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.