Some Incandescent Light
"And ... first down," crowed the announcer, after the briefest of hesitations, "for the Blackhawks ... on their own forty-seven. Fabulous running game tonight ... "
The air smelled of popcorn, hot chocolate. Fur. Of sweat, and of dried-up leaves.
Spitznagle squinted, her nose sniffing. She shoved the quaintness of the season aside. Running game, she thought, with an internal scoff. All they DID was run the ball. And everyone knew it, and yet ... no one could stop them. Last game? Not a SINGLE throw. Not a single pass. They rushed the WHOLE game, and they won. Last year's state champions (their seventh state title, overall), Sheridan played nitty-gritty football. Run. Pound it. Shove it down their throats ...
But where was the glory in running? In quarterback sneaks? In always keeping the ball in someone's paws? Where was the THRILL?
Spitznagle had been waiting. Waiting.
Tonight would be the night.
It was Homecoming at Sheridan High School. That chilly, early-October night (a Friday, always) that pretended to be about tradition and civic spirit, but ... it was all fabricated. An artificial construct. Just like those players. Oh, Spitznagle KNEW that some of them were robots. They had to be. The question was: how many? And why?
"The Board" had not a fan ... in her. Rather, a leering enemy. And yet a helpless ally. The school's librarian would rather have the power for herself. Oh, "The Board" buttered her bread, but ... she was tired of bread. She wanted something else. But in order to do that? To get that? She needed to be in the spotlight. To be distinguished. And how could a middle-aged librarian distinguish herself in a town run by ego-maniacs?
She hadn't the energy or verve that Ma Sparta had. Or the acerbic wit of Super C. No, Spitznagle would use the football team to vault her ... to dizzying heights. She knew what she was doing ...
The band was playing. A bit bombastic, at times, and at other times ... very droopy. Very inconsistent players, they were. Them and their shiny, glinting instruments of brass and whatnot. Them and their musical 'skills'. They were behind her, to the right ... playing on the lower parts of the grandstand. And behind them, and spread throughout, the crowd of furs. In their jackets and ... you could see the breaths of some. In the night air. The flood-lights washing over them. Tails waving, twitching, and et cetera.
The town was excited.
This was the first football season since the town's 'liberation.' But while most furs believed "The Board" to have no control ... that was, perhaps, not entirely true. The conspiracy was still well and alive in this town. It just wasn't at the fore. It'd gotten a huge bloody nose at the paws of that Adelaide and her meddling mouse, Field. And Ma Sparta and her goons. The whole damn lot.
But the Sheridan Conspiracy had been around for nigh on one hundred and fifty years, and ... it wasn't about to go away that easily. No ... oh, no. No, it was lying in wait. The citizens had taken back their town? Well, "The Board" was going to TAKE the town BACK from the re-takers.
This was not over yet.
Spitznagle knew all this. She was 'in the know.' Most of the teachers were. After all, the town was run by "The Board," and "The Board" ran the school, so the teachers were, naturally, employees OF "The Board." To varying degrees. "The Board" didn't really care about the teachers, but ... would use them when it saw fit. The teachers were all kept in line, though, by their own counterparts. Every teacher wanted a piece of the pie ... they were all working against each other. Never had they been able to unify as one force. To take the town. No, they were fractured. It was that way ... and would always be.
She, herself, had felt the burn of that. Had teamed with Stone and Evelyn D, the French and humanities teachers ... had formed a triumvirate. But she'd been BETRAYED. Stone, on a 'field trip' to Quebec, had stocked up on ... illegal, mechanical weapons, and Evelyn D ... well, SHE just went insane. Her and her water music. And her shiny pennies. Needless to say, the triumvirate fractured into three, solo forces. Now all working against each other. None of them having, currently, much traction, but ... for Spitznagle? That was about to change.
And why had she trusted those two goons in the first place, anyway? She often wondered.
Because, she whispered to herself. No one else would give you the time of day. At least they, for a moment ... gave you credit. None of the other teachers would. After all, she was JUST a librarian. That wasn't a REAL job. Not according to most of the teachers. Well, what did they know ...
