Creative Writing: Bloodhounds

I went to the dog today and he told Me I was sick; not with
words but in The way his breath approached me, a Slight element of
blood like an impression Of one of Monet’s best works. I
didn’t

Quite savor it, but things like that often Tell a story. It was
a parable, the parable Of the rabbit or the squirrel who came Too
close to the fence today, and so had Its face torn off with a
sudden jerking

Motion, and just like that the head can Come off the body and
become a bowling Ball moving toward the gutter. Never a pin Knocked
over. No strikes. No second Chances. So I was sick, he told me so
with

The blood staining his breath and then he Left the house to die.
Real bloodhounds Don’t lie down in a field to be devoured by
Roots and capillaries, they run and run and Run and run and run and
run … until they

Can’t run anymore. Not running ““ that means Death.
Death means a closing of the eyes, a Restriction of the breathing
passages, a marked Stillness, a miserable coldness like a naked man
Might be in the arctic … an ascension … ? Who’s

To say these things but my wily beast careening Off into
oncoming traffic; the light is never red So nothing stops, not
breath or blinking or sobbing Or thinking or fucking until that
light turns the Color of blood. Of love. Of bloody love. And
then

The tail can stop wagging. The headlight is crimson With guilt,
the faceless crowd swarms like locusts To devour this meager
display for their own sickness And I want them all to fucking die.
I want the asphalt

To sprout a jaw and close it on those leeches who never Greet me
until grief has moved into my house. They have To feed. I finally
walk to my pet after shaking my body

Loose. He feels like the earth cooling. His heart is beating,
His body is quivering; his eyes are panicked, unable to see

What is going on. My hand’s on his muzzle; I’m sick
but it feels More like I’m dying.

Adkisson is a first-year English student.