Untitled by Diego Marcial Rios

Skipping Home

By Pamela Villars

Skipping home from school one day, I felt his breath blow in my ear. The breath was
strong: a pig's remains at dusk, slightly turned and sweet.

"It's you!" I spun and twirled to catch him, but his hooves leapt over me, landing in my
neighbor's tree. It sobbed and died, poor thing, paling slowly into ash.

"Damn you," I cried and pulled my cloak around me.

He landed lightly on the ground, grass cushioning his cloven feet; his eyes shone
crimson, glowing, flecked with gold.

"I am my Father's son," he said. "You know my name."

"And you know mine," was my strong retort. He flinched and we began.

He tapped his hoof - I tapped my toe.

He licked his lip - I licked my teeth.

He laughed out load - I hollered wide.

But then he called his minions - I was done.

He took my hand and we retreated into night, where I awoke, crying for my mother.

Pamela Villars lives in Austin, Texas, with Stella (a neurotic border collie mix) and Tails (a wild young pup) and aspires to be the female Dog Whisperer. She's been writing for about two years and been published in Integral Yoga Magazine, Tiny Lights Flash in the Pan, Drash Pit, Wanderings Magazine and Literary Mama. You can contact Pamela by e-mail: pvillars@earthlink.net

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