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animal_quills2006-10-02 07:31 pm
makhsihed.livejournal.com) wrote in animal_quills2006-10-02 07:31 pm
Entry tags:
The Wild Within
(Note: I originally wrote this up in pieces, just a description of each animal-person I know. But then I had to come up with something for a creative writing class, so I turned it into third-person, slapped "bookends" on it. The ending "bookend", the second-to-last paragraph especially, feels fake and melodramatic and stupid. But it made the descriptions into a coherant piece, so I used it and submitted it and the prof loved it. Eh. Anyway - I finally got around to finishing all the write-ups/descriptions of the animal-people I know, so I added them into the "bookended" piece and here it is.)
She hunts for the wild in humanity.
These are the tracks that the wild leaves: shadowy depths of something not-quite-human lurking behind the eyes; the restlessness of being wingless or clawless; feral wariness of motion and reaction. Her trained eye recognizes the signs, and with study, the form that leaves them.
Wolves are direct and rough, no-bullshit and no-nonsense; there are many of them. There is a tall rangy male, scruffy, with a slight beard and unkempt hair: he is a cocky juvenile wolfdog. He looks in some ways as Hollywood depicts the werewolf in man form, and he moves with a cocky sureness that leads one to expect his tail to be curled up and his tongue lolling.
There is another wolf, a heavyset woman in her thirties, middling height, with soft dough-pale skin and seal-brown hair. Not the sort one would peg as lupine by her appearance. But it is evident in her dark eyes, piercing and intense; in her almost-wary movements, the way she seems to bristle and verge on a snarl when startled or hemmed in by too little space.
There is the one nicknamed Old Wolf – he of grizzled salt-and-pepper hair, heavy brows, intense dark gaze. He moves like the old wolf he is: stiff legged, almost stalking at times. His voice is rough, his words blunt and gruff, and one can almost see the ears flick back and forth, flatten now and again in displeasure. He has a sense of smell nearly equal to a true wolf, and his nose wrinkles at distasteful scents, or flares wider at interesting ones.
She found a stag, once; a stag who claimed wolf, but she could never see it. He prances, tosses his head, watches with clear bright eyes, reacting to every noise and motion. He verges on paranoia, though one would not know it to watch him bound and preen and prance. Physically he seems almost like a wolf, with a beard and long hay-hair and a stout-muscled build - but the movement is wrong, and the behavior. He is a flirt, a buck in rut, right down to the combative tendencies. A peacock, someone once called him, for his prancing and posturing, but he's all antlers and hooves, not strutting feathers.
There is one that she cannot quite figure out; this young woman is either horse or cat, or perhaps both. She too prances, but her prancing is proud high-crested horse rather than dancing deer. Her eyes flash, head tossing back, seal-brown mane flying. Cat is there, too, in the love of texture and touch and the predatory eye for movement. Two natures manifest oddly in her; at times there is a quick movement and she seems to shy away, kicking horse-like at earth and air. At others she stares fascinated, and one can almost see a twitching tail as she stalk-stalk-pounces. She has a feline's dignity, where a loss or fall brings first a flashing fire in the eyes, and then a laugh and a grin and a manner that says "I meant to do that.” Defeat in sparring brings out that spark of flame that almost seems like anger, and then fades to acceptance and a laugh or smile, and it is hard to tell if either is more equine or feline.
She knows a puma, one of the easiest to spot. He is a grizzled graying mountain lion, long in the teeth he retains, stiff of limb and joint. Cranky grumpy snarling cat, preferring his den to all else. He is tall and lanky, all limbs, with a rough gray beard and a segmented ponytail that swings like a false tail. Proud beyond measure, and just as territorial - but it is age-pride, toothless dignity, and he avoids the conflicts by staying within his den, in his uncontested turf.
There is an owl. Her build suggests faerie - thin, near to waifish; black hair like raven wings liquefied; pale skin over sharp features. The eyes give her away, though – storm-gray eyes as reflective as a glassy lake, settling on one object, dissecting it for a long moment before shifting to the next, rarely blinking, dispassionate. Neither restless nor steady, unlike most peoples' eyes; instead, they are unsettlingly intense on the item of interest, yet never rest long on any single spot. She is almost expressionless; facial movements are like afterthoughts, twitching awkwardly from stoicism to brief smile and back again with no transition. Leaning forward is like perching; she seems rarely relaxed, never sprawled back or slouched in a cushioned chair. She looks at people, sometimes, as if they are a meal, that mirror-surfaced gaze showing little, reflecting much, and dissecting the flesh of the observed individual layer by layer.
