Chapter 8
Was it a poem, or was it a dream?
It’s probably a stupid question to ask. Probably strikes you as pretentious. Probably annoys you because “it” is so ambiguous. For that, the narrator apologizes on behalf of Grin. I’m telling you his story, or the story for which he’s responsible. It’s not my story. I disavow all ownership—criticize as you like—but just know what (who) you’re criticizing.
Grin wrestles with a black panther. The black panther has luminescent neon green eyes. Grin knows that the panther wants Grin’s throat; Grin knows that the panther simply cannot have his throat. If the panther gets Grin’s throat, Grin dies. And who knows what death in a dream really means?
Or was it a poem?
The rose-red dawn broke above a wine-dark sea.
Three armies battled for control of the unlit city.
One had poisoned arrows, swords—better weaponry.
The second had the high ground—field mastery.
The third enlisted a brilliant commander—best strategy.
A fourth party tore through the rank and file of each
chasing after a fifth party who fled across the beach
towards the hovering dawn he could never ever reach.
The fourth party, a black panther, was out to teach
the fifth party, a young man, the power of speech.
The panther pounces upon Grin, and Grin shakes the panther off. The panther pounces again, and again Grin shakes the panther off. So it went for thirty-seven years until both were exhausted, panting under the same Joshua tree.
“Why—why are you after me—” Grin manages to gasp.
“Why—are you so determined to know?” the panther wheezes.
“You’re trying to kill me. I deserve————an answer.”
The panther’s lungs rise and fall, rise and fall. “You humans are all the same. Everything—dies—and most things are killed.”
With that the panther crawls after Grin. Grin drags his heavy limbs away. The panther begins to prowl, not crawl, while Grin begins to tremble under the cost of his battle.
The third army won by enlisting the second army
to kill the first army with careful shots, after which
the third army sent scouts to scavenge the weaponry
hanging on the corpses of the first army. Two nights
into a drunken orgy, the third army’s stealth team
unleashed a flurry of arrows, spears, swords upon
the bodies mingling in the middle of the city.
Several comrades fell that night, some pierced.
Some were crushed under secondary bodies.
Some simply died from pleasurable exhaustion.
The third army’s commander wept bitter tears
wailing sincerely for all the fallen—friend and foe.
But the city was won. The city was won.
“Now to the panther and bandit,” the commander said.
Grin remembers that humans have invented firearms. Remembering thus, he remembers the M4A1 assault rifle with undermounted grenade launcher. The panther, seeing the memory flicker through Grin’s countenance, stops chasing and turns to flee.
But the panther is too late. Grin has remembered the weapon, and in remembering has made the weapon real.
Explosions tear through and tracer rounds illuminate the land next to the eternally wine-dark sea. Blood falls. The third army runs in terror, knowing that a god (or at least a demigod) walks amongst them. Grin runs out of ammunition. The panther, though wounded, escapes. Grin’s head rolls across his chest. He is tired—so tired. The paleskin moon hovers over the residue of war.
