Hope
it’s the fresh start so many of us have been waiting for.

Tyrone wasn’t sure what to do now that his horse jockey career was over. Modeling was out of the question, as he had fetal alcohol syndrome which left his eyes far apart and explained his rather unfortunate haircut. It also explained his success as a jockey, being that he could see at some odd angles other jockeys couldn’t. He considered being a line cook, but the idea of being around food all day and possibly ruining his perfect 110lb figure was an asinine thought and he disregarded it immediately.

There he was, caught between the only thing he had ever known and a world of pint sized possibilities.

Begrudgingly, he drug his feet to the nearest payphone and dialed the number to the one person he promised himself he’d never contact again. He then realized that he hadn’t put any change in the payphone, which was probably best; the receiver wasn’t connected to the phone. To represent his defeat and embarrassment he decided to cry, but quickly found he’d forgotten how. No tears, no career, no visible means of self sustenance, yet somehow Tyrone still possessed a spark of hope somewhere deep and decided to make that phone call anyway he could.

Tyrone couldn’t understand why none of the other jockeys would let him borrow their cell phone; all he did was kill his horse and throw the entrails onto the crowd. It’s not like it was his fault, it was the only way to get the possessing demon out of his horse.

If only he hadn’t accidently pushed that gypsy down the stairs the week prior. He knew she had something to do with this whole fiasco. It’s not like it was his fault, anyway. He didn’t even know she was there, he couldn’t see over the single paper grocery bag he was carrying. He asked for plastic, so she couldn’t rightly blame him. People should make themselves more stand-outy, he thought to himself

He began to walk to the horse stalls, knowing there was a phone he could use. Inside, Tyrone was met with the violent braying of his competitor’s horses. They’re probably angry because they had no idea my horse was possessed.

He hadn’t made it halfway to the phone when the what sounded like a thousand coconut halves being violently tapped together thundered through the steel structure, startling Tyrone and sending him in a panicked race towards the exit; towards safety.

Unfortunately, Tyrone’s legs were too weak for running, as he’d spent his whole life having other creatures do it for him. The angry thoroughbreds caught him without any problem and painstakingly stomped him to death.

There were more than one murder on the track that day.

Sunday.

Here goes nothing.

Possible names: Azalea. Clare. Aurora.

Her lips, thin but noticeable, are chapped horribly and burn whenever she runs her tongue over them. She does this frequently anyway, ashamedly enjoying the dull pain. Her neck hurts. It’s painful to swallow. She searches for life with desperate and delicate fingers. She feels like she’s been strangled. Or, at very least, she feels how she imagines it might feel post strangulation.

Azalea. Go with that.

What’s she look like? Big eyes; far set enough to kill the symmetry of her face, but not so far that you’d be able to pinpoint why. They’re brown, probably. Lightish. Her hair, also brown, is braided into two thin pathetic strings that hang on her shoulders. They’re tied neatly with dull bands, ones she’s had for years.

Early thirties, Azalea is a small woman: frail looking. She was maybe an athlete in her teens. Popular. Pretty. She hurt herself, and instead of running she drinks now. Bottles line the flat surfaces of her apartment like tired soldiers.

Her cat is happy and stars at her from across the room. He’s an enemy for being so happy. An enemy for being so comfortable. She glares at him. The cat becomes the abuser and she is the victim. She makes herself the victim of everything, and everything’s her fault. She feels beat up. She feels betrayed. She feels lonely. She hates her cat and feels hurt. His name is Hank. The cat, that is.

She’s hiding. She’s a single woman, so she hasn’t been abused. She’s alone in the two-bedroom apartment she can afford because she’s got a good job. Sighing dramatically, wishing someone would hear. Could hear. She leans back against the wall and lets her head loll on the stucco.

She woke up mad. She woke up hurt.
This happens often.

Her hairdryer is broken because the Hank chewed on the wires. She wishes he had electrocuted himself.

Fucking cat.

Azalea had a date tonight, but she canceled because she can’t dry her hair and is afraid she’ll look silly if she leaves it curly. She looks like a child when her hair is curly. She looks like a child now, in time out. She’s embarrassed.

Her one chance at happiness and goddamn Frank ruins it.

Knees creaking as she ascends the couch, she sees a complete lack of concern in Frank’s eyes. He doesn’t care about her. He hates her as much as she hates him.
Probably more.

She grabs the cat by his back legs and is immediately met with claws. She doesn’t care. He ruined her life. Her arms retain the strength from when she used to play sports. Softball, possibly. Maybe lacrosse. She rushes forward her arms and releases the cat, hard, against the dense wall.

A sickening crack.
Frank falls to the floor.
Fucking cat. Deserved it.

Azalea finds her keys and heads to the store to buy a new hair dryer.

“I love you” just means something a little different today.

“But doing that job, surviving it, was like getting a Purple Heart. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

-Kurt Vonnegut

The pause is important.
The paws is important.
The paws are important.
Paws are important.
Paws.