Weredog Tart (6)

   
   "Weredog Tart (6)"
   
   Siria danced and dashed to her creative writing class, needing to shoot a bull to get short, machine gun bursts of literature out on the page with squid ink or whatever.  The teacher read her dog scratched perspective:

"I'm Catholic.  Protestants scare me, for they say the Virgin Mary is a witch, and that Her apparitions are demonic, and that we worship Her.  But we only honor Her, feeling bad for what we did to Her Awesome Son--God's Son too, get me!!!  Regardless, Tim Tebow may not make it into the pro-football Hall of Fame, but the Halls of Heaven, for he got shafted on Earth's cruel turf, winning most games as a QB starter; next, turns down movies, helps the downtrodden in alien areas--I freaking love Protestants now.  Candace Cameron is cool too.  But still:  I have the Angels and Saints, and while not infallible, they truly lead to God, in mysterious ways, that Trinity, that Godhead.  That mercy upon us."

   The teacher proclaimed:  "Miss Siria--this is public school--you can't talk about that here."

   Siria howled, pulled out a rancorously spiced  piece of beef jerky, and took a yummy, uncouth bite; next, strutted out, towards a future detention.  Some kid in class went:  "Dudes, that girl is a delicious tart!"    

Weredog Tart (5)

   
   "Weredog Tart (5)"
   
   Back in summer school, within the urban decay of it all, and the boys stripped Siria with their pornographic eyes as she sauntered inside the classroom full of canine power, feeling their nasty glares, tongues sticking out, snickers, whispers, and utter envy of her beauty.  And she totally thought:  "Then God created douchebags." 
   She took her seat with eloquent sizzle through the air, crowning the public schools and their crappy pseudo-sophistication and fabrications on history by way of a buttocks finely sitting; next, opened up her algebra book, ignoring the glares of horny boys, focused on the teacher, barely able to speak English, and absorbed the synergy of letters and numbers dancing on the chalkboard--do they still have those things?
    

Weredog Tart (4)

   
   "Weredog Tart (4)"
    
   These were no longer the pangs of birth for Siria--her bleeding hand suddenly healing as she rushed inside, her Dad in a deep slumber due to the hardcore effects of sour mash; next, Siria sprinted upstairs to the bathroom, brushed her mousy brown hair out of her arctic-blue eyes, got an introspective glimpse inside her complete self, her soul, seeing the spirit that animated her body gregariously gel with a sublime golden retriever mixed with a wolf.
   She figured to herself:  "This is cool stuff."
   Now knowing she had the defense to deal with summer school, algebra, and a mother's ghost living on the outskirts of Heaven, where the grass was always green and an azure noon held fast daily.
   Siria thanked Saint Jude, this leading to praise for the Trinity, as all the Saints and Angels lead to the great galore that is God.  Yet the rest of the world, in a greedy dream about themselves; still, the pangs of birth, a galactic revolution of revelation rising upon them save the fools for Christ.
   Siria went downstairs, sat next to her Dad, taking his drunken hand, and whispered in his ear:  "I love you Daddy.  We are steel together."  

Weredog Tart (3)

   
   "Weredog Tart (3)"
   
   Siria became a bit shocked, forgetting her stare down upon the city of Pittsburgh haunted by steel, smoke, and dreams, an Iron City's reverie immediately deleted as the teenage girl with the weird name glanced down the hill of her backyard and looked upon a golden colored, wolf-like creature. What made it even more bizarre, yet quixotic, was that the creature danced to her; next, initiated verbal speech.
  
WOLF-LIKE CREATURE
Hey Siria, getting bullied at summer school for your name, the modern times, maybe the end times, and because you flunked algebra, not liking the association of numbers and letters?

SIRIA
Who the hell are you?  Urinating in her lime-green and best pair of panties, but keeping her cool, the beer helping, which she dropped upon the green grass, foam flowing.

WOLF-LIKE CREATURE
Don't worry mate.  I'm part Canis lupus familiaris--a golden retriever mixed with a mystical and nice werewolf.  I instinctively adore water sports; moreover, I am an active type of dog.  Love play; plus, helping the disabled.  I can even do complicated algebra.  And I'm gonna bite you.  Hold still as I approach--fear not and the mutation will set in with savage sublimity.  Approached.

