Sunday, November 25, 2007

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Beebo's Time Out

Together they trekked through through the miles of mire on a trail that snaked through a terrain one could describe only as a jungle-canyon.

It wound through the hills like an intricate weave of an intricate string on an intricate bead; the path it followed would turn switch-back here and knot around in and on itself through endless permutation.

Would there be a destination for the lonely two?

He had not had Beebo long when they took this trek. He'd heard of this place before, how treacherous it could be. The serpent would be out twisting in these hills as well, as the weather had been fairly dry, and God knows they like to seek moisture and shade.

Didn't bother Beebo much. With nose to the ground, he plowed through that trail as if his nose were a blade; the plowshare digging and turning on an ivey path.

Levin was getting a little concerned. The wind was picking up and it made the upper canopy to sway and caused what seemed a whisper from above as tree on tree, limb on limb and leaf on leaf would brush and whoosh as a deified wind animated them like tall giants towering, protecting and tip on tip scratching at each other.

It was like a battle of light touch, but an incessant campaign.

At once a gust would rip through the canopy and space itself would open from above. The sky, so little seen in these woods, would wink at him.

Yeah, Levin was concerned. Concerned that that damned Beebo would continue snorting the ground until that beast that his nostril percieves becomes one with which they would both tangle, like the vine tangles in the tree, once encountered completely entwined in a fight in its domain.

At once, Beebo froze. His tail was so stiffened that hairs on the tip shook like the branches in the wind.

His back was as straight as the cleave in a fractured boulder, yet his resolve as strong as the force that split it.

Levin felt a chill in his spine. they would encounter the beast.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Levin's Dog, part one


Matted, tufted...twisted-into-knot on twisted-knot; hair that grew like wire, barbed - heavy in places and sparse in others.

His step was like a coiled...or rather, uncoiled roll of barbed wire.

When he was a kid, he'd work on his daddy's farm helpin' to mend the fences (Matthew Levin, Beebo's Master, that is). Thick, heavy leather gloves, as thick as old Beebo's black and tarry hide - they were the only protection.

That wire, when a calf would knock it undone, pulling it from the fragile and rusted staples in weathered old wood, damn would that stuff uncoil fast.

God help ya if ya was workin' it when it unfurled.

Damn. Cut into ya like briar, shore nuff.

Old Beebo was the same. Son-of-a-bitch would jump till his last day, just like there was dynamite in his feet.

Good, old Beebo.

What a dog he was, in his youth.

Hell, he's lost half his teeth, and he's still better'n any Democrat I know. Course, none of them have any anyway. Crawl on their bellies like a worthless lap dog and lick your ass to death. Varmints gotta love that.

Old Beebo were'nt no lap sir. Probably wasn't no Democrat neither, if'n he could vote.

Damn good old dog, Beebo. Damned good old dog.

Be ashamed to put him down. Damned shame.

Monday, November 05, 2007

wow clock