“Dog Bites Soul”

“Dog Bites Soul”

By Garrett Cook and Ash Lomen


 My gun, a beaten old military issue with my father’s blood crusted like old paint on the butt, jammed at the very same second I realized shooting the poor old girl would destroy me, but when I pulled that trigger, I saw in her big brown eyes that the gesture was enough to inflict upon her that most terrible quietus, a broken heart. Now both awkward as sombreros on the subway, the dog and I locked eyes in a silence so deep that the once promised gunfire would have provided us nothing but respite, and as she let out her final, chokeing, admonishing bark, I realized that the cunt of the Earth bore me into this world for one reason and one reason only. Sensing the newfound danger instinctually, she jumped to life like a well fed Jukebox on a Saturday night in 1969.

 Nothingness faded to form so quickly that I was afraid to love her again…

 “One shot left, Riley!” the man inside my head that is not me.

 My gun, a beaten old military issue with my father’s blood crusted like old paint on the butt, unjammed at the very same second that I realized that shooting the old girl would redeem me. “One shot left, Riley” I said to myself this time.. and fired… and the ensuing explosion of gunpowder might as well have been in my own chest, for as the 45. blew her heart apart, mine exploded too.

…And in spite of myself, I came, ejaculating black gunpowder butterflies that shattered windows and put holes in the walls. The odd shafts sunlight I created that pierced the darkness of our seclusion seemed to have a strange off-limeskin tint to them, I pulled back a rag-curtain and saw that the sky had gone gatorgreen. I was excited but frightened, I had marked myself to the denizens of the greenlit outside world as one whose lifebringing fluids were agents of death. Again she jumped to life like a well fed jukebox, this time perhaps playing something relatively hip but subversively dark from the early 90’s alt. metal scene; my dog was not dead and the world had turned the color of my soul.  

 This world is far too beautiful a place for a man to carry doubt in his heart. She knew that too, knew it so well that she chewed my burnt husk of a heart out, and as I fought back; our bodily fluids doing a strange ariel tango, my dog and I making sure to avoid eye contact the whole time we preformed this dance of bloodred-death in a gatorgreen world… Christmas-death colors… the colors of a rose… and as I fought back, I knew I was dying…

 The last thing I thought was how I lamented reading Watchers and deciding my life was empty with no dog in it, I kept that with me as my soul drifted and I climbed the mad mountain that led into Heaven, I kept that with me and rejoiced, for Heaven to me was punching Dean Koontz in the throat.


About ashlomen

I am a self-destructive, lazy writer/poet... wasting my full potential on a world that doesn’t care.
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