HOME | DD

Description
The owl

There stood a fence dark as coal, with iron spikes and rusty pole.

Beyond that fence a stony path, which snaked and weaved past the dying grass.

The hill in which the grass had died, where wind made no sound, stood a place un-found.

And in that home was a lupine, cadaver  eyes frozen in time in which he stared from his window.

"Tell me…" he whispered. "Tell me old abode, creak your walls, settle your beams and tell me…when will it stop?" questioned he, the lupine, eyes jet like a shark, forever staring.

Furry paws meet his face, "See no evil, yet I am shown the same?"

Breathing a long breath he spoke again, paws pan-caked grey old ears, "Hear no evil, yet the words are still the same?"

Agony, his soul ruptured and held heart, he went to scream, scream so loud but muffed his muzzle with the same paw but not spoke, but thought. "Speak no evil, but yet what is said is the same?"

He wept.

Yesterday he wept. the day before he cried. Today was not new. Was it hard to speak? Through sorrows and mourning?  "Easy to shed tear then to speak" And so he did, turned his back and shadowed his old grey face. That old top hat which hung on the same beam. His figure moved forward, walking down, down, down into the bowels, "When…" the house whispered, it settled when he walked into the basement.

"Snap of neck, snap of a glove…" The mundane reality, his work, a different body but one fact perched over his shoulder. The owl, most called him the raven, or the crow but for the mortician, that wolf, this lupine with sunken eyes, it was the owl.

Each step down the stares before work was each intestine he removed. Closer and deeper to the void, was closer to the bowels, moving down the gullet. Then he was home, in the stomach. Gloved paws squished through slimy bile, and the mold and his own sticky walls crawled when he operated. "You'll be handsome young man. For the coffin and for your lovers." Spoke he who combed the fur of corpse. Strings sown flesh, and needle spun a more handsome boy, until ready, "Almost ready that is..."

It was his quill with no feather, embalming fluid was his ink, lifeless husk; staring back, (Seemed more alive then his eyes) was his parchment. But he refused to write, "Yes, you were very, very thirsty I know, all is quenched, I have no other drinks for you." regretfully said he. He who watched from his window. He who wept and sobbed every day, He the lupine, who un-heard, refused to speak, and was blind to something new, something fresh.  So like a church bell it sung, it rang it echoed, reverberating through his pounding head.

Lips parted, foreign feeling so wild there almost came a smile.

It was different, so close but it won't reveal its nature.

Unknowing was what the wolf wanted the most.

A new rain would come barring drops, and morning dew.

"Something fresh, something new." it bellowed.

His tears were black, like the fluid he used to fill once living. As he squeezed through the tube, his own eyes leaked black thick swampy sludge. Eyes eternal fixated, un-moving and black shadow on his cheek flowed. Flowed until blind, 'It burns…" hissed the grave digger. "It burns, it always burned, why wont it tickle. It shall always burn."

Ceasing to pump more he was done, the ink flowed back into his eyes, and he was done. "There. Yet one more thing. Too dress you." he sighed, arms skidding hangers that dangled the black suits. "No…" whispers in the closet before him. "No, wont do" He repeated. "Ah…no" he could almost chuckle at the redundant cycling.  "N- of course, the best for dress to start your life" his breath huffed in ice when he spoke. "It will keep you warm, it's cold outside, it's dreary and wet but this will surface" he moaned, brushing his claws over his cold cheeks. Claws closed the dead fox's eyes into slumber.

The eyes shut. The sun slept. Darkness returned.

"Before rest, I must eat," his mind had repeated as he had finished  worked, and so he left. Up through intestine, out of bowels and up the gullet of this old house's stomach.

He lifted the flaps of his petty-coat and sat. A plate of steak, a ripe plum, and a glass of water. He ate, chewing slowly and swallowed. He cut the meat, ate, chewed slowly, and swallowed. Canines dug into the plum, he ate, chewing slowly, and swallowed. He quenched, it flowed down, he hiccupped and would burp. Sat there, and cleaned his plate.

Out his kitchen he would watch the owl who stared back, and both wanted to smile but knew what the other thought. Taking off in flight baring open claws it tore into a snake and returned back into it's branch. Both closed their eyes, he kept them closed tight and screamed loudly, the house moaned with him and he kept them closed. He repeated three times, the mental image of the owl and the snake. "Something  fresh...something new...something fresh…something new...something  f-fresh…something n-new.." and his eyes shot open.

