Hachiko promised to greet the professor at the end of each day at Shibuya Station.
The dog was always the first to greet Ueno after a long hard day at work.
But Professor Ueno did not return on a fateful day, a year later.
Never mind, said Hachiko. I’ll wait until my master comes home. Seasons come and go, but I will stay.
The cold, rain and heat did return, time and again, but Hachiko never strayed. Hachiko appeared each day precisely when the train was due at the station.
“Professor Ueno suffered a cerebral hemorrhage,” the people at Shibuya Station would whisper. “He’s never returning.”
Days became weeks and months, till ten years had passed.
Never mind, said Hachiko each day. Here I wait, for my friend who’s late. I will stay, just to walk beside you for one more day.
The dog watched the commuters coming into the station in all directions, as he sat and waited.
Many of the people who frequented the train station had seen Hachiko and Professor Ueno together. They left Hachiko treats and food to nourish him during his wait.
Doors opened and slammed shut
As Hachiko braved all four seasons
Till the doors slammed shut one final time—
God Save His Soul, said the gathered crowd, as
Hachiko lay dying,
Lying on a street in Shibuya
Just as
Hachiko said:
Professor Ueno! I’ve been waiting forever!
Taking his last breath on earth
Before running into the outstretched arms of his master’s spirit
Accompanying his master home once again
This time in the Afterlife
# # # # #
Father Bear & Baby Bear
A 55-word exercise.
* * *
“Congratulations on your first kill, son!”
Junior proudly held up the fresh kill he’d made, as blood seeped into and soaked the ground below.
Junior finally felt like he was somebody ready to face the world—he had a human head to mount on his wall now.
“Your mother will be so proud of you.”
# # # # #
Skins
Skins features “Laer,” the dark elf antagonist from The Darker Side of Life (the second instalment in my Cyberpunk Elven Trilogy). Hence, there’s a little bit of dark fantasy thrown into this story.
This is an incident that occurred in his younger days...
P.S. The interior décor in this story is all real.
* * *
“Welcome to Paradise!” Aleksandra Nikolic sailed into the main sitting room of the $30-million yacht she and her husband had recently purchased.
Really? 15-year old Laer looked around at one of the dwellings his good friend’s relatives called “home.”
“Nice crib, huh,” Stefan murmured.
“Don’t speak that way,” Aleksandra said sharply. She turned around, striking a pose in her impeccable Carolina Herrera gown. “You don’t come from the ghetto.”
Stefan didn’t argue with his step aunt.
Laer nervously ran a hand through his spiky hair. He wasn’t quite sure how to politely put across that the lavishness was quite, quite suffocating.
The two teenage boys stayed close to each other, seeking comfort in each other’s presence. Both of them had come from backgrounds that were vastly different from the world of the super-rich.
Aleksandra’s husband, Andre, gave a quick nod and smile to the boys as he continued chatting over the phone with one of his lawyers. Customs officials had just seized several trophies made from the skins of endangered animals from the couple’s Miami beachfront estate. The discovery of the exotic skins had resulted in a $30,000 fine, a fee which his lawyer was working on reducing.
The yacht, named the Mystère, also contained a host of similar trophies.
Aleksandra trotted out statistics like a shopping list, running through the various materials on the walls and floors as they along. “That’s bamboo, that’s oak, that’s eucalyptus, that’s crocodile…”
Laer was getting giddy from the zig-zag pattern of zebra-skinned beddings. There was a jaguar skin rug, complete with the head, open mouth crying out in perpetual silent pain. The tiger and lion heads on one side of the wall eyed the Mystère’s guests too, with their cold lifeless eyes forever frozen in time.
Laer leaned against the dining table for some balance when he saw a cigarette holder made from python skin, next to a cigar box wrapped in elephant hide.
“Andre is spending $10 million on a gallery for his world-class collection of ivory,” Stefan had mentioned to Laer earlier that week.
Laer had heard of the Nikolics’s taste for collecting exotic animal skin clothing and furniture, though he questioned whether Stefan had been telling the truth or grossly exaggerating. It was nauseating to discover that Stefan had not embellished any facts at all.
“Andre had a strong idea of creating something…modern,” Aleksandra explained to the boys. “He said he wanted both details and clean lines. It’s genius.”
She put a hand out to the walls of one room, which were covered in ghostly white stingray hides, while the walls in the next room were covered in hand-stitched calf’s leather.
The main deck featured two Michel Haillard chairs made from alligator hides and sienna-hued horns from a deer-like animal called the kudu.
“I love beauty,” Aleksandra yattered on, “and I don’t understand ugliness in fashion, so I admire all the people who are making this world more beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” Laer repeated absent-mindedly, taking in the gruesome décor. Please explain, how spilling the blood of animals for vanity is beautiful?
Aleksandra took the indifferent silence that chilled his heart as speechless admiration.
When no one was looking, Laer tested if his magic could work on the high seas by conjuring a basic flame spell in the palm of his hand. The pale blue flame lit up in his hand without any trouble.
Laer’s boyish good looks contradicted the seething rage hidden below the surface.
