The Bronze

She came home tired and huffing, having run a great distance, carrying all that she had.  Her belly hung heavy - low.  Her lips and teeth covered in the catch, feathers clinging to the crimson crusts around her mouth.

She placed the catch on the dirt floor of her little hovel and wondered about the single dwelling five feet from the surface, until her feet would no longer support her.  She bent her legs and lowered herself down onto the bird, placing her head gently on its neck. 

It was covered in blood - still warm.  Not for long.  She waited as had always been the case for it all to become cool. 
Inside, the little one moved.

Soon, the Bronze - Blacksock, would be the only provider.

Above her, the Domestic - with their snarling and their unnatural lust of obedience to a species that believed itself superior to all others.  The oddness of them wanting to kill her and her kits rather than savor in the natural desire for the bird or the rabbit, which in their own world was abundant enough for her and her entire clan - the fabled Bronze of the Netherwood.

Inside her belly, the young stirred.  The Bronze would grow.
"Thunder."

She smiled coolly.  The Domestic would go soon, losing interest in the Bronze.  Their yelling and screaming cum madness.  Fear of the explosions and the light-flashes and the rain. 

The rain frightened them.  Their coats drizzled wet.  Masters - cowards with black-magic sticks producing death, wait with weak eyes, frustrated by the hunt, by the water, by each other.

She licked her lips and then her paws and chest.  Smiling through her sharpened teeth, she set to tearing gently the bird apart.

Through the great hollow he came, father, hunter, protector. 

The great Bronze males, just short of a Domestic, but lighter, stronger, smarter and deadlier.  Unforgiving jaws. 

The Domestic, once dogs proudly held in the great line, forewent the underground and the hunt above, for companionship with the "TwoLeg", a criminal, selfish species that devoured all it carelessly possessed.  They listened and forgot the language for the sake of scraps that the two-leg provided - granted their bidding was done on command. 

The Domestic rather endured slavery in creature comforts than live in service to instincts.
 

The male, Blacksocks a lovely creature of celebrated fidelity with his mate.  His paws far greater in proportion compared to the slave Domestic, he makes a noise when tired as though the very ground was shaking with each pad.  His tongue hangs low and his mouth like hers covered in the catch. 

He does not possess it, having left it in the middle of the wooded glen above for the Domestic, should they come to their senses - one of their own, left shaking for dead.

"Thunder."

He sniffs the air, finding her over the bird and waiting for him to rest.

She would live and so would the kit in her belly.

The world above now weary and wet, with no sound but the servants, laughing to one another.  They speak beautiful tones as music while the wind and rain breath through the Netherwood and through them.  

He would go out again but not before the birth of his pride.  In rain, snow, wood rotted death, and forage and hunt for the blood.

The slaves, would eat their scraps in the dry cells to stare out of the magic nothing - secretly pining for a chance at his Bronze flesh - and the master's.

As he travels in and out of their pen, with fresh catch, the blood making the great Bronze darker, and more mythological, the Slaves cry.  Their masters - the TwoLeg sit on their honches around their great weapon, drinking the sleeping waters, and staring dead into the moving light bark orders for their silence, all the while stoking their apathy for the Way with poorly processed shreds of food. 

The Great American Cheese Debacle

One of our younger bakers had dropped a tub of grated American cheese onto the kitchen floor in the cafe. Though inconvenient, she went about the task of dutifully cleaning it up - albeit with a disgruntled face.
I responded by explaining, jokingly, "Hey. It's not New Orleans."
"The federal government really screwed that one up, huh?"
"No, they didn't. Look at Memphis. Different and overly loved president, and the looting, though not as publicized, has been even greater."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"Heck, in the Trib, they interviewed a person living there who said that while people were screaming for help, within earshot were looters who were not only disinterested in them, but were probably stealing their crap in the meantime. And then you look at Northern Japan - who knows how many people killed and places destroyed, and you don't see them looting! It's not a federal government's fault... it's a people fault. I mean the hurricane happened nearly a decade ago, and people can't get their act together?"
People blame others when they can not get their lazy hind ends together. Not only that, but these same people who bitch and moan about their situations, and how that "George Bush" is responsible, not only cheer on the demise of others, but because misery loves company,are willing to aid in that destruction. If they don't get that handout on time or in continuation, again it is not their fault, but someone else's.
The common arguments:
1. I'm fat.
2. I'm addicted to _____.
3. I'm unemployed.
4. I'm unemployable.
5. I'm stupid.
6. I'm poor.
7. I've done everything that I could, but i just can't______.
8. My credit sucks.
9. I can't because I'm (pick a race, sex, persuasion, marital status, faith orientation...).
10. I suck.
The excuse:
1. Pick a politician (or party).
2. Pick a neighbor.
3. Pick a race, sex, persuasion, marital status, faith orientation...
4. Whatever you do - do not pick yourself.
When things are great, we typically find ourselves only to blame in our successes, and when they are bad, the unenlightened masses find others. There is no disputing that our situations are sometimes dictated to us by circumstances, and some circumstances are indeed very difficult to weather; however, we, in adverse conditions, must seek to define our compass and go forward - from a terrible situation to a better one.
And there are some who will argue that bad things happen to them all the time and that getting "out of the mud" is impossible (heck, I even felt that way); with that in mind one must remember again that misery loves company; this does not just include hangers-on - it includes the magnetic attraction that misery has on circumstances.
Remember the old adage: "Out of the frying pan, and into the fire."
Idea: Stay away from the stove!

Now, like a good ol' talking head, who knows nothing, I could blather on about this and complain about the ills of society, leaving my spotlessness to myself; however, I have gone through bouts of depression, misguidedness, misery, jobloss (which seems to have become a single word), heart issues, broken bones, trips to the hospital - all of this leading me to ask, "Why me?"
Which begs, "Why not me?"
The fact is that I am blessed. I am by no means rich and at times we struggle; however, we can pay our mortgage and feed ourselves. I am no Charles Atlas, yet I can walk, run, jump, and pick up my daughter. And in spite of a lot of bashing to my faith, I can worship the way I need to - for which I am immensely grateful.
I guess I am tired of people, including myself, complaining (period).
It rains. Get an umbrella. Don't wait for the rain to stop.
It shines. Wear sunglasses.
You hungry. Eat something, and remember that there are people in this world who may never ever read this crappy essay, and will never know how tasty that oily, orange-mustard colored government-issue American "cheese" really is.