The Wild

MB Blissett

Stood on the road, hands in my pockets as the Maine winter sliced through my coat as my eyes scanned the treeline.

The soft scrape of her feet against the tarmac and the faint musk that she carried. Turning my head, watching the curve of her cheekbone turn liquid then solid again.  To stare at her was to step into a world where everything submitted to the law of stop motion animation.


Her skin shifted. Fur in patches, a wave of scales, then skin turned ruddy with the cold, then a motley of all three. The faded Disneyland sweatshirt was nearly rags on her, it’s hem hanging to her knees. There was a faded brown stain down the left hand side and the sleeves were torn away to the elbows.

‘It’s not blood, if that’s what you were thinking.’

Her voice shifted pitch, growl and squawk then purr before…

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