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Coyote

Frozen paws fell into the snow. Thick fur soaked the partially melted slush, festering and stagnant on the ice's surface, freezing over joints and claws. The stench of rotten flesh wafted from a carcass not too far away. It was a poor creature that had all but succumbed to the frost. With each tentative step, the coyote's paws would fall deeper into the feet thick snow, coating his once tan and alabaster fur. Beyond him was nothing but forest and snow. Large hunter green conifers jutted from the sleet, towering over the coyote, like looming homunculi. As the brush wolf trudged forward, the forest only seemed to get thicker. The occasional fallen trunk rose from their grave beneath the ice, their bark fading and tearing like decayed flesh. The conifers that still stood, fought for their place in the sun. No light seeped through the overlapping and imbricated foliage. The branches hung low with the weight of the snow, they were like a mother's arms returning from the greengrocers, laden with winter squash and carrots, only there was no vibrancy or colour as if hidden by the canvas of the snow. The green is still there under the brilliant white and yet, the leaves seemed to float in the air like a beryl mosaic, seemingly transparent as the sun battled to reach the ground through the thicket of snow and leaf. The pale colour of the sky lay hidden behind the variegating leaves with a mesmerising glow. The snow beneath was like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas lay perfectly white. Untainted. Waiting for the artist's hand to return and yet, no quicker than the coyote's paw prints had imprinted the ground, they were erased by the onslaught of white. The verdant woodland did little to stop its blinding emptiness.

As the brush wolf moved forward, the occasional flash of burning scarlet light bled between the trees, tracing like the blood of a fresh kill across the ice. The coyote stopped, watching as the light seemed to move towards him. He took a careful step forward watching as the light seemed to move even closer. The coyote could now see a crimson flame with gold burning from within. It was suspended in the air, flickering as it fought against the oncoming wind. He took another step forward, unlike before the flame seemed to move away, darting swiftly to a large tree that towered over its neighbours. The tree was old, dressed in scars as its flesh fought against its bulging stomach. Fresh bark protruded from the base of the trunk, whilst the old husk formed striations across the tree's body. Branches that extended like hands welcomed the blaze, bathing in its light and warmth. Flames lapped at the bark, charring and burning the conifers flesh. As the coyote took another step, the blaze seemed to intensify, threatening to burn the tree. Petals seemed to wrap themselves around the tree. Burning dandelions engulfed its flesh, shimmering like gold. It was as if the tree had taken a sip from a Molotov cocktail. Petrol set aflame tracing its way through scars and hollows, encasing the tree.

The coyote could feel the heat wash over him, almost invitingly... Rich oaky smoke wafted from charred flesh, curling and dancing its way through the frozen and hazy air, as if excited to greet the coyote. Grey silk wrapped around the brush wolf, pulling him forward. As he moved towards the tree, heat from the flames that were now tracing their way through that once seemingly impenetrable mosaic, showered over him. Embers melted the snow frozen to the coyote's fur and the coyote could feel himself indulge in each cinder that touched his skin. Searing heat that burnt skin, yet seemingly addictive. He found himself craving it and with each step the coyote breathed more and more of the smoke. Burning lungs, seared flesh. The coyote pressed himself to the tree, feeling as the flames washed over him but never took hold. He looked around, searching for the flame that had burnt the tree, his back still pressed to the blistering trunk. It was as if the flame had melted into the fire that now engulfed the tree, disappearing within the conifers flesh.

As the heat became too much, the coyote moved away, an inaudible yelp escaping his maw. It was bittersweet, like catching a kiss with cyanide under the tongue. He yearned for the warmth of the flame, yet he knew the risks it held, however, none of that seemed real. It was like a primal instinct, the need for the flame transcended even his most basic needs, like the need for oxygen. It was intoxicating. Although the flames burnt his lungs and seared his flesh, the coyote still sought after it. He sat for a moment, watching as the flames grew higher and higher, the smoke becoming... suffocating. The light that exuded from the burning carcass glistened and reflective off the coyote's yellow eyes. The sweet toxins filled his lungs and he exhaled his desire in a cloud of grey smoke that lacked the scent of rich oak let out by the tree. It swirled upwards like a dancer towards the slowly dulling winter sky, devouring everything in its delicately deadly path before curling into nothingness once again. It was a ribbon of death and yet the coyote gazed, transfixed by its thin folds as they ebbed away.