"Hello star, hello sun" spoke the wolf in a monotone voice. Standing naked, but clothed in fur he slipped over his pants, those long pants. He put on the coat, and moved his shoulders until fit, he removed the hat, and it shadowed his face.

"Same life, different day. He would yawn, but his body had yawned for him. The bodies slept now, and it was time for mail day.

Door ajar and he walked with black boots away from the house.

Down the snaky path and stone, emotion went un-aroused.

To the teeth of the monsters maw, the iron fence and past the rocks.

Claws flicked the door, of his black mail box.

And there he sat at the eating table and slit the paper open, 'Ahhhh? Oh goodness, oh my who are you?" he questioned to the wind.

It pounded in his head once more and he quavered and shook until settled, "Something  fresh, something new."

"A fox, too tend to the bodies for me, in my old age?" said the parchment he held in his lazy tired paws.  "Yes, I hope you'll do, what do I have to lose?" He remembered his own words, and sighed.

He read the letter, the words so foreign and strange, yet to his dyslexic eyes saw the same.

Dear Oliver, I am over enthused over your hobby. Not just your hobby, but your life's work. As a proud fox with this interest and potential to learn I write this letter in regards that you will take me. Excuse my rudeness and folly for writing for this career feels so queer, as does this interest I have taken in such a…taboo choice.

Excuse me once more, but I know very much about you. I want to learn. It's been my passion for a while, yet none support my interest. Shall we meet one day from now before dusk? As costumed to your schedule

Sincerely,

Albert

The grey muzzle nodded, "Why yes, take you I will, and learn you shall…" He looked to the window, to the path the fox would walk and he saw himself stand before the window blocking it and he turned too himself, his solid form, looking back at his transparent self. Those black tears flowed again, and he wept, and he cried. He heard nothing, he saw nothing, and he spoke not one word. The lupine looked in his own mirror, "fret not, something fresh.." and the real him spoke aloud, "Something n-" He held his heart in pain, and words went un-finished.

Once more the stove cackled and flared, and the meat sizzled, the plum plucked and water spouted into his glass. He ate, chewed slowly, and swallowed. He cut the steak, he ate and he swallowed. Canines plunged into the fruit, he ate, he chewed slowly and he swallowed. It flowed, down his esophagus long dead and decayed, he swallowed and finished. Cleaned his plates and looked up. "Hello…owl" he greeted, eyes meeting yet again.

The owl swooped down to grasp a rat and landed once more on its branch. Its eyes stalked back at him, soulless, wanting. Wolf's heart thumped in fire, the house moaned a long painful winching yell. "Oooooh.." he held his chest, greeting those devils eyes, the owl.

The owl, rodent in its beak for new food it did seek.

Dead glare, hearts of many pumped rhythmically.

Delusion, fearsome hunger wings of insanity.

Harmonious is the song of death.

He clutched his heart, "Something new, something fresh," it thundered in mind.

His cave like mouth screamed a bloody ungodly screech. The house acts as a small room, and carried it, through the attic to the sky. The crows flew away, yet the owl had stayed. Staring, unmoving. So lupine gazed back, breathing heavy and his heart settled when the mouse had been devoured, yet he saw not the owl eating. Glazed eyes, hands trembled, cheeks flushed and flared in fury.

"Leave me alone! God dammit leave me alone!"  but it stared.

The owl hooted, "Stop it! Just stop it! Don't banter me don't taunt me!" and it hooted.

He couldn't shut his eyes, he watched the owl, eyes refusing to black out and he saw it.

Ringing, his eyes split wide open. He was naked once more, stood and clothed himself. Put the pants on, the coat, and the hat. The ringing in his head, like a hangover, "No? No, door bell," he assured himself. The door ajar like yesterday, a cold face almost nosed a warm face. The fox.

"Greetings Oliver, I brought my things and my tools. Will you take me?" He warmly smiled, a hearty warmth, something fresh something new. The pre-adult, (at least twenty-one of age) was eager to learn.  How could the grey resist?

"Do come in my boy, a fresh face to learn something so…come in." He actually parted his lips into a small, small smile.

His paw met the boy's back, and led him. Into the mouth, down the intestines and gullet, into the pit of the belly and there they worked. The sown the flesh, they powered the nose of the dead to make it much more handsome.

