#jon look

@cabalakh

DOUBLE THE EEL

The lights dim, and under my tongue, a robot dances Fizzing into sweet oblivion Trapped beneath cordlike veins.

In my chest, and in my feet, anguish prances Compelled by four-o’clock mornings I fear I no longer hold the reins.

Buzzing.

Behind my eyes, under my heel, behind complimented lips Chipped nails form harsh, visible, imperceptible dips

As I claw, dreamlike, into my throat and tear the cage out.

“Eet is not /my/ quest that we do. You said we needed to act fast, no? And so we have.” Rynswinn Runnerheim, last of her line of dwarves, was having none of it. It was bad enough they had to fraternise with asocial elves anyway. To do so with crumbs in her beard and butter on her dagger? That was not tolerable.

The Great Tree was well, if oddly, named. It stood in a grove, for one, of trees like itself, ghostly white gums reaching for the same, blazing sun. It was the greatest of them all, not larger, but most central, its leaves most sort after by the strange arboreal creatures of two thumbs and grumpy attitudes that filled these wilds. Its bark fell off in perfect sheets, and it was the only one inhabited by an elf that had begun shouting at the duo before they’d even gotten into earshot.

A widebrimmed hat protected thick black curls from the sun, and dark arms, dappled by bright sunlight and constantly moving, were clearly making repetitive movements, some kind of ward? As they got closer, they began to make out the words.

“—YA LITTLE SHITS. IF YEW THINK UM GUNNA DEW SHIT ALL FER YA, YEW CAN SIT AND SPIN ON YER FANCY LITTLE DAGGERS THERE. MAY YER MOTHER’S LINE DISOWN YA BEFORE THEY MAKE GOOD ON THE MONEY THEY OWE YA. MAY YER EARS TURN TA ARSEHOLES AN SHIT ON YA FUCKIN SHOULDERS YA DRONGOS. FUCK, IN THE DI-WRECK-SHUN, OF OFF.”