Amidst all the carnage he had thus witnessed in what the Nikolics termed “luxurious details,” he knew which one made the biggest impression on him. It was the exotic Michel Haillard horned chairs covered in crocodile skin with the tails that slunk out onto the floor, like the distended tongues often seen in persons hanged on the gallows.
[“Furniture by Michel Haillard” | Grand Home Design]
“While most mega-yachts are ‘vulgar’ statements of wealth and power, the interior design of the Mystère was designed to be in harmony with the sea and nature,” Aleksandra went on. “This boat has elegance and intelligence. It is not trying to show the money.”
Laer’s attention was fixed on the crocodile-skinned chairs. He thought he saw one part of the chair rear back and take the form of the crocodile’s head, as he heard the screams and cries of the animal as it was bludgeoned and skinned alive. The animal’s eyes were glistening.
The vivid image played out in Laer’s mind. No faking it. Those crocodile tears are real.
“Do you like animals?” Aleksandra asked. She admired the trophies on the wall when her teenage guests didn’t answer. “I do—nothing screams wild and luxe like exotic animal hides.”
Laer was close to throwing up, and it wasn’t because of the ocean waves.
“It’s…a…abuse,” he managed to stammer.
Aleksandra tossed her golden honey blonde hair back and tilted her chin up slightly, observing Laer from the tip of her nose. She gave a little shrug and a cold smile. “It isn’t animal abuse if the animal is dead.”
But that isn’t the case. A blinding anguish scorched Laer’s mind and seared his soul. You bloody well know it!
“I have a true passion for exotic-skin footwear and fashion accessories.” Aleksandra was proud of her fashion sense, as proud as she was of the floating paradise s
he and her husband loved to show off and throw parties on. “I love alligator and crocodile shoes and boots, belts, and wallets, as well as luggage, bags and furniture. Eel-skin is nice, ostrich as well, and stingray, sure...but my favorite is real, proper, sea turtle skin. My custom boots made of sea turtle belly hide—with a lambskin lining for summer and detachable mink lining for winter—is one of the crown jewels in my footwear collection. I can show it to you later.”
Aleksandra had a look her perfectly pedicured feet, before adding, “The bar lounge in the Mystère—bar stools, tables and lounge furniture—is upholstered entirely of alligator belly skin. I was included in every step of the design!”
A brilliant idea struck Aleksandra just then. She made a mental note to create bar stools covered in whale foreskin. She thought it’d be a good way to shock future guests.
Laer was thinking of setting off a round of explosives in the expensive yacht, but he realized it wasn’t the best move. It was too guerrilla, and wouldn’t humiliate or shame the Nikolics. He had to make a more sophisticated statement, to be taken a little more seriously by haute couture devotees who reveled in cold-blooded vanities to pass their time.
Arguing and activism didn’t interest Laer. He was clearly picturing a better way to make a statement. The energy he felt gathering within himself came as a surprise, like he was gaining a sense of some kind of new purpose in life.
“Sorry,” Laer whispered to Stefan from the back. “But I have to do what I have to do.”
He stood behind the unsuspecting Stefan, covering his friend’s eyes with his hands. “Lanta kaima’lova handasse.” The spell would keep Laer’s human friend asleep and unconscious for the next hour.
“Where’s Stefan?” Aleksandra called out, just as Laer turned around to face her with his piercing green eyes.
“Va, vine, viata,” he murmured, waving his hand toward the stunning silver snake arm band Aleksandra was wearing.
“Is Stefan all right?” Aleksandra inquired. The Elven words Laer was muttering were gibberish to her ears.
A chill ran through her lithe frame when she saw the absolute lack of any human warmth in Laer’s striking gaze. “Wh—”
She gave a bloodcurdling shriek as her hand went to her throat.
Laer stood still and watched as her eyes began to roll back—she was lying on the ground, convulsing, immobile after her snake arm band had come to life and slithered up her arm to bite her on the neck. Her blood was now poisoned and saturated with pure, undiluted mercury.
“I—” was all Andre managed to utter when he stepped into the room.
Laer waved his hand to the billionaire, who collapsed onto the ground alongside his former Yugoslavian pop-star wife once the silver snake had punctured his jugular vein too.
“Neuma en’ templa,” Laer chanted, to trap the 30-strong crew onboard in a sleep spell as well.
He had to work fast—he was simply not yet strong enough as a dark arts practitioner to keep a large group of people unconscious for an extended amount of time.
“Lietha guldur!” He dispelled the charm on the silver arm band. With a metallic clink, the snake band returned to its original form and stayed on the ground, unmoving, as Laer went forward to pick it up.
Once he’d disrupted the power grid of the yacht’s integrated surveillance system, Laer whistled as he worked, dreaming of skinning the Nikolics like how an animal was skinned, unfazed by the quick, unmessy murders he’d just committed.
“After all, it’s not abuse if the animal is dead…” he muttered over the Nikolics’s corpses.
But it was tricky to skin a human body. He didn’t have the time or knowledge to drain all the blood without making a big mess. He also didn’t know if he could undo any mistakes he might make, especially if it involved the removal of the head.
The young dark elf chose to strip and drag the bodies out instead, placing them on the grotesque Michel Haillard horned chairs covered in crocodile skin, with the tails that slunk out onto the floor.
