Creatures, Storm Drain Ponds, and Feelings
Originally written on April 26, 2021
You follow your walk into the crevice where wood diverges from pavement. A fox sits up, arranging its fur with a flutter, and trots up to accompany you. The soft pitter-patter of its feet, along with the hushed rustling of leaves skidding across the wooded path, lulls you into a familiar ease.
“Look.” Curiosity says, bounding further down the path before taking a seat with practiced grace.
“What?”
“Pigeon.” It sits up straighter now, ears twitching. The pigeon, hopping obliviously across the path, freezes.
“Yeah.”
“Pigeon.” It insists.
You let out a huff. “We’re not going to-”
“Chase the pigeon.” A chimpanzee, no bigger than an unusually large pinecone, pokes its head out from behind a tree.
You glance at it with incredulity, the beginnings of amusement teasing at the corners of your mouth. It simply stares back, the picture of innocence.
You give in and sigh, “if you want, I guess”, just as Curiosity pounces on the poor bird. Its paws phase through the pigeon just as it startles and takes flight. The fox stares at where it once was, confusedly pawing at the ground, as if it could still catch the bird if it tried hard enough.
Interest sated, Whimsy scampers over to you and climbs up to your shoulder. It nestles comfortably into the crook of your neck, satisfied. “We will find another.”
You smile, despite yourself. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Until then, large stick.”
And you watch with mild hilarity as Curiosity immediately bounds towards a pine branch twice its size, picks it up with its mouth, carrying it over to you, and you continue your walk with not just a walking stick now but with the ghost of companionship, too, as the two ethereal figures flit in and out of existence by your side, like hesitant shadows on a particularly sunny day.
You think of Self-Hatred pinning you to the bed at 10:56 in the morning, its knee on your chest, its hands wound around yours a little too tight for comfort. You think of it murmuring “stay, there’s nothing for you out there” against the shell of your ear, jarringly real and deeply, unnervingly human, until you succumb and it relaxes with a sigh, doubling against you in limp weight, trapping you to grab wretchedly at your phone as you stare blindly at the first meaningless social media check of the day.
You wonder if things will change. A disgusting part of you hopes they won’t.
A stork stands, alone in its majesty, and ruffles its feathers. It levels its gaze at you, poignant and refined.
“You wrote this song.”
You blink, hesitantly reaching for your voice. “I did.”
“You wrote this song.” Pride affirms.
“Yeah.”
“It’s really good. Great, even.”
You can feel the phantom grip of Self-Hatred’s hand around your neck. You can’t breathe.
“… I guess.”
The stork scatters to the wind like weightless confetti.
You ballroom danced with Death, once.
It showed up at your doorstep unannounced, all neat and prettied, smiling how only a shadow can smile. It reached for your hand without permission, and when you made a noise of protest, it quickly backed away with regret in its eyes, hands tightly clutched. Nervous, fidgeting. You knew, realistically, that it was an act. You didn’t really care though.
It tried to flirt with you that night. Used that dumb pick-up line about Tenessee about four times, forgetting after each time. There were a couple others, but that was really the only interesting one. It was mostly just the ebb and flow of simple, practiced ballroom dance, up and down, up and down, now left and right, left and right, a step here, a stride there, and you were almost asleep on your feet, then, as Death serenaded you to the sound of beautiful meaninglessness and a bashful half-smile. You missed it, a little. You miss it, a lot.
