Chasing Tails

Moghale ( Moe-g-hal) was tired, with it’s damp cobble stoned streets aligned with street lamps that created a shine in the stone road that mirrored a semblance of shapes and colors. The rusted trash cans sit huddled like stray cats alongside of stores and homes whispering awake as lights turn on in the windows.  With it’s grey gloom blanketing the city, a black cat dies in the arms of its streets.

Gentle pale fingers caressed the cats black matted fur as it gave a soft grunt whine.  The cat's breathing was erratic, pale hands moved closer. softly stroking down it’s side.

The metallic tang of the old store bell lurching, rattled forward as the door opened. The hands stilled  removing themselves from the black fur. Short wild golden wavy hair turned to the direction of the sound, hunched over squatting on the damp cobble stoned street bare footed.

The raspy curl of irish curses spilling through the dusty holed screen door as it was jerked opened.

Pale cold blue eyes peered up at the black shiny shoes to the black trousers to the man's waist coat and finally past the man's worn black old hat.

Pale blue wandered to the gloomy clouds.  “Now Mr. Bair I’ve said my answer and I have no need for this !” Mr.Bair cut the store clerk off by slamming the door in the man’s face.

On the other side the store clerk's face reddened, a deep clink and door had been locked. The clerk pulled down on a string bringing down blue wax paper the light shutting off.

Mr. Bair stood there for a few seconds his flushed face festering to the tip of his nose, he turned hacking deep in his throat and spitting on the man’s welcome mat. His hands rubbed the swell sides of his belly, reaching into his coat pockets and pulling out a tin flask. The tin was fogged with fingerprints as he eagerly twisted the cap off and took a swig. Mr. Bair hmmmm for a moment and then knocked his head back guzzling down the rest.  

Mr. Bair was a stout man with a  leathery tanned head that still had a few patches of hair left right behind his ears and circled around to the other side leaving his top head naked, a beard grizzly and untamed on his face and his hair had a strange red tint to it but was mixed with so much grey and white you just couldn’t tell what color it had used to be.

His whiskers quivered as he breathed, his bulk rumbling as he capped the tin and packed it back into his coat and glared at the closed door.

“Yer-all the same !” Mr.Bair hollard, “ All yer s**t of excuses!”

Soft pale blue eyes glanced down at their bare feet, tracing cracks in the cobble stone.

As if a sudden thought had occurred the blonde head turned gazing solemnly at the still form.

The cat's stomach lay laxed and unmoving, it’s ghostly green eyes remain staring.   

No, everything was still the same. The old were still shadows wandering the streets, the politicians still angry at each other and the poor still angry at the politicians. She’d never grow attached to anyone, you just couldn’t do that with humans. They only lived for so long before dying off like animals in the streets, like this cat struggling to breathe they tried. Pale eyes glanced back down at the cat, staring at it’s still form of it’s black furred body. Strewed out unevenly across the ground. Bringing her knees together as she crouched over it’s still form. Shackles rasped against the cobble stone as her pale fingers carded themselves softly through the matted fur. The black cat died in the arms of it’s streets and the people still tried to live.

The city circle was filled on the weekends foods and goods were sold in bulk; here gatherings of different social breeds became common. It became a way for wives to gossip about others and where men talked about the papers and businesses and the children played among the stalls. Mr. Bar with his beefy and calloused ridden hands grabbed ahold of her willowy arm, tugging her along through the throngs of people. The colorful gowns of woman became a wave rippling and rolling, reminding her of the first time she had seen the ocean. It was huge, never ending, going beyond the limits of her sight. Her eyelids closed, imagining the breeze filled with the smell of salt and sand. She could smell it, filling her nose and pretended that the surrounding noise was the crashing of waves hitting against rocks. She didn’t feel the hundreds of people she bumped into nor the eyes curiously following her form as they waded through the crowd as her white pants fluttered around her ankles.

Her white shirt rolling alongside the colorful clothes as the wind took a hold of them and played. It’s invisible force that no one could catch or control.

