“But…” she whispered as she tugged her dirty sneakers on. “OK.” She tugged the dirty shirt back off then pulled the new one on. The Alchemist yanked her old shirt from her fingers and threw it over his shoulder. She looked over to the corner where her old shirt flopped half-in and half-out of the small trashcan in the corner.
“Oh? But?” he repeated with a tight grin. “The shirt’s free, or you can pay me back after you get paid. As to the job, she’s a friend of mine. She helped me once so I’m sending you to her, so she can help you too.” He rose from the stool and wearily dragged on his jeans, zipping them but leaving them unbuttoned.
He led her by the hand to the front door. Night had fallen and the moon was up and full, sailing through a clear starry sky.
Angel gazed at the lights on the buildings across the street then up at the moon. “I guess I better be going.”
“My friend should be there right now,” said the Alchemist softly. “So why don’t you go straight there?” He tapped the parchment letter in her hand. “She usually has food too; she likes her girls well fed. I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming.” The bells on the door jingled as he opened it for her.
“I guess this is goodbye and I won’t see you again,” she said softly. Hurt crept into her eyes.
“Shit, no, Angel. I expect you to come back in a few weeks so I can check on that tattoo.” He grinned then opened his arms, offering a hug. “Then you’re going to tell me all about the new place you’re staying in and how crappy your job is and…”
Leaping into his arms, she practically knocked him over. Laughing, he folded her into a firm hug. She squeezed back with surprising strength.
“Take it easy,” he grunted, as she hugged him hard. “That’s a brand new tattoo you’ve got there.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” she said, pulling back with a sniff and damp eyes.
“Oh, yes, you will,” the Alchemist said softly. “Whether you like it or not.” Her new tattoo would forcibly keep her out of harm’s way. It would also compulsively keep her from touching drugs or drinking.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” he said with a chuckle.
“Thank you,” Angel said then practically ran from the parlour. At the corner, she suddenly turned to look back at him as he stood, framed in the light pouring from the open door. She waved.
He waved back then closed his door, locking it. Letting her go.
Hopefully the tattoo would encourage her to begin a new life. He wanted her to be able to keep a job then go back to school and use those incredible creative talents he had felt simmering in her soul. The artistic abilities that had burned brightly enough to draw the predators to her in the first place, such as her ex-boyfriend.
This time, with a little Alchemical help, she’d be able to protect herself from the soul-devouring animals of the street.
“Been there, done that,” he sighed softly to the empty parlour. “I was living and starving on the streets myself, not all that long ago.”
Making Woofie by Lilian Pizzichini
He was silky and smooth and brown as an otter. Furthermore, he was the best lover she had ever had. So Bella wasn’t surprised when the puppies she bore him were the colours of chocolate and liver. They had been walking in the countryside. Timothy, her boyfriend, was wading through the thicket in waterproof trousers. He always made sure he had the right gear. This made Bella wonder what he saw in her because she had got it wrong again and was wearing shorts; purple satin, crotch-hugging, disco diva shorts. Practical yet comely, Bella had figured, with plenty of room for manoeuvre. Even so she could tell, from his glance at her bare, plump legs that they were hardly the thing for a hike through autumnal woods. Her vision of a verdant landscape – a glimpse of lush valley through leafy bowers – left no room for nettles, awkward stiles or clinging mud. But she was stomping down the lane bravely, splashing her legs with clomps of earth. She liked to think she was at one with nature; she liked even more to get down and dirty. Dirt made her feel alive, unlike pristine Timothy who was striding far ahead, walking stick in hand.
He looked as though he were about to take command of an army and invade the scene that splayed out before him. He stood atop a grassy mound, his binoculars at the ready for a rare sighting of some bird or other. Bruno – the faithful hound – romped backwards and forwards between them, appeasing his master and waiting for his mistress to catch up. Bruno, unlike Timothy, was always pleased to see Bella and didn’t give a fig what she was wearing. He loves me for me, she told herself, and ran to him.
Her enthusiasm was contagious and Bruno knew exactly what to do to engender more. He rolled onto his back, legs akimbo, in a tacit plea for attention and tickles. His tongue lolled sideways and his eyes rolled into his skull. The delirium caused by her fingers as they roamed across his belly, combing through the thick mud clogging the hairs on his tender skin, was too much for him. She paused at the slick tassel that signalled his penis. It lurked deep in his hindquarters and Bella often wanted to give it a little tug. She really shouldn’t go further. But she was feeling rebellious. Why shouldn’t she give pleasure to one who gave pleasure to her? A green eye peeked at her from underneath a floppy brown ear; his torso was rigid with expectation. She passed the palm of her hand down the length of his hairy penis and cupped the purple plums at its base.
“Here, Bruno. Chase the stick,” Timothy shouted. One long arc and Bruno was gone.
“Labradors are known for having a prolonged puppyhood,” Timothy explained to Bella, searching her face for signs of eager attention. “Their attitude completely disregards their physical maturity. Take Bruno; at two years old he is still very much a puppy, and attendant with that, has a puppy’s exuberance and energy. Labs don’t start settling down until some time between two and four years of age.”
You boring bastard, thought Bella.
Stick in mouth, Bruno yelped with joy as he threw himself at Timothy’s feet awaiting further orders. But Bella noted that he turned his face towards her before their execution. The stripes of mud on his nose, ears and noble forehead were hardening as it dried.
“He looks like a Masai warrior,” Bella mused, “daubed for war.” She didn’t share her aperçu with her boyfriend because she knew he would look at her strangely. He’d already said, with the air of a savant, that she was a psycho-traumatic unit in the hospital of the mind. He was always saying things like that. He was pretentious.
The indefatigable Bruno was true to his nature and retrieved the stick once again. Bella ran into a copse, beckoning him to follow her and disregard his master. Now that his blood was up, she knew what would ensue. Bruno galloped after her, barking and wagging his thick, stubby tail. His eyes were sparkling, the stick forgotten. His tongue was long and bubble-gum pink. She watched saliva cascade in bubbling streams over his serrated black lips. She loved his exuberance. It matched her own. Bruno and Bella, the perfect couple with their dark looks and sea-green eyes. They emerged in a vast, ploughed field where corn had been sown and the sky lay heavily above them. Husks were on the ground and Bruno rootled.
Bella needed a pee. She rolled her shorts down to her ankles and squatted underneath a bush. Her urine formed a puddle between her feet. Bruno smelt that something interesting was happening. He came up behind her and she felt a cold nose investigate her bottom. It was moist and left a damp trail between her buttocks. His whiskers tickled her cheeks, his nose probed her anus and his tongue swept the length of her welcoming slit. It felt good and right and Bella liked it.