Cheers, foot-paws on the metal of the bleachers, the band instruments blaring, football helmets clacking ... the crescent moon (waxing of harvest). It was all there. That feeling. Those sensory images. The browning, cracking stalks of the corn, and ... the pumpkins swelling to their would-be sizes. All orange and fat. How the days were warm. Warm enough. But the nights? So chilly as to make you shiver. How the wooly worms were out and about, forecasting. And where you used to sleep bare, in the fur, with the window open (to hear the crickets and cicadas), the cicadas were now gone. The crickets, though, were holding on, but you had to close your window when you slept now. Bare, but chilled. Pull all the blankets and sheets around you. Keep your loved one close.
But Spitznagle had no loved one. Too many furs in this down didn't. The conspiracy had hardened them, and ... they were still a part of it. They didn't know how to love. Not properly. Not with sacrifice. They didn't know how to take root, and ... was that their own fault, in some way?
Best not think about it.
Best focus on the field. The plays. On destiny.
She'd done this before. Once before. But that was a few years back, and no one remembered. No one remembered. So, she was going to do it ...
... again.
Lightning in a bottle. Twice.
Spitznagle, using her teacher pass (her credential), had managed to work her way onto the sideline. Was watching, squinting. Spitznagle was a raccoon. Like General Sheridan had been. She took some pride in that, to know that she was the same species as the late-General. Some. Most furs in this town were rodents (of some degree). Squirrels, mice, chipmunks, et cetera. Or felines. Or something. Very few raccoons. No one liked raccoons.
They were scavengers.
Bandits of emotion. Of soul. Always scheming. At least ...
... Spitznagle was. As the General had. And maybe, someday, SHE would be running the conspiracy. Yes. Yes, she could see it now, and ...
" ... third down and LONG," the announcer moaned, "for the Hawks."
Some yells, and boos. Some squeaks and hisses, and all that. The quarterback had extended the ball out, and one of the running backs, grabbing it, had decided to run right up the middle. Where he'd been predictably stuffed. So, now, third and long. And they hadn't thrown a pass the whole game. Would they throw one now? Wouldn't they have to? Such a distance. Third down, nine yards to go, and from their own forty-seven?
The raccoon tensed, her striped, masked face ... betraying her plotting mind. Her intentions. She poised herself. She had to get the jump on them. They couldn't see her coming. And, this time, she didn't feel any fear of failure. The first time she'd done this, she had, but ... now?
She knew she'd make it.
The crowd, as the play-clock ran down, began to tense. This was a crucial play. They needed to get SOME momentum going, cause the other team, Otterbein (another rural town, but from about fifty miles north-west ... most of them were otters, suitably) ... Otterbein was a strong team. And if Sheridan couldn't score, those otters would eventually bowl them over and find the end-zone. And, though a single loss did not ruin a season, Sheridan was on a winning streak ... undefeated ... last year, this year. They would NOT lose to otters on Homecoming. Not if these farming furs had anything to say about it. River-dogs might've had brute strength, but they didn't have the power of the scurry-scurry (which made Sheridan's running game so, so effective).
But, on this play, could they run that far? Against furs so strong? Or would they have to resort to ...
... a snap, and ... the quarterback, a fox, pranced a bit on his feet, looking, looking, beginning to surge forward, and ... being rushed at. His black and white uniform (with the tiny bits of red) flapping in the chilly-warm breeze. Looking, looking, heaving the ball to the left side of the field, where he saw a blur headed downfield, and ...
... the announcer, in disbelief, crackled over the old loudspeakers, "And ... and I ... what in the ... Spitznagle! It's Spitznagle with the ball!"
The crowd of furs went wild. Gasps, claps, and baited breaths!
The middle-aged, femme raccoon, arm held out stiffly, shoved aside the teenage, male otters of Otterbein and bowled her way downfield. Having run onto the grass RIGHT after the snap, and ...
" ... to the thirty, twenty-five ... Spitznagle! My goodness!"