Enchanted by the performance before him, the coyote didn't even notice when light fell. The flames had miraculously stayed affix the one tree. The golden dandelion hadn't yet found its way to the conifers neighbouring homunculi but rather preyed upon the single tree. Mercilessly the flower ripped and burnt at the tree's flesh leaving nothing but smouldering ash. The grey silk that had once danced freely before the coyote now danced within his lungs, fuelling the fire that was burning within him. It wasn't a fire like the one that had pillaged the tree, but rather a flame of desire. The coyote more than ever longed for its warmth, for its intoxicating light and its blissful pain. With the sun now gone, all that was left was the looming shadows and the light that seeped from the ash, as red light found its way through burns and scars.

As the temperature dropped alongside the sun, the coyote found himself once again pressed to the tree, however, there was no longer any embers. No cinders to melt the snow and pierce his flesh, no rich oaky smoke pulling him towards the flame. He felt alone... As his body brushed against the tree, its once strong form began to collapse. Black charcoal fell upon the coyotes back, freezing as it fell through the stagnant air. He waited with his body pressed against the tree's corpse until its life had all but drained and the warmth fell back into the melted slush below. His paws felt stiff as he squandered in the partially melted ice. Lifting his frozen paws, he made his way to more solid snow, looking back at the spot where the tree had once stood. Maybe it too had felt that desire... Maybe it was drawn to flame as much as the coyote was. Perhaps the tree knew that the flame would end its life. There was no living a lie in this world. The tree must have known this, letting the golden dandelion burn away at its flesh until there was nothing left but ash and soot. It was then that the ashes began to burn the same scarlet red as the flame and as it did, the leaves of nearby trees seemed to come alight.

Like the candles at Loi Krathong, leaf by leaf the flame began to spread, augmenting the beryl mosaic with the petals of a golden dandelion. jagged and sharp like the tooth of a lion, that pierced into the flesh of each tree. Slowly, the shades of green that once adorned the sky turned to brown and black. The blank canvas of snow melted, washed away and giving up on the return of an artist. Beyond the petals of the flower, the raven sky scattered with far off galaxies and stars. The blue and whites of the milky way poisoned by the flames below. As the mosaic became more and more tainted by the dandelion, red and gold bled towards the sky like an unhallowed aurora. Once again that rhythmic pulse of light from the flames filled the woodland. Reds, oranges and golds spilled onto the snow like paint on a canvas. It washed over the coyote. The light and warmth flooded over him as it spread further and further, but there it was that same flame. The first flower. It glowed more intensely, more golden than before, spoilt by the smouldering of the forest. Like the coyote, it breathed in the wisps of smoke, spitting it back out in even finer and deadlier ribbons that wrapped themselves around the brush wolf, enticing him once again. Seducing him and pulling him towards its burning petals.

A ghastly orange grin tore through the verdant woodland. The unfettered dandelion devouring hungrily, licking and lapping at the conifers and neighbouring coppice, twisting and swaying in a dance without rhythm. Blackened bodies, charred bones and unsettled souls. In amongst it all was the flame that floated in the wind, watching like the coyote. Bathing in its own macabre success. The glowing embers once again returned, leaping and twirling in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the cold winter air, once again landing upon the coyotes back. The smell of burning flesh once again filled his nose and in a boyish glee, he danced among the embers, feeling the snow melt beneath his paws. The brush wolf looked up seeing how the once beryl mosaic lay tainted, in its place a fractal work of crimson and gold. The flowers that now dance among the trees were no longer dandelions, but rather, dahlias, their petals curling and twisting, fading into yellow tongues that lapped viciously at the conifers.

Intently still, the coyote watched the dandelion, its thin petals rising and dancing to its own rhythmic beat, undeterred by the flowers around it. The ray florets danced in their own red hue, whipping in the wind. As the flames above tore relentlessly at the trees it was like a hemicorporectomy had been performed between the leaves of each conifer. Perhaps it was not an artist that the forest had waited for but was rather adorned in a white coat waiting for a doctor, and the dahlias that spread across the verdant foliage, blood. The forest was a loaded gun, waiting for a trigger.

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