Feral Creatures (Hollow Kingdom #2)

by Kira Jane Buxton

T.S. Eliot—“We do not know until the shell breaks what kind of egg we have been sitting on.”

And if there’s one thing I’d learned right then and there about the truth, it’s that you can bury it as deeply and assiduously as possible. You can even do it with a heart filled with flame. But one day, that truth will germinate and grow and writhe its winding way up through black soil, driven by a ravenous yearning for the light. It will come back glowing green. It will sprout pertinacious shoots, clambering toward consciousness. Rising with all the power of the sun.

Trauma settles in cells. It is a hand-me-down, a corporeal heirloom. A tear slipped down the cheek of my nestling, whose calloused skin could not protect her eggshell heart.

what I’ve told you is true. About how Mother Nature is not kind, but she is balanced. Every single one of us, from amoeba to blue whale to the tenacious bloom that dares to dream of tomorrow, has their own destiny-fulfilling journey as long as their minds and hearts are open. And we are all connected by a web that looks gossamer and silvery but is stronger than a chain-link fence. And though she is tough, she is always conspiring for your success, encouraging you to evolve. You can even hear her if you listen carefully.”

Her Uncle Dennis, bloodhound and my very best friend, had taught me that not all heroes wear Spandex and shoot out eyeball lightning; some chew the couch and drink out of the toilet. He was sunshine with saggy skin, heaven in a hound’s body.

In the end, it had been the siren song of old habits that meant I’d never preen his fawn fur or comfort him during wild doggy dreams again. I didn’t think I’d forgive myself or survive losing him, didn’t think I’d ever stop thinking that it should have been me. But with every breath and head bob and beat of my little black heart, I was reminded of how fiercely Dennis loved and was loved, and I tried to live up to that as best I could, vowing to live a life big enough for both of us.

“Earth laughs in flowers,”

Friends know one another on the inside and like the shapes they see.

Sometimes I think we look so hard for companionship, we don’t see that we’ve had it all along. Like Dorothy and her sparkly slippers.2

Grief can slam into you like a well-waxed window. But it means the ones you love aren’t lost or forgotten. They’ve made a home in your heart, which is the most permanent place of all.

Dee is the last of our sister species. Remind her of the code of together. We all swim alongside one another.”

Forgiveness is the ultimate act of strength.

Did I fill my life with color and sense and sound? Or did I miss the brilliant blue spectacle? I made a shape for myself, A shell shape Tiny, hidden, satisfactory, and safe But now I am sorry that I didn’t stretch to take up the entire ocean I spent my life hiding. Come out of your shell.

I was experiencing acute déjà poo—the feeling that I’d heard this crap before.

With that oratorial firework of freedom, I knew I had been wrong to try and hide Dee. Because what kind of a life is a life lived in fear? What kind of hollow living meant you couldn’t stretch your wings and scream the song inside of you?

Because when you’re courageous, it is an invitation to others. The sky surrenders before those brave enough to leave the branch.

Love is the sun. It burns tiger bright, illuminating the heart and searing away sadness. What a beautifully brave act to hand over a heart. To risk the burns of a blister-skinned sovereign.

But they are still fakish faking beasts and I’m fucking Genghis Cat. They are imitation crab and Genghis is filet mignon Fancy Feast, bitch.

Mother Nature is deliberate with her palette. When she paints you with unique colors, it’s because she trusts you can handle adversity and inspire others to greatness.

When you love someone with your soul, they never really leave you; they are hemmed into your heart.

I was glad I was shit at counting. MoFos counted their lives in days and months and years. They got it wrong. Lives aren’t measured this way. It’s not about how many sunrises we have but how much we fill them with fervor and flight.

Everything is connected, I thought. Life is a breathtaking concatenation.

I felt a rumble and squinted at a dandelion. Even if we would not, this beautiful weed that flourished in buttery yellow optimism would live on, spinning sunshine into sugar. Imagine getting to live in a world so beautiful that even a weed is a golden treasure.

We, creatures with hearts free to fly, drove them out with the most powerful force on earth. Love.

What an extraordinary luxury to cast a shadow.

I had been wrong to call Dee a flower. Dee was not a flower; she was a fucking weed. Beautiful and tenacious as a tiger. Misunderstood and mislabeled. Spiny and spiraling unapologetically toward life. Flowers live in short, delicate bursts, but Dee had thorns and tangled roots and would fight for every chance at a life. Blackberry bush’s darling pride. My, my, what a beautiful and deadly thing she was growing into.

Family doesn’t have to look like you; they can have feathers and scales and scutes. What matters is that you’re loved for who you are in your heart. We survive when we are seen.