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."