The Nikolics’s stark nude bodies were displayed in the same fashion as the chairs, with their arms and legs resting on and splayed out the exact same way that the horns and tails on the chairs curled up and out.
“Two for the win.” Laer stood back, re-positioning the bodies a couple of times, admiring his precise handiwork, when he decided to add a few more things.
“Skalle,” he said, conjuring up two blood-spattered human skulls.
He placed one skull below the tiger and lion heads hanging on the wall—one human skull for each animal head—before having another flash of inspiration.
“Sk’aal’burdur,” he said as he snapped his fingers at the animal heads on the wall, replacing them with real-life replicas of the heads of the Nikolics.
“Skål,” Laer chuckled, enjoying the word play, holding one hand up like he was holding a wine glass. A Skål was a Scandinavian toast of friendship usually offered when drinking, as a casual toast. He toasted the moment to his first kills as a dark elf. It’d been worth it, and something to brag about if he ever felt like it.
Laer grabbed Aleksandra’s snake arm band, taking it as his trophy and souvenir, and as his future weapon of choice.
A thin smile appeared on Laer’s face as he looked upon the scene of his slaughter. Suddenly, the croc skins seemed to be shining even brighter than they had before. With each passing second, they were looking more and more alive under the pallid remains of Mr. and Mrs. Nikolic.
One more finishing touch, he said to himself.
He went over to their laptop, ran a quick search on how the fur trade worked, and printed out the paragraph:
“Fur items come from animals who spend their short, miserable lives in cramped, filthy cages until they are slaughtered, or they are trapped and beaten to death in the wild. Fur farmers and trappers often use the cheapest and cruelest killing methods available, including suffocation, electrocution, gassing, bludgeoning, drowning, and poisoning. Many animals are still alive and able to feel pain when workers begin to rip the skin off their bodies.”
Laer signed the paper off with “We (The Dead Animals) Are Watching You,” to infer to the authorities that it was the dead skins that had come to life and taken their revenge on the hard-partying socialites.
After scribbling one final thought that summed up his entire feelings on the exotic skins trade, Laer tacked the piece of paper onto the side of Aleksandra’s death-trapped face. He thought it was fitting that she had died with her mouth open, akin to the head of the jaguar rug on obscene display in the middle of the room.
He carried the still-asleep Stefan over his shoulder and vacated the scene, getting into one of the Hov Pods stored aboard in the side tender garage of the Mystère. He had just enough manna left in him for the day to accelerate the motor and head back to shore, somewhere faraway from the luxury yacht and scene of the crime.
As he felt the delightfully warm sun and fresh breeze on his face, Laer thought of the line he’d written down at the last minute, in his small, neat handwriting:
We should all learn to feel comfortable in our own skins.
# # # # #
[NOTE: PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals)]
I’m not associated with PETA.
However I believe consumers should be “kept informed” on the details of the cold-blooded cruelty of the exotic-skins trade.
For more information, please visit https://www.peta.org/action/activism-guide/default.aspx
The following is an excerpt from PETA’s campaign:
“Ask Hermes to Stop Killing Animals for Cold-Blooded Vanity”
[“Famed actor Joaquin Phoenix for PETA”]
High-end fashion house Hermès continues to use exotic-animal skins in its designs, despite the cruelty and suffering that alligators, crocodiles, lizards, and snakes must endure in order for the company to produce a single shoe or bag.
Millions of reptiles are slaughtered each year so that
their skins can be turned into accessories. Animals used for their skins are often skinned alive or bludgeoned to death with blunt objects. Animal welfare is simply not a consideration for those who hunt, poach, and factory-farm these animals. Famed actor Joaquin Phoenix exposes the cold-blooded cruelty of the exotic-skins trade in a new PETA video. In the video footage, live snakes are nailed to trees by their heads, and alligators are bludgeoned with metal bats before their skin is torn off their bodies.
Nike, H&M, and Overstock.com have already agreed not to sell exotic-animal skins. With so many stylish and cruelty-free alternatives available, such as fake snake and mock croc, there's no excuse for using animal skins.
Please take a moment to tell Hermès that if the company really wants to be a leader in the fashion industry, it should stop killing animals for cold-blooded vanity.
-- PETA
# # # # #
[AUTHOR Q&A]
The following interview extract was originally published on 15 August 2011, courtesy of Word Riot.
=====
Q: What projects are you currently working on?
Jess: I’m currently working on a trilogy featuring cyberpunk elves). On the whole, jessINK (my indie publishing platform) is the biggest project I’m constantly working on!
Q: When and why did you begin writing?
Jess: I’ve always been writing. I think I’ve just always enjoyed being able to channel my thoughts and imagination into a creative/analytical pursuit, which happens to be the written word. If it wasn’t writing, it’d be via music or visual art, or maybe photography, or fashion design, or…
Q: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
Jess: When I was fifteen going on sixteen, and wrote a poem titled “Disillusioned…Misguided.” A couple of friends read it and wondered if I was suicidal. I’d achieved embodying the role of “a suitably depressed poet,” which a core part of me considered an accomplishment.