"Embalm her Albert, and she will be almost ready" he grinned. The fox stuck in the needle, and squeezed with a lark. At one moment they looked at each others eyes, and both eyes bleed with black and they laughed and laughed. Hysterics broken out, the house partook with them.

Chuckling, snickering while the ink flowed. The wolf saw black but  the fox saw tears. The wolf saw a frown, but the fox saw his maw smile. The wolf heard the fox sob, and the fox heard the lupine chuckle. Their throats left merriment in the air, yet horrible terrible cries and screams. And she was done.

"All but her dress..." The fox remarked, and dressed her handsomely. The wolf grinned once more, "We eat now" and the fox complied happily, "Yes, we eat" he agreed.

"I bought you a new chandelier!" he said with glee before they ate, fox had watch in the window, seeing there was no light source over the table, near the window the wolf had wept at. "You may put it up, these old bones..." and the fox understood.

Albert  worked on the chandelier while the wolf had cooked. The steak, the plucked plum and the water. This time for two, not one but two. He thought a banshee had crashed through the kitchen; he held his ears to his skull. The pounding, the throbbing of his mind. Glass shattered over his clothes, cutting his face and once again he screamed. Something like a thud crashed in the dinning room, his old decedent room. It subsided, the sounds, the crashing

He rushed in the room, "How! Albert! My boy! Oh my new Boy!" he mourned. The fox flat, sprawled over table, eyes half open, blood trickled down his fresh forehead, his maw a gape. The table ruined, the cover bloodied scarlet. Limbs twitched in death and wolf walked over, shielding the horror of a dead body, for the first time in his career. Body shook, trembled and aquiver away. His profession allowed him to look, look upon what had happened. The chandler broken.

"Your face…tell me...your face…" he held his paw over his mouth. The glowing foxes face, Albert had lacerations; deepened into his raw dripping bloody face, "Claws…." he looked back into the kitchen, his dinner ruined and the houses hallowed breath rushed into the woods.

His stomach cried in un-ending hungry.

Beating heart so loud, head pulsed with wonder.

He looked upon lifeless shell, fur and flesh.

Something new, something fresh.

Description
The owl

There stood a fence dark as coal, with iron spikes and rusty pole.

Beyond that fence a stony path, which snaked and weaved past the dying grass.

The hill in which the grass had died, where wind made no sound, stood a place un-found.

And in that home was a lupine, cadaver  eyes frozen in time in which he stared from his window.

"Tell me…" he whispered. "Tell me old abode, creak your walls, settle your beams and tell me…when will it stop?" questioned he, the lupine, eyes jet like a shark, forever staring.

Furry paws meet his face, "See no evil, yet I am shown the same?"

Breathing a long breath he spoke again, paws pan-caked grey old ears, "Hear no evil, yet the words are still the same?"

Agony, his soul ruptured and held heart, he went to scream, scream so loud but muffed his muzzle with the same paw but not spoke, but thought. "Speak no evil, but yet what is said is the same?"

He wept.

Yesterday he wept. the day before he cried. Today was not new. Was it hard to speak? Through sorrows and mourning?  "Easy to shed tear then to speak" And so he did, turned his back and shadowed his old grey face. That old top hat which hung on the same beam. His figure moved forward, walking down, down, down into the bowels, "When…" the house whispered, it settled when he walked into the basement.

"Snap of neck, snap of a glove…" The mundane reality, his work, a different body but one fact perched over his shoulder. The owl, most called him the raven, or the crow but for the mortician, that wolf, this lupine with sunken eyes, it was the owl.

Each step down the stares before work was each intestine he removed. Closer and deeper to the void, was closer to the bowels, moving down the gullet. Then he was home, in the stomach. Gloved paws squished through slimy bile, and the mold and his own sticky walls crawled when he operated. "You'll be handsome young man. For the coffin and for your lovers." Spoke he who combed the fur of corpse. Strings sown flesh, and needle spun a more handsome boy, until ready, "Almost ready that is..."

It was his quill with no feather, embalming fluid was his ink, lifeless husk; staring back, (Seemed more alive then his eyes) was his parchment. But he refused to write, "Yes, you were very, very thirsty I know, all is quenched, I have no other drinks for you." regretfully said he. He who watched from his window. He who wept and sobbed every day, He the lupine, who un-heard, refused to speak, and was blind to something new, something fresh.  So like a church bell it sung, it rang it echoed, reverberating through his pounding head.

