Under the Spine

Syjir woke up in his usual place under the slithering Spine, probably the most distinguishable bridge spanning the undulating Kilbet-black Shafir River. Syjir awoke every morning comforted under the protection of the bridge’s reticulated underbelly, like a hatchling under the warm scales of its vigilant reptilian parent. If below the belly of the Gridlan, the official name of the bridge, was his bed, then the relative vastness of nearby Jere-Qouel Park was the living room of his self-imposed homeless-ness.

He stumbled putting on his park- and life-stained clothing, it was the warm Moist Season, so preferred sleeping nude. He didn’t care if the fine citizens of Gwij saw all of him during his morning routine. He felt a sense of freedom being nude and often wished of being a member of the nudist, albeit a bit eccentric, Des-ai.

He finally managed the climb up the steep bank, freshly slick with the morning’s fog-born dew, into the rare morning sunlight. He quickly put his hand up to his brow to shade his eyes from this rarity and surveyed his vast living room. Over the years, he had become rather protective of his park and despised holidays when his space was taken over by what seemed like the entire population of Gwij.

“Gwij”, he disdainfully muttered as he slowly unshaded his eyes, “If only the trees and blades of grass were animate. I would stir within them the force of rebellion upon this arrogant and heartless flesh and stone being and declare Jere-Qouel an independent oasis”. He spoke to no one or thing in particular. “But, I guess my soldiers are not yet tired of being burdened by the city’s destructive parasites pulling down on their branches and trampling them deep into the mud.” He sighed, “I am.”

He does not remember how he became infused with this hatred of the city; the city he spent his entire life in and will eventually die within its uncaring mecha-bosom. It was not from his current situation of wondering the Yohannus riverside without a cloudgrazer apartment to go home to; that was his choice. He sat down on a weather- and people-worn bench and began eating his daily breakfast of three mi-safra fruit that always gave him a jolt in the morning making this time of day his favorite.

His Sanbani-tailored pants he stole from a stall at the Marshedin Market a few weeks ago were already frayed to the point where all the word could see his masculine attributes. He didn’t mind; it kept the brats and their annoying parents and nannies away.