The Whistleblower

10 2 1

At the barrel bottom
of the warehouse, the waft
of whiskey carries on the air,
and the torches in sconces
of iron on the walls
flicker and cast
deep shadows.

Buttercup and Phoebe
eye one another warily,
then they stand on hinds
with their finger-gloves on,
and despite my ballooning
fear, I'm proud of how
they're working together.

"See," I say, "you two are
not enemies. You work
as a team; so why bicker?"

"Shh," Buttercup hushes,
air whistling between
the thin gap of her teeth
and the frame of her fangs,
so Phoebe glances at her
and hisses.

"Really?" Phoebe says.
"You seriously whistled?"

"It was an accident,"
Buttercup whispers.
"I was just trying
to shush the hoomans—"

She's cut short
by the approaching footsteps
rushing towards us

then the shadows
giving way to the row
of heavily armored lizardmen,

formed in a strategic line
as a well-trained squadron,
neon purple guns in their arms.


First draft: October 18
Word count: 165

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