The Playground II

“So, all this…” Matty gestures expansively, vaguely, around his spot on the slide. “You just chasin’ tail, or what?”

“Can I assume that by ‘this,’ you refer to the gathering, all of us making our way here (seemingly of our own accord), here of all fucking places! To the absolute boonies, where our diminutive little Ashley has been tucked away for so long, hiding and waiting in turns—and now it’s as if some swirling vortex beckons us closer with soft words and garish lips?” Dyon’s eyes sparkle unreadably, though he may be amused at the surprise and dawning derision on Matty’s face.

“You are exactly the type of right bastard to destroy the known universe for a quick lay, aren’t you?”

“Well, whether I am or not—which, of course, I am—that hardly matters now. Because this is much more than that, dear Matty, much more.” Saying this, he wears a somberly sinister face, voice deep and slow with hidden meaning. But the mask buckles, his mouth spreads wide in a chuckling grin. “Are you trying to look glad or reproachful? You know you’re incapable of those. And obviously,” he rolls his eyes, “obviously, I’m only joking.” He wanders off a few steps, towards the all-purpose sports field, empty save for a cartwheeling redhead. He murmurs under his breath as if talking to himself before calling over his shoulder, “Just checkin’ up on friends, man, just checkin’ up on friends.”

Matty frowns and shakes his head. “I feel like I need one of those little kids’ spy decoders around you. I never know when you’re outright bullshitting or when the world’s lies are your truth,” he comments, taking uncertain steps after Dyon.

“Silly Matty. Do you think I could tell the difference, much less tell you? I have no plans and no foresight, and am seldom on speaking terms with reality.”

From the top of the swing set, Cardea’s voice calls out, neatly preventing a response from Matty. “I’ve been thinking, and it may be it wasn’t Calla that woke Ashley up. I think she’s just here to catch the fall out.”

Dyon walks over to the swings in a slow but determined beeline and stands on the swing directly beneath Cardea. “Yeah, Card? And who do you think woke little Ashley up?”

“I think it was you. Ashley had everything closed and quiet and sealed, until the first night you came back. You could have known what would happen, but you did it anyway, with that accordion, and everything came spilling out.”

Matty folds at the base of the swings, glances between the two backlit by the setting sun and whispers to himself, “I keep thinking that if I just spend enough time around him, it’ll all start making sense someday. But… no. No, not at all.”

“Interesting hypothesis.” Dyon squints up at the balancing boy, now walking improbably along the top rail. “But where does it come from?”

“We can’t go pouring our whole self into something, into someone, and then have that snatched away and be just fine. You know that. And especially if we go back home, back to our haven and base and it’s gone…”

“Is there a thought you’d like to finish up there?”

Pursing his lips, Cardea gazes down, examining Dyon’s frankly questioning face. “I’m not here to get myself involved.” He rocks back and forth in the wind whipping through the tree tops.

“Too late for that. Might as well give up.”

All three turn their heads as a deep bark melts into a resounding howl. A dog, like pale butter, trots out from the thickening shadows rimming the field; a whoop shatters the tense fog hanging between the men on the swings. Dea’s teeth shine in a freckled smile as he clambers and slides to the ground. Words float back behind him to the remaining two—one bemused, one perplexed—on the playground: “Lovely seeing you boys, gotta go!”

The dog runs now, too, muscles bunching under red-dusted fur, runs alongside Dea until, as one, they turn, lunge, wrestle. Scallion flashes a white-blaze stomach, growling and rolling gleefully in the ankle-high grass.

Matty stands, casting a long, twiggy shadow across the ground. “Feel like filling me in?”

“Not a chance,” Dyon laughs, hopping down beside his grim companion.

In struggle,

Bargain Puppy

Overcast

Dea’s smoke puffs into slow-furling insects, dragonflies curlicuing around me, hanging low and heavy with too many expectations—sleeping prophesies stretching their arms like an infant’s sweet breath being sucked in for a scream. You know I hate it when you get like this, I mutter, pacing back and forth like a four-legged metronome.

Of course they don’t say anything; I twitch my ears, then my head to the mouth of the cave. The green light of my eyes is reflected inside, bouncing around and wavering on Dea’s icepick ankle bone. They’re curled at the far back, slumped in an uncaring corner, firmly sullen and twisting an unlit cigarette between anxious fingertips while another, gasping fog, hangs from their lips, long and unfiltered. Everything is gray today.

“Your eyes glow, my ghosts.”

One ear flicks flat as the other eye widens and nostrils flare: You can be cryptic all you want, but I refuse to believe it’s anything but nonsense. Their thin mouth wrinkles and a pale tongue pokes out, a desert snake testing the day’s luck, but they don’t say anything. Of course, of course. Padding into the cave, all my sniffing can’t tell what’s wrong so I nuzzle a clammy pale ear, whuff-whuff limp hair that slips between my teeth to stick to my tongue with each inhale, loose itself with each exhale. My tail sinks lower with every passing moment of their unhappiness. You can’t even see the fog, can you? It’s nice… so thick I can’t tell if it’s overcast or not.

A look, appraising. Wide eyes and arched brows say “Of course it is.”

Well, I know that. And I know you never have to look at the weather ’cause it always suits your mood exactly. My tail thumps against a shoulder, a cave wall, whaps them in the eyes. Whatever. I wanna play outside. I know I’m whining, but really, running is necessary. I’m thinking my tail may have—may have—smacked some sense into their head when a twinkle suddenly flares in their char-cloth eyes, completely flat, matte and unchanging until now. Two fingers send the cigarette spinning, raining sparks onto the rocky floor; two hands slip the unlit safely inside a softpack. Hopefully away, maybe just waiting.

