And so Raven, heartbroken with the loss of her closest intimate, took on a cloak of sadness. Dyed with the pigments of pregnant rainclouds as they passed across shadowed treetops in a winter night sky, for the first time since the eyes of the world opened, she wore her sentiments around her slender shoulders for all to see. Therein, anyone with eyes keen enough should be able to view loathing and lamentation.
But if you had known Raven before Coyote left her bereft and miserably lonely you might then understand better how all this grief came to be. Had you the privilege of time, she might have spoken to you in the dawn of the world and you would have known, for even then her voice was the rasp of madness as it slid across the grains of a red wooded truth. Raven has always been too clever, and in her voice is dementia that even the Mad Dog could not endure.
Black silk over lustrous, tan skin, she stands beneath the maple melding her savvy brain to the polished complexion of her smartphone by way of that perfect, petite ear. Her honeyed voice murmurs into the microphone hypnotically, audible but not discernible over the sputtering chatter of bubbling water flowing from a distant fountain. The black stilettos scream something about appearances, but the red paint poking out the end of each shoe, brushed sometime before with meticulous care, is noise confusing that message.
"What gym do you go to?" A question she's heard a hundred times in a thousand martini bars. "Slim" is a poor choice of words. To describe those compact curves any wordsmith worthy of his dram would need to invade the esteemed halls of automotive PR. "Aerodynamite," "fasterpiece," "JOOOY," she is a four-point two liter V-8 turbo, fuel stratified injected, brushed in glossy, metallic black with rich-tanned leather behind the wheel. An automotive masterpiece on two legs, you wouldn't want to hear her redlined, but a deep, sonorous growl of satisfaction might just fill up your tank. Yeah, you will raid their treasure room of purpose-built, designer adjectives needed for this Benz of a woman.
And then to confuse, befuddling just a little more, from out of a tiny, black handbag until recently tucked under a well-muscled arm, she withdraws a vaporizer. Gloss nightmare and chrome, fully charged, she lifts it to her biochemically sculpted lips and draws deeply from the reed. The seams of that tailor fit dress strain as she inhales deeply from the slender, ebon phallus, a pair laser carved breasts pushing directly and immediately against the interior of the garment. Then, after a too-long moment, anxious with anticipation, she exhales a gossamer cloud of acrimonious smoke into the courtyard. The dress seems to sigh with relief at the passage of the steely grey cloud. You check your tablet, the P/E on this stock looks great, but oh the maintenance. Upkeep would be a bitch.
Hidden somewhere beneath those matchless mammaries and well beyond that raven hair exists a dark mote. A stain that must be dealt with cruelly. Constantly. Consistently. The saccharine scent of sativa slithers edgewise across the square violating the aroma of your gourmet brew. It is merely breakfast time, the prime commute, and this avatar of Muninn just drew enough high potency, grade A+, medical, BC kush to make Andy Griffith forget Aunt Bee. Something lurks there, dark like a shadow on the far side of a building with rain clouds looming over the Sound. Something even she hasn't the courage to deal with directly.
YOU ARE READING
Dispatches from the Future (B-List)Science Fiction
"There ain't no margin in it," would be my response to anyone who might ask about writing short fiction. Yet, I persist. Back in 2014, I read a collection of flash fiction by well-known authors in Popular Science (https://www.popsci.com/article/scie...