Kelev Liked to Suck the Marrow Best
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Kelev liked to suck the marrow best. He rested one forepaw on the denuded femur of a former NGO agent, a fellow from Malmo or Uppsala, or something like that. The chap had been tall, so the bone was especially long. Its taste, however, was not remarkable; the man had managed to stay calm, while supervising campaigns in Paombong, in Lang’ata, and in Kandahar, by smoking two packs of cheap cigarettes a day.
A fly landed on the beast’s back. He widened his nostrils and snorted at it. His master, a hungry being, had, as of late, thrown him few victuals.
Rolling his tongue from the rigid tissue’s greater trochanter to its lower extremity, the brute reflected on the flexible middle, which he yet hoarded. No borrowed stem cells or other stroma would turn his tongue from blue to pink again. The diplomat had poured antifreeze into the sentry’s dish before the sentry’s master had applied the blunt end of a cosh to the diplomat’s head. Although the blackjack had effectively ended the future goings on of the trespasser, so, too, had the ethylene glycol stymied any future occupations of the furry guardian.
His master had made quick work of burying the intruder; he had little love for busybodies who claimed either to understand local politics from afar, or who espoused that they represented the opinions of the total of humanity. Outsiders cared little that ethnic others regularly uprooted his master’s vineyards or torched his stockades. They did, however, imposed restrictions on his neighbors’ buildings while doing nothing to thwart the raiders whom regularly absconded with his neighbors’ sheep. Rather, foreigners, to a one, meant to limit the achievements of his master and his friends in order to drive them from their land.
The antifreeze had been tasty. The guard’s impending uremia had been intentional. It would be difficult to deter hardened pioneers as long as their lookouts were capable of using fangs and claws.
Kelev’s own ingenuity, unhampered by his suddenly increased thirst and by his own wobbly limbs, had produced the tasty bit of the interloper’s skeleton. It was whispered that his father was a jackal. It was known that the pack, from which he had been culled, specialized in predation.
The protector’s breathing quickened. His muscles contracted and relaxed rapidly until the shaking of his body resembled the nearby fields, which had repeatedly been afflicted by martial fodder. One sister had been taken to be a sniffer dog at the national airport. Another helped to watch over the prime minister’s palace. His two brothers had been skinned to make cheap collars for women’s coats when they had been found to be too shy, too suspicious and too prone to biting without warning.
As for Kelev, who had been weaned on the innards of chicken and goose bones, he had found his place in his master’s compound after intervening between his master’s youngest child and an allegedly rabid coypu. Kelev had frightened away that nutria with an assortment of long, wailing howls, quick yelps, and a singular, purposeful charge.
Land ownership is no trifling to such high cusped creatures; he had understood the large rodent as encroaching on the boy’s domain. His master had understood Kelev as steadfast and as selectively dangerous.
As the monster slipped from savoring the leg bone of a marauder to a profound state of unconsciousness, he emitted an inaudible cry of alarm. Somewhere in Kelev’s cosmos, enemies were breaching his master’s fences.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs roam the verbal hinterlands. Sylvan creatures to a one, they fashion stories from leaves, shiny bugs and marshmallow fluff. Some of the homes for their writing have included: AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist. When not disciplining her imaginary friends, Hannah serves as an associate editor for Bewildering Stories.
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Kelev liked to suck the marrow best. He rested one forepaw on the denuded femur of a former NGO agent, a fellow from Malmo or Uppsala, or something like that. The chap had been tall, so the bone was especially long. Its taste, however, was not remarkable; the man had managed to stay calm, while supervising campaigns in Paombong, in Lang’ata, and in Kandahar, by smoking two packs of cheap cigarettes a day.
A fly landed on the beast’s back. He widened his nostrils and snorted at it. His master, a hungry being, had, as of late, thrown him few victuals.
Rolling his tongue from the rigid tissue’s greater trochanter to its lower extremity, the brute reflected on the flexible middle, which he yet hoarded. No borrowed stem cells or other stroma would turn his tongue from blue to pink again. The diplomat had poured antifreeze into the sentry’s dish before the sentry’s master had applied the blunt end of a cosh to the diplomat’s head. Although the blackjack had effectively ended the future goings on of the trespasser, so, too, had the ethylene glycol stymied any future occupations of the furry guardian.
His master had made quick work of burying the intruder; he had little love for busybodies who claimed either to understand local politics from afar, or who espoused that they represented the opinions of the total of humanity. Outsiders cared little that ethnic others regularly uprooted his master’s vineyards or torched his stockades. They did, however, imposed restrictions on his neighbors’ buildings while doing nothing to thwart the raiders whom regularly absconded with his neighbors’ sheep. Rather, foreigners, to a one, meant to limit the achievements of his master and his friends in order to drive them from their land.
The antifreeze had been tasty. The guard’s impending uremia had been intentional. It would be difficult to deter hardened pioneers as long as their lookouts were capable of using fangs and claws.
Kelev’s own ingenuity, unhampered by his suddenly increased thirst and by his own wobbly limbs, had produced the tasty bit of the interloper’s skeleton. It was whispered that his father was a jackal. It was known that the pack, from which he had been culled, specialized in predation.
The protector’s breathing quickened. His muscles contracted and relaxed rapidly until the shaking of his body resembled the nearby fields, which had repeatedly been afflicted by martial fodder. One sister had been taken to be a sniffer dog at the national airport. Another helped to watch over the prime minister’s palace. His two brothers had been skinned to make cheap collars for women’s coats when they had been found to be too shy, too suspicious and too prone to biting without warning.
As for Kelev, who had been weaned on the innards of chicken and goose bones, he had found his place in his master’s compound after intervening between his master’s youngest child and an allegedly rabid coypu. Kelev had frightened away that nutria with an assortment of long, wailing howls, quick yelps, and a singular, purposeful charge.
Land ownership is no trifling to such high cusped creatures; he had understood the large rodent as encroaching on the boy’s domain. His master had understood Kelev as steadfast and as selectively dangerous.
As the monster slipped from savoring the leg bone of a marauder to a profound state of unconsciousness, he emitted an inaudible cry of alarm. Somewhere in Kelev’s cosmos, enemies were breaching his master’s fences.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs roam the verbal hinterlands. Sylvan creatures to a one, they fashion stories from leaves, shiny bugs and marshmallow fluff. Some of the homes for their writing have included: AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist. When not disciplining her imaginary friends, Hannah serves as an associate editor for Bewildering Stories.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