Nothing shows quite so clearly or quite so physically as bear. She knows two of them, and they might be siblings for all their similarities, though they have never met. Both are bushy, thick-bearded and thick-haired, dark brown fur sprouting from sturdy limbs. Both move with a lumbering slump-shouldered gait. Both are swarthy and heavy of form, but impressive strength underlies the seeming shapelessness, and they possess a surprising hidden quickness that is rarely used or seen. Both are protective, with a distinct mothering side, especially in regards to close friends and to family. They are laid back, comfortable, quiet; both are far gentler than their heavy appearances imply - but she has seen them angry, only once each, and there is little more frightening than an angry bear-person.
She knows a fox. He is not the archetype of Trickster, not a fox of cunning and slyness - he far more resembles four-legged foxes, shy and wary at first but quick to tame, hungry for contact and stimulus. He is gentle, playful; his movements are smooth and subtle. He has a vulpine way of fading into the background, of stepping silent through halls and streets and fields. His head sports soft bright hair, the same pale orange as a fox's brush, and his face has a certain angularity that makes it difficult not to picture a short, tapered muzzle and alert, expressive ears.
There is an otter, soft brown eyes sparkling with frequent merriment, playful even at eighteen years of age. She bounds, she flows, she whirls and dances; otter plays in her past-times of dance, color guard, tumbling. This is not to say she is never serious; rather, she feels deeply and passionately, as quick to tears as to laughter, highly sensitive to the shiftings of relationships; and gleaming beneath her pale olive skin is a sleek seal-brown coat, clear to anyone who thinks to look.
Then there are some who have no animal inside, no hint of the wild; they are utterly completely human, and perhaps that leaves them less than human. She probes and stares, watches hard and long, but she cannot find a glimmer of wild; they are all wires and concrete, all perfect normality. Has the wild been trained out of them by disapproving glances and social prodding, or was it never there to begin with? Do they know of its absence? Do they miss it and long for it? Do they fear it so much that they’ve locked it away beyond all retrieving? Or are they all the better for its absence?
For herself, she clings to the wild within, and seeks it in others. She feeds it with woods-walking and cloud-staring; she breathes it with words and with wordlessness; she releases it on the streets, eyes pigeons with temptation, and walks the city as a hawk.
She hunts for the wild in humanity.
These are the tracks that the wild leaves: shadowy depths of something not-quite-human lurking behind the eyes; the restlessness of being wingless or clawless; feral wariness of motion and reaction. Her trained eye recognizes the signs, and with study, the form that leaves them.
Wolves are direct and rough, no-bullshit and no-nonsense; there are many of them. There is a tall rangy male, scruffy, with a slight beard and unkempt hair: he is a cocky juvenile wolfdog. He looks in some ways as Hollywood depicts the werewolf in man form, and he moves with a cocky sureness that leads one to expect his tail to be curled up and his tongue lolling.
There is another wolf, a heavyset woman in her thirties, middling height, with soft dough-pale skin and seal-brown hair. Not the sort one would peg as lupine by her appearance. But it is evident in her dark eyes, piercing and intense; in her almost-wary movements, the way she seems to bristle and verge on a snarl when startled or hemmed in by too little space.
There is the one nicknamed Old Wolf – he of grizzled salt-and-pepper hair, heavy brows, intense dark gaze. He moves like the old wolf he is: stiff legged, almost stalking at times. His voice is rough, his words blunt and gruff, and one can almost see the ears flick back and forth, flatten now and again in displeasure. He has a sense of smell nearly equal to a true wolf, and his nose wrinkles at distasteful scents, or flares wider at interesting ones.
She found a stag, once; a stag who claimed wolf, but she could never see it. He prances, tosses his head, watches with clear bright eyes, reacting to every noise and motion. He verges on paranoia, though one would not know it to watch him bound and preen and prance. Physically he seems almost like a wolf, with a beard and long hay-hair and a stout-muscled build - but the movement is wrong, and the behavior. He is a flirt, a buck in rut, right down to the combative tendencies. A peacock, someone once called him, for his prancing and posturing, but he's all antlers and hooves, not strutting feathers.
