Weredog Tart (12)

   
   "Weredog Tart (12)"
   
   Siria, a little melancholy after hearing Lance's demonic dilemma of having a cruel patriarch, let out her anguished steam by gobbling up a rabbit on the ten mile trek homewards.  Once back to her suburban habitat, she waited for the Full "Buck" Moon to fade, but before it did, pooped out the hopping bunny, as if her system was working miracles within.  She looked to the heavens, sincerely saying:  "Saint Francis forgive me, but that little critter was yummy."
   As the daystar ignited, Siria shifted back into human form, running naked into her house, past a father closing his eyes, yelling:  "What the hell!?!"
   Siria got in some cut-off shorts, a fancy t-shirt that showcased the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a pair of sneakers with no socks.  She marveled at her pulsating, meta-human energy; next, went downstairs, offering no explanation for her incoming nudity, and her father didn't probe her about it.  
   After a glass of milk, she got her backpack, went to the bus stop, and headed back to summer school.  Upon arrival, she noticed Lance walking her way, head down, wearing a crown of frowns, and felt a great empathy towards him; thus, she put a loving arm around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, and smiled some rabbit meat still in her glistening teeth.  He asked:  "What was that for?"
   She stated:  "I figured you could use a friend today."
   Him back with:  "Yeah, yeah I could."
   Hand in hand--they strutted into the steamy torture of summer school.  

Full "Buck" Moon: July 19th, 2016

   "Full "Buck" Moon:  July 19th, 2016"

   The Full "Buck" Moon will awesomely illuminate the skies this July 19th; on the other hand, sometimes known as the Full "Thunder" Moon due to thunderstorms being prone this time of year in the Americas.  

   And the Full "Buck" Moon refers to deer sprouting their antlers this time of year, offering protection and spiritual sanctuary for some by way of the Nordic Rune Algiz.  Algiz graces many with protection, if you are in the white elk's graces.  Elk and deer having much in common as cousins; however, elk are heavier, yet both have four-chambered stomachs filled with potent bacteria to digest the vegetation upon which they feed.

   So enjoy the Full "Buck" Moon or look for Pikachu or whatever the hell you are doing, wending further into the cyborg nation; moreover, I have nothing against cyborgs, for my biological father was one, totally.  

   

Weredog Tart (11)

   
   "Weredog Tart (11)"
   
   To the Colonial Americans, it was dubbed the Full Summer Moon, so full and with effulgent brilliance, lighting up the night sky along with the stars above glittering, offering further nighttime illumination; anyway, Siria intrinsically knew what was going to happen--could feel it in her bones; thus, dashed past Dad sleeping on the couch, making sure to take the Iron City beer out of his sleeping hand and set it on the local rag next to him.
   Next, she stripped down to her nakedness, went out into the backyard, and as Luna burst completely full--she was ignited into a hairy, golden-hued weredog, tail aimed high and happy, her further full of glee, smelling everything around, and while wanting to squat and piss on a great number of things, she remained cognizant in a human sense, and thought:  LANCE McGEE!
   She knew he lived about 10 miles from her central Pittsburgh location, in the low populated borough of Wilmerding, southeast of her exact location, but she was up for a long sprint.
   As if running with unearthly power, Siria, tongue hanging out like the great Michael Jordan, sniffed out Lance's little house, and paced out front, her sensitive ears picking up the verbal action inside.  A fatherly voice scolding his son, yelling:  "You dumb shit!  Summer school!  And your skinny ass is only playing second string, actually third, cause you're too stupid to remember the playbook.  Why can't you be a bad ass like the Pirates' Gerrit Cole!?!"
   Lance voiced:  "That's baseball Dad."
   His Dad commanded:  "You're still a dumb ass.  Do you want to end up a coal truck-driver like me?"
   Lance said:  "I was thinking about becoming a welder."
   His Dad laughed:  "Like the movie Flashdance.  You're such a pussy son."
   Siria couldn't help but growl, loudly.  Next, she dropped her canine head and humbly went back home, knowing it sucked to be truly human and without the gifts of charity and love from supposed family.  Tough love works not on the mentally challenged, unless you want to drive them to suicide.  

Weredog Tart (10)

   
   "Weredog Tart (10)"
    
   Justice is a dish best served cold, so Siria figured, and she liked a piece of spiced, refrigerated beef jerky, or a cold meatloaf sandwich with hot mustard; still, she figured to let it go--the pseudo-gifts of care-taking ignoring her matriarch's needs, her own back torn to pieces, but now as a weredog, put back together again, and there goes the myth of Humpty Dumpty, but he had high cholesterol and large amounts of glucose running through his egg-like veins.
   Siria was just happy to be watching the Cubs play, even though the Pirates whooped them a few days ago, and of course, born in Pittsburgh, she had that sense of neon nepotism, getting schooled and adored by the supernatural in Steel City.  Her father moving down from southern sour mash to Iron City brew, and her always sneaking a few.
   Plus, there was Lance McGee and his emerald-green eyes focusing in on her dreams, not enchanted or besmirched by her beauty, but taking it seriously, ready to let her off the leash, for she would always stay close, and never run away from true love.  Was it?  Yup.  She knew in her fast-beating heart that a guy with such glacial history would only adore her, frigid to the nonsense of Internet porn and girls with vaginal cavities the size of buckets, soon to be in need of tans-vaginal mesh due to all the coitus-craving partying and nonsense of not having a spiritual life.
   Next, Siria kissed her Dad on the forehead, and by instinct, buried a piece of beef liver in the backyard, keeping it blessed by Terra's regenerating tomb.  

Weredog Tart (9)

   
   "Weredog Tart (9)"
   
   The bus ride was quaint and yet so cool.  Lance smelling of a spicy aftershave with a Captain Hook type of roll on deodorant, allowing him the spice of man under his blonde though hairy pits--heck, his eyebrows were yellow gold; thus, it had to be so in other places, as his khaki shorts displayed blonde-like curls as well, highlighted by a pair of year round moccasins.  
   Lance was glued to Siria as they exited the bus, him following her symmetrical tail, it being lead by the scents and smells of downtown Pittsburgh, so many delicious yet stank snorts of glee for Siria as she probed the eateries until hungrily approaching a chili dog swine-house, where they served kosher meats--no swine to be filled with demonic, suicidal activity--at least for them pigs known by the Christ, assisting in their launch downwards.
   So, Lance and Siria sat politely on a picnic-type of table, the daystar shining downwards, yet not melting Siria's arctic-blue eyes, those frosty entrances to a singular soul haunted by a weredog--and Lance and his shamrock-green stare were sincerely made sweet and subservient, making sure to wipe her canine mouth with dozens of napkin strokes.  

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.