It was like the biggest adrenaline rush in the world! She, laughing in a berserk, almost-scary fashion, pounded over the yard-markers. Further, further, the ball tucked against her. She'd caught the pass. Ten yards to go. And her status of local legend was sealed even before she dove across the end-zone, knocking over the pylon, rolling (with barking grunts) ... to a stop in the grass, looking up, and ...
" ... Sheridan scores! Touchdown, Spitznagle!"
The otters of Otterbein were as nonplussed as furs could be.
And the furs on Sheridan? They were, too, flabbergasted, but ... hey, it was a touchdown. And ... the referees, in the state they were in (and being, also, employees of "The Board" ... they were not about to let "The Board's" team lose at home, on Homecoming) ... well, they let it stand! Touchdown! Their arms up in the air, and paws waving, and ...
... Spitznagle, the school librarian, the middle-aged raccoon with more ulterior motives than rings on her furry form ... she stood, and then spiked the ball, and then ran for the sidelines. To embrace the public. Oh, yes, they loved her now! Just like they'd loved her all those years ago ... they couldn't forget THIS. Try as they could, how could you forget a play like THIS? She had their support.
She was on her way.
She was on him like an incandescent light.
Bestowing, brightly, a no-distance
warmth,
with pink, winged arms pulling him in
like sleepy shadows.
While honey-tan him, beneath her, bequeathed (oh, still living!)
love. Enough of
it
to make them glow. As they took each other in,
in slow, tasty ways. A bat-and-mouse souffle.
Noses on shoulders and cheeks,
sniffing out what?
Intuition? Deja vu? How the
Holy Spirit
moved in you?
Whatever they had,
they would find.
They had all night. Here
came the moistened sucks and nips.
The not-so-subtle attacks
on muzzles and lips,
with tongues aiming for private, premium
purchase. Perfect
paw-strokes, sizzling down the sides
of their fidgeting, furry forms. Suddenly more and more
warmth. Warmer,
were they getting?
Was life really this forgiving? As to allow
such young, unfettered love? That one thought
would never come, but which they
were seizing, now, with desperation,
an indication of the God-given passion
each held. Now
writhing together like glue-stuck, thriving
creatures.
They were their own feature
presentations. Needing touch and breath,
fur to nest their
noses in. Limbs waving like how a tree's would
in a flustered gale.
To get inside each other. To be one (mind, body, soul). Was
their aim. An act of purest life (and art!), this was. The deepest,
most-needed love. Sanguine and
succulent. Moist and hot, hotter,
hottest, as little squeaks and chitters (what sounds!)
became the only audible way
of communicating such a pleasured moment of
existance.
Shiver! At the flood-gates loosened! At the tremors!
Hold (to each other)! Until the swells trickle into smaller
streams. Until
fur-matted, eye-lidded, clinging, gurgling messes
sighed.
And commenced with wonder-weighed whispers.
Adelaide, on her side, licked at her own fangs. Which were still moist, and still glistening. Recently used. And recently spent of mating milk.
Field, also on his side (and facing her), smiled, eyes darting a bit. As he panted and huffed lightly, recovering. As he watched her. Watched her groom. And as he, eventually, took to grooming, too. Propping himself up a bit. To a sit. And licking at his paws, and ... swiping at his whiskers and forearms.
A giggle-chitter from her.
"What?" The mouse stopped.
"Just ... cute." A grin.
A flush. Ears still rosy-pink (not having descended from their blood-gorged, sensitive heat).
"How you tidy yourself like that."
"It's what," he whispered wispily, "mouses do."
"I like it," she whispered. With assurance. Leaning forward a bit, and initiating a sitting kiss, and then ... pulling him back down to a lie-down. "But don't lick your fur all ... squeaky clean," she whispered, "yet."
"No?" His blue-grey eyes sparked.
"No," she whispered, right into his ear.
The two mates, in their early twenties ... had been through so much. Had endured the conspiracy. Had fought it. Were, on several levels, STILL fighting it, but after recent successes (here, and in Wyoming and Ohio) ... they felt a bit looser. Able to relax.
Able to just spend the night ...
... without fear.