Lips parted, foreign feeling so wild there almost came a smile.

It was different, so close but it won't reveal its nature.

Unknowing was what the wolf wanted the most.

A new rain would come barring drops, and morning dew.

"Something fresh, something new." it bellowed.

His tears were black, like the fluid he used to fill once living. As he squeezed through the tube, his own eyes leaked black thick swampy sludge. Eyes eternal fixated, un-moving and black shadow on his cheek flowed. Flowed until blind, 'It burns…" hissed the grave digger. "It burns, it always burned, why wont it tickle. It shall always burn."

Ceasing to pump more he was done, the ink flowed back into his eyes, and he was done. "There. Yet one more thing. Too dress you." he sighed, arms skidding hangers that dangled the black suits. "No…" whispers in the closet before him. "No, wont do" He repeated. "Ah…no" he could almost chuckle at the redundant cycling.  "N- of course, the best for dress to start your life" his breath huffed in ice when he spoke. "It will keep you warm, it's cold outside, it's dreary and wet but this will surface" he moaned, brushing his claws over his cold cheeks. Claws closed the dead fox's eyes into slumber.

The eyes shut. The sun slept. Darkness returned.

"Before rest, I must eat," his mind had repeated as he had finished  worked, and so he left. Up through intestine, out of bowels and up the gullet of this old house's stomach.

He lifted the flaps of his petty-coat and sat. A plate of steak, a ripe plum, and a glass of water. He ate, chewing slowly and swallowed. He cut the meat, ate, chewed slowly, and swallowed. Canines dug into the plum, he ate, chewing slowly, and swallowed. He quenched, it flowed down, he hiccupped and would burp. Sat there, and cleaned his plate.

Out his kitchen he would watch the owl who stared back, and both wanted to smile but knew what the other thought. Taking off in flight baring open claws it tore into a snake and returned back into it's branch. Both closed their eyes, he kept them closed tight and screamed loudly, the house moaned with him and he kept them closed. He repeated three times, the mental image of the owl and the snake. "Something  fresh...something new...something fresh…something new...something  f-fresh…something n-new.." and his eyes shot open.

"Hello star, hello sun" spoke the wolf in a monotone voice. Standing naked, but clothed in fur he slipped over his pants, those long pants. He put on the coat, and moved his shoulders until fit, he removed the hat, and it shadowed his face.

"Same life, different day. He would yawn, but his body had yawned for him. The bodies slept now, and it was time for mail day.

Door ajar and he walked with black boots away from the house.

Down the snaky path and stone, emotion went un-aroused.

To the teeth of the monsters maw, the iron fence and past the rocks.

Claws flicked the door, of his black mail box.

And there he sat at the eating table and slit the paper open, 'Ahhhh? Oh goodness, oh my who are you?" he questioned to the wind.

It pounded in his head once more and he quavered and shook until settled, "Something  fresh, something new."

"A fox, too tend to the bodies for me, in my old age?" said the parchment he held in his lazy tired paws.  "Yes, I hope you'll do, what do I have to lose?" He remembered his own words, and sighed.

He read the letter, the words so foreign and strange, yet to his dyslexic eyes saw the same.

Dear Oliver, I am over enthused over your hobby. Not just your hobby, but your life's work. As a proud fox with this interest and potential to learn I write this letter in regards that you will take me. Excuse my rudeness and folly for writing for this career feels so queer, as does this interest I have taken in such a…taboo choice.

Excuse me once more, but I know very much about you. I want to learn. It's been my passion for a while, yet none support my interest. Shall we meet one day from now before dusk? As costumed to your schedule

Sincerely,

Albert

The grey muzzle nodded, "Why yes, take you I will, and learn you shall…" He looked to the window, to the path the fox would walk and he saw himself stand before the window blocking it and he turned too himself, his solid form, looking back at his transparent self. Those black tears flowed again, and he wept, and he cried. He heard nothing, he saw nothing, and he spoke not one word. The lupine looked in his own mirror, "fret not, something fresh.." and the real him spoke aloud, "Something n-" He held his heart in pain, and words went un-finished.

