The wild side

AN: This is a bit of a weird poetical (cool word, huh :P) fantasy/allegory/story thing that I wrote at a writing workshop- to the prompt 'my pet'. Normally I do not go well with prompts, especially to a timeline, but I think this was one of my better efforts. It has had a little polishing, but is still a bit...odd. Anyway, read and tell me what you think!

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The wild-side growls and whimpers. It whispers and squeaks. It screams and yells and soothes and compliments. Its mind and its heart are as one.

The furry colours flicker and move, a transfixing, ever-changing pattern (say some), an un-chartable jumble (say others). Whatever the truth, flashes of blue show through the canopy of green, a jungle of hues and intonations, a plethora of shades and pigmentations swirling and coalescing and converging and diverging and shifting and swimming and capturing and entrancing and- look away, before it is too late. Before you forget that anything else ever existed, caught forever by the hypnotising swirls and patterns and lines and checks and curves and- but look away, now. Look away, but don't forget. Don't forget that you ever saw.

The wild-side bows to none by choice, but each has an owner, a ring-leader, a jailer (or a prisoner...). And each person has a wild-side, hidden out of sight, or standing in plain view. But even jailers take their charges for a walk, every now and then. Or sometimes, the other way round.

A wild side races past, pulling an owner in tow. Knocking people over, yelling and screaming out mixed abuse, compliments, criticisms, praise and apologies indiscriminately- the wild side speaks only the truth. Or a truth...who can tell? It laughs, either way, a raucous, joyful, youthful laughter, let free from beaming, grinning mouth and rainbow teeth, huge smile threatening to split its head in two.

Now dull eyes begin to twinkle, sparkle, shine with all the intensity of the sun, and all the joy of freedom.

For a while.

And who can tell how long?

But now the wild-side slows, nearing home again. The smile begins to droop, to fall, to twist and turn and flip. And the wild side, falls silent.

Tears begin to fall, to wind their way down shining trails of shimmering fur, leaving it dull and matted, salt-encrusted, damp and musty. And now the wild side sobs, tiny body shaking and convulsing and shivering and hanging its head in shame and sorrow. At memories, of words and actions and laughter and joy and smiles and truths- that cannot be reclaimed, or taken back. That cannot be reversed. If only...

There used to be so many wild sides, running and yelling and whispering and confiding and praising and adoring and hating. Where did they all go? There is no more hating- or not aloud. And that is good, and well, and fine, and right. But without hating, where is loving? And where is truth? And justice? And joy, and peace, and praise? All there is, is lies. Perhaps that's why the wild sides left- for they feed on love, and joy. But also misery, and tears. And truth. How could we forget?

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Look at the colours- the swirling, moving, ever-changing, hypnotising patterns. Do you recognise them? The colours of truth, of joy and love. The colours of misery, sadness and regret. Look away, now. Look away, but don't forget. Don't forget that you ever saw them.


AN: So, what did you think? Please review! Misti, xx