[excerpt from a longer narrative, the remainder forgotten since 4:30 this morning]

The image of him was engraved on my mind: the ten gallon hat, the skeletal frame on which hung the muddy, dun duster, revealing by the chance breze his peace-maker. He was coming. They had seen him, ethereal, gliding his way to this meager gathering of shacks they called a town.

She would not leave—had not moved since our girl took sick. It was identical to the other shotgun houses extending on either side. Indistinguishable but for the scent of decay, ripe and sickly. Hah. But not so sickly. The dead are never sick. Rainless for the first time in days, I felt no relief. This respite merely disclosed the mire we were stuck in; left here with as much thought as a mud-sucked boot in creek. The world was made of grays and browns, fading into each other as if god had spilled his coffee on a childish watercolor.

Up the stairs to door of the still house. Sighs? Wimpers? Moans? I could not say which, but I knew the sounds. Too well did I know them. The knocking of my hand did not distract them. So singular was their purpose, I would never distract them. Heart breaking, I entered my daughter’s tomb, my wife’s deathbead, her bier by choice, if there was any to make.

The corner farthest the door danced with fire’s life, no hint of any other in the room. A mound on the bead, gray as the sky outside shuddered and was still. My hand on her shoulder, I tried to turn her from our child, tried to see something behind her eyes, only meeting the reflection of the same emptiness bored into my very core.

“We cannot stay.”

“I will not leave her.”

And I joined her on the bed as I heard his footfalls on the steps.

I (initially) was a man with magic in his soul. My aura was not especially strong, but it was noticeable to those who knew how to see it.

Gradually one of my arms began exhibiting special properties. I could feel something pulsing through my veins and this feeling intensified, until I was granted the power of flight. Soon after this development, similar sensations affected my right arm as I flew into a gathering of friends, acquaintances, and wise men.

I was surprised by one of these mystics as I floated by, exhibiting these previously unattested powers. “I am barely scratched by your aura, my friend,” he said. I didn’t understand, but apparently these abilities were not magical, and in fact were depriving me of my magic. This terrified me.

Meanwhile, I was an adventurous west highland terrier who briefly was living with a figure similar in affect to Dr. Greg House. He lived  in the middle of a street—not in one of the buildings, but in the street (by the look of the buildings, this was a shabby part of town, although not necessarily sketchy). His sole occupation consisted in sitting at a card table set up in the middle of the aforementioned street, diligently cutting and eating some meat (perhaps steak, perhaps liver). Additionally, there were two sauces on this table that were not used, as well as a cup of coffee that he occasionally sipped.

As a westie I spent a very short time with this man but soon undertook a series of adventures in the spirit of Benji. The most memorable of these was the rescuing of either a baby human or a bear cub that was frozen in a block of ice bobbing in a small pool while other bears looked on helplessly. My solution involved jumping in the water and wrapping my warmth about the ice, which quickly melted. This made the 6 o’ clock news, and deeply affected my one-time master, though he hid his emotion under his impassive expression.

No longer the wetie nor the man with special arms, I am now that man’s friend. Since his coming-out party, he has receded from the world, and his “home” is gloomy, ramshackle, and sprinkled with dead animals of various sorts (all of those sorts being small). His skin has taken on a slightly metallic quality and there is sadness in his eyes with a wry and bitter accent. He has become even more powerful, perhaps invulnerable, immortal, but alone. He has not noticed all of the dead creatures around him and is momentarily shocked, but quickly returns to his impassive disposition. I speculate that his aura of magic has been eclipsed by a cloud of death, and that this is the source of his powers.

Meanwhile, or previously, the westie has passed on. No one could follow all of his adventures and his death remains mysterious. He is delivered in a small box, wrapped around him like a cartoon character in a rug, so that head and rump are exposed. The man in the middle of the road does not reveal any emotion.

There is more, but it’s not for me to tell.

I took this yesterday around 7:00. The amazing thing: it hadn’t really rained here for a very long time and there was no rain then (we did have a good 20 minutes of showers today, though)

Rainless Rainbow

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