaming, shifting, lava anger, a hot spread across his face, and in a wild, uncharacteristic move, he grabbed his rabbit by its bowtie and threw it into the crowd.
* * *
Asleep against McGrady, Wallace was awakened by a loud blast that sounded so close to his ear, every muscle in him gave a start. Then he fell down again, head back to McGrady, this time with blood, this time dumb, dead, and for good. The enemy soldier shook. He threw his gun down and cowered. He had never shot a man before. He crawled over to Wallace, then crawled away. He picked up his gun and slowly walked back to get a better look at McGrady’s face. The enemy soldier admired McGrady’s proportions, pleasant, inevitable. A twisted instinct in him urged him to stay with the dead and dying, but that was twisted, stupid, he grabbed his gun and got the hell out of there.
The enemy soldier walked with a swagger, wearing Wallace’s helmet. In his head, he was boasting to his troop, who were setting up camp nearby. The already-dead soldier had looked pretty, like one of his sister’s girlfriends. He had always enjoyed that friend. The soldier he shot had looked stupid sleeping. At first, he’d thought it was two dead soldiers, but then one had snored and with a knee-jerk reaction he yanked the trigger. His body had known what. He’d had trouble in his first battle, all the noise and men flashing by, but a sleeping man, he knew what to do with a sleeping man.
* * *
The creature waded into the swamp and crouched in the water, muddying its feathers. The swamp was still and the creature was still inside it. Flies flew in clouds. The sun blazed on like something broken. There was a splash as the creature dove and caught a fish. The creature brought the struggling fish to its mouth and scaled it with its teeth. With the collar of the fish stuck in the creature’s mouth, the creature took a claw to the belly of the fish and tore upwards, towards the head. One claw forced through the bony portion between the fins. The other claw dug in and grabbed out the guts. With one claw of guts and the other with fish, the creature ate it all in a few bites, a crack each time a bone was chewed.
PEE ON WATER
Though alien to the world’s ancient past, young blood runs similar circles. All those bones are born from four grandparents. Baby teeth and baby teeth all down the line. Jackets didn’t used to zip up. There wasn’t a single door.
Earth is round and open, whole and beating in its early years. The stars are in a bright smear against the blackboard. A breath pulled so gradual the breath forgets. Winds run back and forth. Clouds idly shift their shapes. Stubborn ice blocks will not be niced down by the fat sun. Melted tears run, then freeze. Tiny cells slide into tiny cells. The wind learns to whistle. The sun starts setting in a colorful display. Ice melts into oceans, lakes, and ponds. Plants have their first batch of leaves. Guppies shiver in the lake. Shiver, have babies, babies shiver. Crawlers. Diggers. Stingers. The plants get bit and chewed. Leaves grow more intricate. Beings start dragging with them, little lives. Moments where they crawl on sand. Moments where they look behind them. They eat plants. They eat stomachs. Lick bones. They pee on grass. Pee on dirt. Pee on snow. Their skin is cut by teeth, by claws. Water fills their lungs. Blood cries itself in a blind pool. Blood dries on leaves. Blood browns on fur.
Creatures big as mountains stomp on top of mountains. Then new ones. New ones. Feathers, spikes, hooves. Clouds crawl smugly. The air smells cool. Atoms bump and lump. Birds have sex. Bears have sex. The sun gets better at setting. Monkeys play with sticks. Monkeys eat ants. They get sexy about each other’s butts. The monkeys fuck from behind. They sleep in leaves, in mud, in trees. They protect their babies and teach them. The sun glares in their eyes, making spots.
Ants amble on, self-consciously changing direction. Rain makes them flinch, makes them happy. The monkeys make faces. The monkeys get smart. Two monkeys look at each other with knowing eyes. The trees sway. The birds chat. The knowing eyes are locked in a gaze. They look away. They look back. They have sophisticated children. The new monkeys need less and less protective hair. They have babies. They fight, throw punches, show teeth and bite. They think each other are sexy. Raise their babies away from the others. The new female monkeys have vaginas more between their legs, less likely to snag on branches. Males try sex with females from the front. Boobs get bigger to remind males what butts felt like.
This is the nice time of early men and monkeys, before cigarette butts cozied fat into the grass. No plastics, no prayers. Wood isn’t sliced into slats, it’s still living it up in trees. The rain is surprising, usual. Men and monkeys leave their lives with their bodies. Early men paint, cry, stare into fire meditatively. Pee on grass. Pee on dirt. Wear furs, have babies, catch dogs. Fall in love with dogs. Pause at oceans and their rambling edges. Sticks complicate grass. Grass complicates sand. The ground and every thousand thing on top of it. Curves and lumps. Uneven clouds. But click the clock radio through am to pm, spin the equal sphere like a sonic hedgehog. The leaves live the leaves fall, the leaves live the leaves die.
Men ride horses, roam plains, live in trees, in caves, wipe the sleep out of their eyes. They dance to a beat, carve wood into arrows. Pleasure and fun plus boredom and loss. The fun of hands gliding on top water. Of mud oozing between toes. Knotted hair is pulled back. Dirt gets comfortable on skin.