Magic Hour


With my nose close to the ground, I smell insects and the piss of those that have gone before. Burying this snout of mine deep into the dirt, the scent of nature tickles my gums taking me closer to the true meaning of God. Growling, I stick my tongue out and taste the slime of worms and snails and when their scent flares within my nostrils, God parts the clouds and the light from the stars makes the forest shine as bright as day. Looking up, her music vibrates upon my whiskers, and as I bark, the rasp that escapes my mouth stirs the angels in the heavens the likes of which man will never glimpse. Spiralling down, they run their fingers through my fur, whispering into my pointy ears the secrets of which I seek. That God is a woman, and all women are God, and only through a woman does the music of the universe make itself known. Lifting me off the ground, my boy turns around and darts back. Barking at me as my paws hover several feet off the ground, the angels paint pictures in the sky showing my life and hers in the two halves of a figure eight. We were born from the same seed. Two sides of the same coin. The light and the dark. The push and the pull. Playing out our lives, colliding, separating, moving in different ways before becoming whole once more. In the images they show, our paths move side by side then entwine like vines around a tree, and this is how it was meant to be, and always will be. As the night sky swims, my boy leaps into the air biting my tail, swinging beneath me like a pendulum. Snarling as if rabid, he shakes and shakes as I float hypnotised by the secrets of life until he frees me from the grasp of the heavenly ones. Falling to the ground, we jump to our feet and eye each other up, and although there are no words, he lets me know that he has something to show me. Something that can’t wait. Nodding at him, he barks before rushing off, and I follow not without taking another look above, and sure enough, the figure eight hangs there still, so ethereal and timeless against the stars. In one half my human form, and in the other, X, smiling that smile of hers, and among the trees by my side, the animals too are glued to that smile. They whistle and howl as those strange white teeth of hers bathe us in a milky glow that in this magic hour resembles the softness of snow.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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