Her pale eyes blinked open, squinting as the light assaulted them as it’s sudden return blinded her for a few minutes. There sudden halt removed her from her thoughts. The large back of Mr. Bair blocking her view she had assumed he was talking to someone. There had been an agreement then as Mr. Bair bobbed his head and laughed roguishly and moved his bulk letting her see past his frame. The man Mr. Bair was talking to had been a scrawny sort of man, his face was sharp and his lips pale and chapped.The man’s dark brown eyes zeroed in upon her, she could feel his gaze trail over her eyes, face and hair. He seemed pleased with what he saw because in the next second the man shot out and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into a tent standing a few yards away. She tripped unsteadily as the cobble stone shifted to lumpy grass as he pulled her forward. Peeling the tent flap away he pushed her inside. The lights were dimmed and it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. As her eyes adjusted she noticed the few straggly frames of people and then their eyes. Multiple pairs of eyes bearing down upon her as she glanced around at the cold stoned faces of her brethren. Both women and men looked away as the scrawny man pushed through the tent flaps behind her. No sounds but the distant shouting from outside the tent broke the tense seconds of the circle before it vanished as the man brushed past her and disappeared farther into the tent. It was like a gust of wind swept her away as the women surged forward gently grasping her hands and arms and pulling her forward and started to pick shyly at her golden locks of her hair, touching and prodding at her soft skin.   Broken chipped pieces from off their arms to faces were apparent, their gears were showing through. The strings that pulled their limbs to their eyelids were left in clear view. We weren’t invincible, immortal we are not. The chips and cracks only prove it, “ One day,” she thought, “One day we’d break and cease to function altogether.” Unconsciously she rubbed the side of her arms feeling the smooth skin. She tensed feeling uncomfortable under the attention, noticing a deep silken voice brushed her ears silencing  the others. “ Now, this isn’t the proper way to welcome one of our own is it?” Her blue eyes widened as she searched the mass of women, catching the swift movements of burnt sienna. The crowd broke apart, splitting a walkway through to the center. A tall figure moving predatory like swept through the crowd giving her full view of the women's sienna colored hair. The women’s plump rose painted lips curled into a smile.

“ Welcome, My name is Naveen.” Her deep baritone voice fell off her lips like smoke, raspy and mysterious.

She blinked looking up at the woman named Naveen,” Thank you.” She spoke. Naveen’s delicately arched eyebrows rose and she chuckled before gesturing her hand out to her. Her hand was chipped, the ravages of time showing despite her beauty.

“Your name little one?” A soft frown placed itself on her face at the nickname,” I have not one.” She said at last.

Naveen’s eyes drifted afar before flickering to her, she smiled. “If you ever want to chat.” She whispered gently as her hand softly took hers in a handshake.

She felt it between the palms of her hands, the soft curling and roughness of the paper. She didn’t glance down at it when the handshake was released and Naveen walked away. She turned slowly glancing behind her, as she eased her two hands together capturing the note within,  noticing that the crowd had also dispersed, she caught sight of the scrawny man making his way towards her. She stood still never removing her eyes from him and as he drew closer her hands unconsciously tightening together.  

She feared for second he knew about the note as he eyed her hands for a moment and she strained herself from tensing. The scrawny man looked away though, pulling her as he did outside he grabbed her arm and pulled her further into the tent. They walked by wooden shipments, by numerous of dogs, vases, clothes and paintings. They walked to the end of the tent where another flap rustled open, streaking light onto her bare feet. He let go, giving her a look before leaving her again, exiting through the tent flap.

She stood unsure of what to do, settling for glancing around she noticed a few stragglers sitting besides each other in the dust of the floor. Her blue eyes withered, missing legs and arms, fingers torn roughly off with their inner strings sticking out. Faces half gone with just the mask frame to their structure giving any shape at all. Eyes, feet, arms, ears gone.