Once more the stove cackled and flared, and the meat sizzled, the plum plucked and water spouted into his glass. He ate, chewed slowly, and swallowed. He cut the steak, he ate and he swallowed. Canines plunged into the fruit, he ate, he chewed slowly and he swallowed. It flowed, down his esophagus long dead and decayed, he swallowed and finished. Cleaned his plates and looked up. "Hello…owl" he greeted, eyes meeting yet again.

The owl swooped down to grasp a rat and landed once more on its branch. Its eyes stalked back at him, soulless, wanting. Wolf's heart thumped in fire, the house moaned a long painful winching yell. "Oooooh.." he held his chest, greeting those devils eyes, the owl.

The owl, rodent in its beak for new food it did seek.

Dead glare, hearts of many pumped rhythmically.

Delusion, fearsome hunger wings of insanity.

Harmonious is the song of death.

He clutched his heart, "Something new, something fresh," it thundered in mind.

His cave like mouth screamed a bloody ungodly screech. The house acts as a small room, and carried it, through the attic to the sky. The crows flew away, yet the owl had stayed. Staring, unmoving. So lupine gazed back, breathing heavy and his heart settled when the mouse had been devoured, yet he saw not the owl eating. Glazed eyes, hands trembled, cheeks flushed and flared in fury.

"Leave me alone! God dammit leave me alone!"  but it stared.

The owl hooted, "Stop it! Just stop it! Don't banter me don't taunt me!" and it hooted.

He couldn't shut his eyes, he watched the owl, eyes refusing to black out and he saw it.

Ringing, his eyes split wide open. He was naked once more, stood and clothed himself. Put the pants on, the coat, and the hat. The ringing in his head, like a hangover, "No? No, door bell," he assured himself. The door ajar like yesterday, a cold face almost nosed a warm face. The fox.

"Greetings Oliver, I brought my things and my tools. Will you take me?" He warmly smiled, a hearty warmth, something fresh something new. The pre-adult, (at least twenty-one of age) was eager to learn.  How could the grey resist?

"Do come in my boy, a fresh face to learn something so…come in." He actually parted his lips into a small, small smile.

His paw met the boy's back, and led him. Into the mouth, down the intestines and gullet, into the pit of the belly and there they worked. The sown the flesh, they powered the nose of the dead to make it much more handsome.

"Embalm her Albert, and she will be almost ready" he grinned. The fox stuck in the needle, and squeezed with a lark. At one moment they looked at each others eyes, and both eyes bleed with black and they laughed and laughed. Hysterics broken out, the house partook with them.

Chuckling, snickering while the ink flowed. The wolf saw black but  the fox saw tears. The wolf saw a frown, but the fox saw his maw smile. The wolf heard the fox sob, and the fox heard the lupine chuckle. Their throats left merriment in the air, yet horrible terrible cries and screams. And she was done.

"All but her dress..." The fox remarked, and dressed her handsomely. The wolf grinned once more, "We eat now" and the fox complied happily, "Yes, we eat" he agreed.

"I bought you a new chandelier!" he said with glee before they ate, fox had watch in the window, seeing there was no light source over the table, near the window the wolf had wept at. "You may put it up, these old bones..." and the fox understood.

Albert  worked on the chandelier while the wolf had cooked. The steak, the plucked plum and the water. This time for two, not one but two. He thought a banshee had crashed through the kitchen; he held his ears to his skull. The pounding, the throbbing of his mind. Glass shattered over his clothes, cutting his face and once again he screamed. Something like a thud crashed in the dinning room, his old decedent room. It subsided, the sounds, the crashing

He rushed in the room, "How! Albert! My boy! Oh my new Boy!" he mourned. The fox flat, sprawled over table, eyes half open, blood trickled down his fresh forehead, his maw a gape. The table ruined, the cover bloodied scarlet. Limbs twitched in death and wolf walked over, shielding the horror of a dead body, for the first time in his career. Body shook, trembled and aquiver away. His profession allowed him to look, look upon what had happened. The chandler broken.

"Your face…tell me...your face…" he held his paw over his mouth. The glowing foxes face, Albert had lacerations; deepened into his raw dripping bloody face, "Claws…." he looked back into the kitchen, his dinner ruined and the houses hallowed breath rushed into the woods.

His stomach cried in un-ending hungry.

Beating heart so loud, head pulsed with wonder.

He looked upon lifeless shell, fur and flesh.

Something new, something fresh.