The stench of their bodies overwhelms. Their barks and howls echo as Weirdly human voices. I want to answer back. They would not trust me.
The lions joust and scream for position on the dark brown dock. The stark sun stuns some into a trance-like slumber. I feel the heat burning my cheeks.
They would not move, even if it meant to breathe, I think. Alpha bulls clamber over The immobile hoards. And doe-like eyes, laden
With silken lashes peer out at me. I carry no fish in my pockets. I am not worth even a casual interrogation, which I would not pass.
I lull them, dull them to sleep. Their blubbered bodies, plump, sleek, bulging, flop only as little as the flies permit. And then: they form a chorus of harpies.
Bewhiskered snouts snarl, baring sharp brown teeth. They no longer want me here. In my reveries, I harpoon the Ugly ones. They answer back.
So, like Orestes, in Sartreβs play, I flee the Furies of the flies. The lions bark and howl. I want to answer back. But I no longer trust them.