Weredog Tart (8)

   
   "Weredog Tart (8)"
   
   Lance sat down next to Siria with icy cool, having no lunch as he was from the wrong side of the tracks, grabbing only a can of this or that here and there.  Siria swallowed some of the white bread, salami, and extra mayo with a canine gulp; next, glared hard into his pretty boy, shamrock-green eyes, noticing his mane of sunshine yellow, and he glued his vibrant-green orbs onto her arctic-blue--the twosome caught in a game of strategic telepathy.  Then, the conversation ignited.

SIRIA
You're the school's backup quarterback.  Never talked to me once--why here, why now?

LANCE
I haven't spoken yet.  But let me say, doing school work and memorizing the entire offensive playbook, in Pittsburgh no less, is tough on a guy, and I never noticed you till now--here, stuck in the stink of summer school.  But believe me girl--you should have been noticed, my mistake.

SIRIA
You're the only one who doesn't give me creepy looks, I like that.

LANCE
Well we should make it official and get a chili dog sometime--my treat.

SIRIA
No suspicion detected.  Her instincts said he was just a nice guy; plus, smelled like cheap yet clean aftershave.  Okay.  Tomorrow is hump day, and I mean that in the cleanest sense.  We can take the bus downtown and get some meat, beans, sauce, and a bun to wrap it in.

LANCE
A puzzled look on his face.  Just like that?

SIRIA
I'm not easy; I just know a decent dude when I see one--somebody who seems to smell and act very clean.  Nice hair by the way--eyes too.  Siria got up and started to walk off, but turned around real swiftly.  After school, remember.

LANCE
How could I ever forget? 

Weredog Tart (7)

   
   "Weredog Tart (7)"
   
   The blonde and brave, that Nordic-looking kid, ancestors migrating downwards, to the Emerald Isle; next, like Kennedy, caught the BOAT and came to America.
   Lance McGee was a verbal and shinobi-like scrapper.  A skinny and spiritually chiseled  type of punk, full of suspicion, yet clever enough to know a demon.  His shamrock-green eyes keen upon the approach and retreat of Siria, her sitting to his left hind quarter area of the classroom, like G. Gordon Liddy eating that portion of a rat, knowing to face your fears and confront them.
   Thus, while the rest of the school dismissed Siria in awkward jealousy, Lance would not.  He would follow, not stalk her.  Just keep his eyeballs glued to that fine set of runaway sticks she had, so golden hued in the summer sunshine, like a hot chick cranking the neon-yellow ball at Wimbledon.
   He saw her eating lunch in the cafeteria.  A salami sandwich he figured, and it looked to be lathered in the ripe spoil of mayonnaise.  How could he resist?  He forced himself, and made a brave QB pass.  

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.