SIRIA
Oh my gosh . . .  Accepted, as she was frozen in place, like a quicksand dream, and the bite was on her hand, oozing forth the art of future transfiguration.  

Weredog Tart (2)

   
   "Weredog Tart (2)"
   
   Siria hated the armchair quarterback.  Like when her Mom was departing, off to the Otherworld, and the pseudo-physicians misdiagnosed; next, caretakers shocking with sloth-like maintenance, though they had a mouth, and could hornswoggle--that's what quasi-intellectuals do.
   But Siria had extravagant empathy for Dad now--him finally, knowing.
   The whispers, the behind the back, and yet Siria was never really pissed, for it was too disastrous to see her mother sitting in piss and shit without intervening and doing what was axiomatically right, like research.  Her own doctors, not the bullshit of clinical psychology, for she had Catholicism, which mirrors the Truth--the love and mercy; plus, getting mobility and wasting yourself for the love of others.  Feeding, wiping, medicating, carrying, watching bowel evacuation up close, more than any medical student, and still be strong.
   It was Friday night.  The Moon was lovely and full over Pittsburgh.  Siria sat in the suburbs, cranked open a beer some dude bought her--an attractive girl can get anything.
   She felt the summer wind howl and an entity approach, intangible yet so real, as is the mystery of God, but this one was armed with fur, fangs, and fright.  

Weredog Tart (1)

   
   "Weredog Tart (1)"
   
   Siria wasn't pleased with her name due to the modern times.  Even though crowned in mousy brown hair with arctic blue eyes, she was harassed by her summer school classmates, writing nasty notes to her, spelling her name Syria, and dubbing her a terrorist.
   Siria didn't hang her glow downwards save to grow the vegetation beneath her feet.  Drink a few beers underneath the heat of our Moon's daystar reflection, squat and make a good piss, like a dog--her name related to Sirius, the brightest star-system in the Earth's nocturnal sky, a dog star; specifically, Sun-bright, glowing and with effulgent shine.
   But being a teenager is tough.  Security.  Cops.  More cops.  Psychologists.  Bullshit.  All she needed was some urban fantasy paperbacks, a few beers on the weekend, her weekly Judo classes, and a perpetual motion towards a destiny determined to adore the antiquated gifts of Christ, no longer adhered to as the birth pains have ignited, and only those able to pass the painful kidney stones of existence will be peacefully delivered.
   Too, she was pulling for the Cubs this year even though residing in Pittsburgh all her eighteen years.  Hell (as for the Cubs), an eternity of being an underdog deserves some cheer, baby.  

Liberty's Sparkle (85) Epilogue

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (85) Epilogue"
   
   Liberty realizing the shift in the Irish Bard's infamous and yet famous, ever-told soul, not surgically precise, but robotics might be even more one day, possibly; still, the slur of her own observations, highlighted by golden pilsner that was resurrected in her every day wake, her offering:  "A drop every minute for stumblestone Davy; a rise every morning out of standfast dick."   Her own vinyl record--it played well, even backwards.
   But there would be no solemn reverie for Liberty in the near futurity of it all, so accepting, igniting her indigo fire to keep the trailer trash away, yet embracing those made platinum by dire circumstance, as if protected by guardians from the Otherworld.
   And Bobby Rook, in the straight direction of capturing her Queen, across the entire board until a keel loosed upon a small geography, with some visits to the ocean's buoyant drift, making love in an infinite number of ways save insertion of selfishness; indeed, always adoring, and the whispers of weird behind their backs, yet behind, as they zoomed in the singular direction of God, like us all, and He remembered Liberty and Bobby Rook and the whole gang, even the sleazy trailer women, never not continuing rising the Sun of mercy over every soul, for even a dwarf can punch a giant in the nutsac; thus, Liberty let loose upon the Earth, giving golden glow, stardust eternal, and the smile on many faces of tiny little people, so large as David was always a King, knowing they would gamble for His garments, yet only terrified of God, as was Liberty intrinsically, not wanting to taste the quill's possible Godsmack.  Carry on extra-crispy Colonel Sanders, yes, carry on . . .