She hid her grimace as the scrawny man entered back in from the tent flap, pushing her by shoulder this time he lead her through the tent flap. She felt his hand leave her as the sun glared through blinding her; hands half rising to attempt to block the sun. There was a sudden rush of sound jarring her. She squinted blinking repeatedly, spotting the scrawny man who rose his hand out silencing the loud commotion. A an old carbon button microphone rose to his face, his voice rumbling.

“Number two hundred and eighty-eight,  ladies and gentleman.” He swung his hand around gesturing at her while she stood dazed feeling the wooden stage beneath her feet. Her sight returning she saw the mass crowd of the colorful clothed audience. She straightened her back and stood still, training her eyes to her guide with the microphone. “A mint condition Doll, made back in the late seventeenth century .

The man's chapped lips curled greedily as the people started to holler loudly out numbers.

He threw his palm out once more silencing the crowd again. “We start the price at a hundred and eighty dollars.” The shouting of numbers and the price rising made the scrawny man excited as he egged the audience more into a craze.

She eyed the crowd, reminding her of a pack of wild dogs she had encountered when she lived in the outskirt city of Rowale ( Ro-Wall). The dog's teeth nipped at her ankles, sniffing her bags as she had lugged them up the hill to the fin’s home.

She trailed the the rich colors of clothes the crowd wore, noticing the rich elements to them.

The fine makeup of the women were protected by single colored umbrella’s shadowing their eyes from view. These were the strange forms of humanity, their heavy metal geared dresses and inner corsets. Beauty was pain in the literal sense and to women it meant everything. Her pale blue eyes drained away from the crowd. The chains clanked and clinked beneath her on the wooden stage. Her hands remained resting on her lap. Barely listening to what the scrawny man said next she ignored the furious shouting and listened to the faint sound of the tent flapping.
She used her thumb to trace the little slip of paper in her hand. Loosening her grip a bit to actually get a look. It was a small piece of yellowing parchment, noticing a delicate script of writing. She ducked her head down a bit to get a better look, silently mouthing the word. “Oracle, south Abbey town.” With a loud crack in front of her she lost grip of the paper, the wind slipping it from her fingers and sweeping it away. She watched it as it tumbled from the stage and disappeared between legs. “Sold, for  two hundred ninety dollars!” Scrawny man rumbled through the microphone.  

She shrunk as two men in brown suits came up on stage to retrieve her. She stared down to her dusty yellow feet nervously as one man gently took her by the arm so unlike scrawny man and Mr. Bair and took her down the steps. She chanced a few glances up searching the faces of men and women to see if they were the one to have bought her. When she spotted a man smiling eagerly at her she had assumed him to be the one, he gave her a creepy feel and shivered as the two men guiding her right past. Thankful that he wasn’t the one she looked forward to spot an old woman dressed in a lace shawl draped over her head and shoulders.The woman's wrinkled face was soft, her eyes fading from their original dark green. Her nose wasn’t too big or too small and only had a tiny noticeable ridge too it. Her lips were thin, painted in a dark brown. She was hunched over her cane which she rested against. Her tan colored dress complimented her lipstick and eyes just nicely. She only looked her true age when you noticed the dark heavy bags underneath her eyes.

“What’s your name girl?” She warbled softly. She must have been a singer she thought to herself. “I don’t have one.” She said.

She felt a bit ashamed she didn’t have one to give to the old women but it was the truth. When she had been made she received not one and all the others given to her just never sat right.

The old woman hummed for a moment before her brown lips curled into a sort of a smile, “ Choose one for yourself then,” she crooned, “ Until then I’ll just call you Layla.” She mouthed the name to herself and found herself oddly liking it for some reason. “ That’s fine.” She rasped quietly feeling the tension drain from her shoulders. “ You may call me beatrice.” Beatrice said at last, pulling herself from off her cane and turned to walk, “ Let’s get out of here then.” A soft huff puffed from Layla’s lips, “Humans,’ she thought to herself, “ We’re surely strange things,”

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