There is one that she cannot quite figure out; this young woman is either horse or cat, or perhaps both. She too prances, but her prancing is proud high-crested horse rather than dancing deer. Her eyes flash, head tossing back, seal-brown mane flying. Cat is there, too, in the love of texture and touch and the predatory eye for movement. Two natures manifest oddly in her; at times there is a quick movement and she seems to shy away, kicking horse-like at earth and air. At others she stares fascinated, and one can almost see a twitching tail as she stalk-stalk-pounces. She has a feline's dignity, where a loss or fall brings first a flashing fire in the eyes, and then a laugh and a grin and a manner that says "I meant to do that.” Defeat in sparring brings out that spark of flame that almost seems like anger, and then fades to acceptance and a laugh or smile, and it is hard to tell if either is more equine or feline.
She knows a puma, one of the easiest to spot. He is a grizzled graying mountain lion, long in the teeth he retains, stiff of limb and joint. Cranky grumpy snarling cat, preferring his den to all else. He is tall and lanky, all limbs, with a rough gray beard and a segmented ponytail that swings like a false tail. Proud beyond measure, and just as territorial - but it is age-pride, toothless dignity, and he avoids the conflicts by staying within his den, in his uncontested turf.
There is an owl. Her build suggests faerie - thin, near to waifish; black hair like raven wings liquefied; pale skin over sharp features. The eyes give her away, though – storm-gray eyes as reflective as a glassy lake, settling on one object, dissecting it for a long moment before shifting to the next, rarely blinking, dispassionate. Neither restless nor steady, unlike most peoples' eyes; instead, they are unsettlingly intense on the item of interest, yet never rest long on any single spot. She is almost expressionless; facial movements are like afterthoughts, twitching awkwardly from stoicism to brief smile and back again with no transition. Leaning forward is like perching; she seems rarely relaxed, never sprawled back or slouched in a cushioned chair. She looks at people, sometimes, as if they are a meal, that mirror-surfaced gaze showing little, reflecting much, and dissecting the flesh of the observed individual layer by layer.
Nothing shows quite so clearly or quite so physically as bear. She knows two of them, and they might be siblings for all their similarities, though they have never met. Both are bushy, thick-bearded and thick-haired, dark brown fur sprouting from sturdy limbs. Both move with a lumbering slump-shouldered gait. Both are swarthy and heavy of form, but impressive strength underlies the seeming shapelessness, and they possess a surprising hidden quickness that is rarely used or seen. Both are protective, with a distinct mothering side, especially in regards to close friends and to family. They are laid back, comfortable, quiet; both are far gentler than their heavy appearances imply - but she has seen them angry, only once each, and there is little more frightening than an angry bear-person.
She knows a fox. He is not the archetype of Trickster, not a fox of cunning and slyness - he far more resembles four-legged foxes, shy and wary at first but quick to tame, hungry for contact and stimulus. He is gentle, playful; his movements are smooth and subtle. He has a vulpine way of fading into the background, of stepping silent through halls and streets and fields. His head sports soft bright hair, the same pale orange as a fox's brush, and his face has a certain angularity that makes it difficult not to picture a short, tapered muzzle and alert, expressive ears.
There is an otter, soft brown eyes sparkling with frequent merriment, playful even at eighteen years of age. She bounds, she flows, she whirls and dances; otter plays in her past-times of dance, color guard, tumbling. This is not to say she is never serious; rather, she feels deeply and passionately, as quick to tears as to laughter, highly sensitive to the shiftings of relationships; and gleaming beneath her pale olive skin is a sleek seal-brown coat, clear to anyone who thinks to look.
Then there are some who have no animal inside, no hint of the wild; they are utterly completely human, and perhaps that leaves them less than human. She probes and stares, watches hard and long, but she cannot find a glimmer of wild; they are all wires and concrete, all perfect normality. Has the wild been trained out of them by disapproving glances and social prodding, or was it never there to begin with? Do they know of its absence? Do they miss it and long for it? Do they fear it so much that they’ve locked it away beyond all retrieving? Or are they all the better for its absence?
For herself, she clings to the wild within, and seeks it in others. She feeds it with woods-walking and cloud-staring; she breathes it with words and with wordlessness; she releases it on the streets, eyes pigeons with temptation, and walks the city as a hawk.
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Well written.