Yes? Playing outside? We can run and jump and I’ll chase you and roll around and slide down down the hill? C’mon c’mon c’moooon! My tail is wagging to shake my back and I know I look like a fool but… even that twinge of hope, of possible sunshine, makes me lose my mind in cubbish enthusiasm. I lick their face from chin to forehead, pull my lips back to show all my long-toothed grin. C’mon! Please? Yes, please? Car-dee-ahhhh, I whimper out of sheer happiness, grabbing their hand between my teeth and pulling gently, so gently.

Stretched bones unravel, revealing their full length as Dea unfolds and stands; arms hang like marionettes from wide, brittle shoulders. I’m so excited I can’t take it, jump up, knock them back into the sharp, uneven wall. “Dammit, Scallion. That’s gonna bruise.” But they smile a tiny smile despite it, and I know they’re not angry. Of course not, of course not.

I can’t help it. I’m so, I’m so, I roll side to side, flash a pale stomach and grind my shoulders against the floor. I’m trying to be patient, but that smile… oh damn.  I leap to all four feet, bound out of the cave and down the hill.

“You are so, indeed.” That voice contains an eyeroll, I’m sure. They’re walking much too slow, meandering to the cave mouth to watch the dissipating fog with careful eyes, and I’m already halfway to the trees at the bottom of the meadow. It doesn’t take me but a half a second to get back to Dea and already a few unsure beams of sunshine pierce the clouds gracing the sky like gentle, loving, disapproving grandparents.

My forehead plants into the back of their knees, sends them spinning, falling down the hill. I race and jump ahead so when they catch up, I’m caught up and we whirl to the bottom together in a confusing mesh of wet grass and fresh sun. “I’m so your puppy,” I whisper shyly when we land breathless at the bottom, their warm weight pinning me in a drift of cottonwood seeds so much like the recent fog. Their fingers are tangled in my matted hair, thumbs tucked securely under a fraying purple collar. I’m dizzy, don’t know whose legs are which, but I can tell absolutely what’s pressing against my stomach, where my tingling hand rests on their spine, where my other hand, trapped between our ribs, pounds with two jouncing heartbeats.

Flat on my back, the sky spins and rocks above me so I can hardly focus my eyes. But I can see the rainbow they don’t have to see to know, the birds chattering in low branches, the mischievous smile splitting Dea’s face and looming closer, always closer.

The Playground I

[AN: This will be continued, probably in about a week.]

A man—far too long, inconspicuously lanky—lounges at the bottom of a macaroni yellow slide. His bony kneecaps throw the rest of his black-clad legs into obscurity; a backwards collar blends into his silken black shirt, hidden by the shadow falling from a high, sharp chin. The dimming sunshine casts him in a rare glow, orange and nearing rosy.

The man wrinkles his otherwise unlined brow, glaring into the sun as if the milkweed clouds skirting it hid some secret from him. “Always, always late. Such a forgetful bastard.”

The footsteps crunching on dry woodchips surprise him in the one instant his watchful black eyes are closed. He—Dyon—appears as he always does, walking around the swings and making the seated man jump. The purple top hat perches high on his forehead and his eyes are newly awake, open and bright above a steaming cigarette which hangs loosely from a wide smirk.

“Catch some cancer, Matty?” he demands of his friend cheerily, pulling a purple pouch from an unseen pocket.

Matty takes the proffered cigarette—rolled and lit and everything put away in the blink of an eye—with a resigned sigh. “You know, I never smoked these before…”

“When you had fun?”

“Yeah. Now, people ask me why I smoke and I can’t answer. I derive no pleasure. It satisfies no void. I just don’t feel like quitting.”

“I smoke because—I can.” Dyon’s eyes are even wider now, challenging and contradictory, but he settles back with a laughing grin and half-hearted eye roll as his attention flicks suddenly to the pile huddled beneath the jungle gym’s child-sized steps. “And how about you, Card? Wanna bumma stoge?”

The reply comes in a warm, even, content tone. A voice with no demands on its time. “I’m just here to watch, thanks.” And then in a murmur, “And anyways, I don’t smoke. Least not now.”

“Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten your constant switches? However, back to… Matty.”

“Speaking.”

“Your voice is positively joyless. If the powers that be ever decide priests should cease meeting with colorfully charactered hedonists at the playground after hours, you could always be an aging cubicle secretary. Or a greeter at one of those dreadful box stores!”

Matty, used to Dyon’s digressions and tangents and unhurriable speaking style, says nothing but sucks the cigarette.

“What I mean to say is, why did you want to speak with me? Oh, don’t look so surprised—of course I’ve been checking up.”

“That black chick’s… well, she’s been around again.”

“Hn. And what might she be anticipating, I wonder?”

A lilting voice wafts over from the far set of monkey bars, the ones intended for people under four feet in height. “Everyone’s been gathering. Ashley told me Drah-zil’s been talking again.”

Dyon’s neck spins inhumanly fast, blue pupils contracting on the pinpoint of his interest. “Which means, of course, that Ashley is talking again.”

“My guess? It’s the, erm, ‘black chick’,” Cardea pipes up, upside down, from the monkey bars. Dyon stares, taking him in. A blue shirt flaps in the growing wind and his brown pants sag mid thigh as he crawls back and forth, every segment of his body practically prehensile. Hair the color of a dying sunset tangles around a pink, freckled face willfully ignorant of whatever Dyon might be unfolding.

“You were always painfully astute,” Dyon murmurs at Cardea’s retreating form, running off like an airplane towards the sliding triangle. His lips purse in uncharacteristic thought and he drops into an uneasy silence even less like himself.

It’s Matty who interrupts.

In struggle,

Bargain Puppy