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Wolves

The first time he saw the wolf, she didn’t really look like a wolf. It had been a long day and his eyes had grown accustomed to the warm whiteness that was sheep and the greenness that was grass and the blueness that was sky. The sudden shift from white to that dark black scared him at first but then having to identify the source of the color scared him more. 

All the hairs on the back of his neck stood upright. The menacing shape seemed to bob in and out of existence as it darted in between sheep and grass until it disappeared entirely. 

Fearing the worst, Smith’s heart began to pound: 

What if the wolf ate one of his flock? As the best shepherd in the tiny village he lived in, he’d lose his reputation. The others couldn’t handle the wolf like he could. What if the wolf got out of the paddock and made his way toward the center of town, eating children or women or men who got in its way? 

Pushing back thought after thought, Smith turned and ran inside, dialing quickly the number for the city. The glossy shine of the phone served to contrast with his dark skin and he fidgeted as he trapped the receiver to his shoulder with his head. Never before had the incessant ringing of the phone bothered him, but as the seconds grew longer and longer, the worry grew. 

“You’ve reached Arcadia City Hall. This is Daisy. How may I help you?” 

“Daisy? Oh, it’s me, Smith! I just saw a wolf outside my paddock! Call ‘em all!” 

That was all that he needed to say. Daisy suddenly lost her jovial, bored tone but hung up with a snap of plastic on plastic, immediately beginning to dial new numbers and write down names of people she’d call. 

Smith wiped his hands on his pants, removing the feel of plastic from his palms. He didn’t like talking to Daisy and he never would; people weren’t good to him. And so he wasn’t good to people. That worked in most cases; Daisy couldn’t ignore him like she always did once the word wolf left his mouth. 

The wolf! 

Running back outside, he saw the wolf again. She was lean. She obviously hadn’t eaten in a while. Her fur clutched to muscle and bone and she paced back and forth, eyeing his sheep just as Smith was eyeing her. Bending down, with his eyes still on the wolf, Smith grabbed a rock and hurled it.

She didn’t move. 

All the same, the sheep started to bleat in fear and Smith began to lose count of them. The sounds of vehicles coming up the road got louder and louder. Smith tried desperately to count his sheep, looking this way and that, trying desperately to find any snatch of red in case one of his sheep had been hurt. 

Did he dare approach? 

For the first time, that thought flickered through his brain. Smith stopped trying to count and instead stared at the wolf, who still paced, who still gazed on with hunger. The sound of car doors slamming brought him back into the world of humans and he raced down to greet the hunters and other shepherds who greeted him. 

“You idiots! It took you this long? Half my flock could have been eaten by now! Half of YOUR flock could have been eaten by now!” 

“No time for words, boy! Show us the wolf!” 

Half had guns and all were greedy for the wolf’s red blood to spatter over green grass. 

Smith turned and looked but the wolf had disappeared. 

The officers of Arcadia frowned and asked again. When Smith could provide no words, they hunted on their own. After several hours and not a single hair of a wolf, they gave up and grumbled like the car engines all the way home.

+ 

The second time was a lot like the first. Smith immediately recognized the hungry animal and immediately called Daisy again. The officers got there too late for Smith, but they took it to just be the complains of a young boy and left it at that. 

The citizens of Arcadia were not happy when, again, they could find no wolf. 

Everyone moved slower the third time and slower still for the fourth time. 

+

When Smith saw the wolf for the fifth time, he was ready. He’d been sitting on his porch in the bright sun for what felt like hours. His sheep had needed less tending today and he knew that she’d be here. His gun sat in his arms as he rocked back and forth in his chair. His brown eyes were intent on any moving sheep, following every shadow as it danced across the hills of Arcadia. 

When he saw her again, everything was different. He’d already told Daisy that she was coming and Daisy had said she’d send help. No one had come and that had been four hours ago. He had no mind for those stupid people. He had no mind for his sheep; they’d be okay. Instead, he picked up the gun and parted his flock like the seas. He was Moses. He was God and he’d catch this demon. His eyes were trained on the black fur and those hauntingly yellow eyes. As he approached, she didn’t move. He knew she wouldn’t. Not this time. Over the past few weeks, Smith had grown to love and appreciate this animal that so daringly defied everyone else. She was playing tricks. But he’d win. His love and admiration were slipping. Now, there was a coolness, a calmness, that descended on him like a dream. 

He pointed the gun at the wolf. He was close enough to see her pupils dilate, her fur stiffen, and her muscles tense for her launch toward him. In the final seconds, he shot. Again. And again. And again. 

And when he awoke, Arcadia was gone. Instead, there were white walls and white doctors with their white lab coats. There were nurses, not shepherds, and patients, not sheep. 

The therapist tapped lightly on her clipboard. 

“Well, Smith. In these past few weeks, you’ve made significant progress. I understand that you still have dreams, but your grip on reality seems to be getting better. The medication is helping, yes? You don’t see wolves any more, do you?” 

“No.” 

When I think of family, I think of you holding my hand. When I think of home, I think of your arms.

“Biting is excellent. It’s like kissing only there’s a winner.”

(Source: bogwalker, via hansmoleskine-deactivated201810)

We are machines, baby. 

[Clockwork sings in our hips and rattles in our knees.

We tick and we spin

until we click

together

and make it last— 

remember how the clockwork chimes

in the puzzles of our skin?]

Lightning and spark—

Oh, we are timed robots! calibrated for precision;

And we shall find our flesh, enveloped in blankets 

And we shall sing church music to our children

As we tell stories, blended together over years 

Of mixed-up robot fire in our joints that’s been 

saved with oil and grease and soft melted tenderness

We have just discovered and

Mapped. 

We machines map, 

Creating borders and territories 

And lines we made only to cross. 

We will conquer the world together

One story

One tick

At a time.