She wrapped a winged arm around him, and put her nose in the fur of his neck. Where he was all warm. And where she could hear his heartbeat. Feel his pulse. "Mm," she sighed. Sinking into the sheets with him.
They were quiet for a moment.
Before she pressed, "What's on your mind ... just ... talk," she whispered, "Field. You always have things to say."
A flush. "I was just ... thinking."
"I know." An eyes-closed grin. " ... 'bout what?"
"Coins."
"Coins?"
"Pennies ... like ... how I sometimes feel like a penny that's been dropped. That's hiding in a corner. Trying not to be swept. Hoping, instead, to be picked up, and ... well ... you picked me up," he whispered shyly. Thinking (as he often did) that his words were quite silly.
"Well, I'm a coin collector," she said, for sake of conversation. "I collect rare and valuable coins, and when I saw you, I was, like ... I have to have that. I'd sell all the other coins in my collection to have that one," she whispered. And then paused. And then smiled. "It's a bit odd, though. Pretending we're coins."
A giggle-squeak. "Well, you asked me what I was thinking about."
"You do have an imagination," she whispered proudly. She was, really, proud of that. Him and his imagination. His wide-eyed, flighty sense of innocence and beauty. It was something that constantly infused her with hope. And with love, of course.
A moment of quiet. Of little, audible breaths from the both of them.
"What else?" the bat whispered, in the mostly-dim of their bedroom. Though a little, neon-like nightlight was plugged into the far wall. (Because Field was afraid of the dark.)
"I don't know," the mouse whispered.
"I bet," she breathed, "you do."
"You can read my mind, darling," the mouse offered, with a small smile. "You're telepathic. You had your fangs in my neck ... not too long ago. We were joined. You ... "
" ... know what you're thinking, yes, but ... it helps to voice it. I like to hear your voice. I like," she whispered, "to see you open up. Words aren't everything, but ... they're something. So ... let's just talk."
"As mates do?"
"Mm-hmm." A smile.
"Mm." A breath. A nosing of her, and ... a small kiss, with a little smack-smack of lips. And he sighed. "Oh ... I just ... I love you so much. I'm just ... " He went quiet.
She waited.
"Words only over-simplify what I feel. I ... feel more comfortable showing you."
"We were," she reminded, "showing each other. Quite heatedly, too, if I ... "
A giggle-squeak. "You know what I mean. I just ... I'm not such a good talker."
"I think you are," she assured. "Now, come on ... and I love you, too, by the way. If that wasn't already evident." A toothy nuzzle.
"It was," he whispered sweetly.
More nuzzling. And more rustling of sheets, and more of lazy foot-paws playing even lazier foot-paw wars.
"I'm not used to being able to just ... relax. I mean, if it hasn't been my anxiety, my mousey-ness, it's been this conspiracy."
"We're winning this, Field," she assured. With such confidence. She had such a belief in herself, and in God. Her faith in everything was ... so whole. So pure. Made that was, mostly, by the mouse. By having him, and how he rubbed off on her, but ... she was just naturally strong. And he was naturally timid, and ... together, they made a stronger whole. Provided things to each other that, were they solitary, they would not have.
Strength in character. In emotion. In ... capacity to live.
"I know ... I know we're winning," the mouse whispered, his whiskers twitching on their white pillows. Their sheets were navy-blue. And soft. And cool.
"Then don't worry. We'll deal with things as they come. We're ready for anything ... we know what we need to do."
A quiet nod.
"Anyway, tonight's our night. Just ... we've had ... lots," she whispered, "of fun." She raked her fangs through his neck-fur.
Gave him shivers.
"It's a few hours 'til midnight."
"We must be getting old. Being in bed this early," he said.
"Who said being in bed was ... akin to being tired? I feel wide," she whispered, "awake."
A giggle-squeak! "Do you?"
"I do."
"Mm."
"I love," she whispered, her fingers tracing up and down his bare, exposed side, "how your tail just hangs over the bed like that. Like a wayward rope, and how ... it waves about all full of energy," she said, "when we're ... "
" ... it, uh ... it's ... got a mind of its own."
She chittered, reeling his tail in with her paw, with her fingers.
