Paper Planes

5 years later

"I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them."
-Carl Panzram

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August 2014

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The wind whistled through the trees, a splendid song dancing amongst the branches as they shivered and shifted, shedding several leaves to the bare basin below. The turbulent breeze captured the fallen foliage, Mother Nature's unseen fingers scooping the leaves between her grasp, tossing them airborne to meet her chanting hiss.

Four furry legs dashed through the vegetation, the forgotten leaves crunching beneath rough paws. A shy pant tumbled over a long pink tongue, an inky black nose suctioned to the ground, sniffing out the prize.

For a split second, the dog froze—wet nose stilling over a set of pretty pink nails.

Several still fingers poked through the crunchy blanket, a single brown leaf wrapped around the bloodless index finger, decorating the lifeless skin like a ring.

The dog inspected the severed hand, thoroughly sniffing the body part as if to ensure that it was—in fact—severed and defunct.

With a snort, the animal lapped at its drooling jowls, claws burying deep into the dirt as it promptly buried the body part, the faux pink nails disappearing beneath the earth.

Once the evidence was properly concealed, the dog continued on its journey—routinely trekking onward towards the nearest property in search of what its master desired.

The dog returned just as several bulbous rain drops slipped from the storm clouds above, a strangled sob slipping through Mother Nature's fingers as she finally freed her sorrow.

The icy rain claimed the animal's fur, but the dog remained unphased—for he adored the rain, worshipped the cold. It was difficult for his master to beckon him back in come the winter months, and he often slept in a thick blanket of snow, a sweet smile stretched across his chops.

He was a siberian husky, after all.

A pleased grin slithered along the smooth lips of his master once the dog reentered the yard, a rolled-up newspaper pinched between razor-sharp teeth. It was routine for him to venture nearly a mile south in search of the nearest property, where an untouched newspaper laid rolled-up on the pebble driveway. He frequently snatched it before the residents ventured outside, and by the time they emerged from their warm slumber, the paper was gone—prompting another vexed phone call to the local office.

"Good boy, Bullet." His master cheered, falling to their knees to meet the panting dog. Bullet's tail eagerly wagged, a small snort emerging from his nose as he held the paper high.

"There's a big ole steak with your name on it for supper," his master added, rotating their blood red mug to the other hand. Bullet dropped the slobbered paper into his master's open palm, tongue lapping out to press wet, slimy kisses to the curve of their knuckles.

His master giggled, lips pulling together into a kiss as they pressed several pecks to Bullet's furry head.

"Let's bring this in to Daddy before the rain really starts," his master added, kicking the front door open with their boot-clad foot. The dog gleefully ran inside, nails noisily clicking against the wood floors as Bullet disappeared from sight, on a mission to locate his favorite human.