LAURA.TXT 10/19/98

Version 1.2 By SwampRat
(cl) 1998 Gay Furry Association

Based on a strange, haunting dream..

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The creature burst from it's stone coffin, sending chunks flying into the
waning light of dusk as it opened leathery wing-arms. "Laura!" It half-
screeched, half-cried. The sounds fell on stone ears as it sat, glaring at the
orb that held it prisoner, made it seek refuge in the guise of just another
ornament on a skyline, another carved figure on a wall.. "Laura.." Whispered by
leathery lips, as it cradled it's head, trying to remember...

Perhaps it had been human once - The structure was defiantly of a man. But a
man so enwrapped in a bat it was impossible to tell where one began and the
other ended. This was a more dreaded enemy than the Sun - Light and Dark were
rhythms. Natural things that may railed against but have to be obeyed. It
opened it's arms wide, feeling the heat tickle it's furry nude body, ran
spidery fingers over a spot lit up like gold on green grass. So beautiful...

Hunger stirred in it's belly, making it move despite not wanting to destroy the
stillness. No, The Sun was a foe but one it understood and could steal time
from now and again.. The Enemy was memories. A name without a face that
transcended physical pain - An arrow from a superstitious archer. A stake or a
hayfork or a knife could cut.. but they healed. There was no healing the gulf
between what was remembered and not.

It.. He stirred and Stretched. Stretched to the tips of his feet, to the edges
of his arms, to the tips of his ears.. Again his stomach protested, and he
patted it, bid it wait a while longer. Despite the long canines in his short
muzzle and his fearsome visage - and what villagers whispered about him in a
by-gone era - he didn't slake his thirst in the blood of others. In fact, he
disliked the flavor that he would bleed a carcass dry before feeding. He also
liked vegetables and was madly in love with baked goods..

More than one housewife had went to the window sill to find one or two of her
cooling loaves gone - He never took more than he needed for That day - But
later, after he had savored every treasured morsel, a garland of flowers or a
shiny coin might appear in it's stead. When these things occurred, tavern talk
would turn to pixies and the 'Wee Folk' who might be mischievous at times but
no more than some children, whose pranks vexed them.. And were always willing
to trade a loaf of good bread for something of similar value - at least to
them.

Darkness finally descended enough for him to move about - One thing he had
learned is not to be seen if possible. Between those who said he was one of
Satan's Minions - A meaningless name he puzzled over sometimes - And those more
than willing to help him... Into a cage to be gawked at. Into a cell to be
prodded and poked and have bits of him carved off For Science, or other
reasons -  There were a few inbetween.

A derelict who offered him a swig of cheap wine and a warm fire on a cold
night. A Lady of the Court who was more lonely than jaded and sat with him,
reading from whatever books were at hand - Maybe this was Laura? No. A peasant
boy, more frightened of the wolves howling than a creature who shared his
mutton and cheese and held him close until morning. He lifted on a gentle
breeze, leaving the place he had spent the daylight hours as a statue, a
gargoyle, another creation etched on stone.

Sometimes he wondered How he flew, but an eagle never thinks about spreading
his tail just so.. If he should flap or glide.. He flies and so did the
creature over a strange and hauntingly beautiful landscape. So many structures
with so many lights and so much Life.. With all the emotions that such entails.
Noises of passion and pain, anger, sorrow, joy leavening them.. Life beginning
and life ending... But none of the emotions that buffeted him more than the
winds were his and he let them go out to the sky. A pie sat on a sill, too much
to resist.. He snatched it as silent as a cat, sat on a roof and devoured every
crumb, licking the pie-tin clean.. Laying back, looking up at the sky, he
wondered..

A half-chuckle at remembrances of those who he had come across who were first
elated, then disappointed that he wanted neither their blood nor their loins -
Or did He? Another empty space in his mind that with time might return.. Maybe
Laura was Lauren, and he was like those who walked the wharves and bars looking
for male companions.. The pie-tin rattled in the wind, reminding the being he
had a debt to pay. How to repay it.. He had neither wealth nor pockets to carry
such.. But there were places that held items no longer needed or wanted. A
flight to a warehouse where boxes still held things long out of date and
fashion but still usable yielded a box that held something silky and soft.
Another revealed something pleasing to the eye. He took only these 2 things,
careful to replace the rest of the items, and flitted back to his resting
place.

The pan was as clean as if it had been scrubbed - which it had been by a tongue
that wanted every last bit of flavor. His spidery hands worked and wove the
silken item, then the sparkling item in the center. and one final loop back to
replace the pan where it wouldn't fall off. More memories - A place with a coat
and hat, that could hide his visage so in a dim light he might pass for those
who even now scurried on the streets below. He did not wonder about the ideas
that came to him - Do this, Say that, Be in a place where one can sleep when
the dawn breaks... A wisdom forged from centuries of living came to him when it
was needed. Never Why, only How.. And he had questions - Was he a man whom the
gods had smitten for some long forgotten crime? Was he a beast, raised to this
level but no further? And Who was Laura - The name he cried out every time he
awoke. That hurt him deep inside.

But there were no answers on the wind, just the smells of the city, and the
knowledge he must eat again before he slept. And that he would like to be with
someone - Even if it was a stranger, sharing a cup of coffee in a mission. He
opened his arms and embraced the wind, lifting up to ride them along. An
internal clock told him the night was half-gone already, but there was time to
relax, to listen to another's problems before he again had to rest, to cocoon
himself in living stone until the even awoke him again.. Another puzzle that
had no answer - At least nor for the time being.

                                  * * * *

Mr. Artureso awoke to find his wife of 65 years sitting in the kitchen crying.
He put his arms on her shoulders, thinking he loved her now as much as he had
when he was 15 and working in his father's orchard. They had married young,
raised 4 children, and retired to an apartment to spend their days together.
"Maria, What is wrong my Dove?" She would only point to the window and hold her
kerchief.. Her husband smiled. He had chided her many times about leaving pies
on the sill.. Pigeons, children, who knows What might come by and take the
thing - Not that he blamed Anybody.. Her pies were always The Best. Even when
they were a little burned or the filling had not come out quite right. When she
complained, he told her they were the touches that made it 'Home' - no
store-bought or mass-produced pie would Ever come close.

Then she would laugh and hug him and call him a teller of untruths. She didn't
make pies often.. Her hands could no longer work the dough, and she did not
believe in mixers or machines.. Even if she did use them once in a while - "But
only for special occasions," She would say. Mr. Artureso kissed his wife's
cheeks. "We will make another.. Just as good." She would only point to the
window.. Dainele nodded and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back and
lifting the glass...

There was his wife's pie-tin. Wrapped in a red, silken ribbon that had been
woven into a nest of sorts. In the middle sat a miniature house - A villa that
one could see all over the Old Country. In front, a young olive tree sprouted,
promising new life. The entire thing was made of tiny glass rods that had been
fused together with skill and love. He lifted the miracle carefully and carried
it in to rest on the mantle beside the pictures of their children, a few tears
rolling down his wrinkled cheek. Maria came in and hugged her husband, neither
of them saying anything for a long time, but both remembered childhood stories
of the fairies who lived in the Hills, and would take something in return for
another, more precious item.

They held each other for a long time, knowing even more precious than the
little house itself were the memories it brought back.. That was the greatest
gift of all.

The End