She That Writes O Mundo

She would write with a lupine hunger, hunting the words into the hot breath of the day’s ending. The wild imaginings of her dark dreams given life in the moments as the sun, cosmic tethers clipped, fell from the sky.

This creative hunger gnawed at the edges of her. And slowly she would become the hunger. Ravenous, she would become a fanged wolf stalking the words across the bright night light reflected from the snow-laden forrest floor of her flat. She would pace and circle, catching glimpses of the words, fearful and frightened, slinking low across the world wrapped in winter white.

Rare nights when the words kept themselves hidden in bushy thickets, she would howl and spit curses at the empty pages.

She hunted patiently. Time had taught her to be dilligent and dogged, to embrace the hunger, let it swallow her whole. She knew her intincts would flash, the moment she needed them, speaking gutteral with a growl, pinning her to the prey dancing on the edge of her periphery.

This half-glimpse would be all she’d need, a snarling lunge, she’d sink her teeth deep into the anatomy of her prey. She’d shake the word free from its camoflauge, snapping its neck, hers now to devour.

On this night, she hunted still. From her window, she prowled the lowlight of the night, the words elluding her, just out of sight, hidden from view in cool damp catacombs of the city beneath her.

She drifted and dreamed. Of the hunt. Of prey of nights past.

The word fofoinho escaped her lips, the sound of its intonation fighting to voice iteslf again and again, but the echo of it anatomy was was swallowed whole by the hot breath of the still night.