He closed his eyes. The thin, naked, pink tail, with the invisible hairs along the length ... sensitive to soft touches. The kind of touches she was giving it. The bat was always soft. So feminine. Not waif-like in any way. She was strong, but ... feminine. And for the effeminate mouse, he was glad to have a strong-willed femme to help build him up.
And she was glad for his emotional honestly. His willingness to bare his soul. He wasn't afraid of intimacy or commitment.
Neither of them was afraid to truly love. To truly give ... in order to get.
"It's still strange," Field whispered, with eyes closed, "not to hear the trolleys ... "
"We're in the country," she whispered back. They had moved into his house. Just outside of town, in farm-land. This old, white farm-house, surrounded by fields and ... a woods. And a creek. Before they'd retaken Sheridan from "The Board," they'd lived separately. Mates, but ... "The Board" didn't allow love. Love was outlawed. It was too powerful a force.
But, now, their love ratified, and them as proper mates, they were in the countryside. But, "I could hear them," Field whispered, "on very quiet, very clear nights, I could hear the trolleys." The town was only a few miles away, and in such open pastures and such flat land ... such loud, whistling sounds could carry far. And, sometimes, the trolleys would venture outside the town limits. "I'm just ... I still get chills," he said, "thinking about trolleys." He shivered. He'd been chased by them. Countless times. "How many times did they almost get me ... how many close calls ... "
The pink-furred bat held him tight. "They're gone, baby. All gone. And they're not coming back. No trolleys. No danger. Our love, and our will, and our faith ... defeated them."
"Is it that easy?" was the mouse's whisper. Holding her, too. She smelled like sweetness. Like flowers. Like strawberries, maybe.
"Faith is never easy. Love ... is never easy. If it were, it would be cheap ... and not worth having." A pause. "I don't know what's gonna happen, but ... we'll get through it. However hurt we may be, we'll cling to each other. And we'll grow."
A quiet nod. Nose in her fur. Breathing, breathing of her scent ... she smelled so nice. So warm. So, so nice.
They laid together. Softly, silently. Snuggling. Her gentle, emotional feelers filtering into his head, and ... like tendrils, grabbing on to good feelings and sensations, and pulling them to the fore of his (and, by contact, her) mind. Stirring the ever-burning embers of desire, stoking them back into lapping, leaping flames, and ...
... a knock at the front door. A faint sound, coming from a few rooms away. But a knock all the same, and Field could hear it (with his dishy, mousey ears). He whispered to Adelaide what he heard.
"I'll get it," she whispered.
"No, I ... "
Pressing a pink paw delicately against the mouse's trim, honey-tan chest, she kept his back to the sheets. "I'll get it," she said warmly. Knowing full-well that, whoever it was, she would handle it better than him. The mouse so shy, and ... so submissive. Knocks in the middle of the night were best handled by her. Her and her fangs (which could, if needed, be used as weapons). "Stay here," she said quietly, almost mouthing it.
The mouse swallowed and nodded, clutching at a pillow (in the absence of her body).
And Adelaide, reaching for Field's shirt (the one he'd been wearing before they'd wound up in bed) ... she slipped it on. A plain-colored, button-up t-shirt, with a pocked over the left. She walked in the dimness to the front door, buttoning it all the way up (it went just past her waist). And she, at the door, put her paw on the knob, and turned it carefully, and peeked through ... as she opened it slowly, and ...
" ... it's you," she said, and opened the door fully. Almost casually.
"I'm not likely to be anyone else," was Ma Sparta's response. The panther dressed for the chill. And standing on the concrete steps before the door. "You gonna let me in ... "
"I don't know. Are cats supposed to drag in THEMSELVES?"
An eye-squint. A bit of a glimmer. "Funny, bat."
"I, uh ... well, yeah, you can come in," she said, "but, uh ... "
"You're not wearing any pants," Ma stated plainly. "Or any ... "
" ... yeah, uh ... no," the bat said, smiling, and eyes darting.
"Oh." The panther swallowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," she said seriously.
"We were between," the bat said diplomatically, "takes. So ... you're not intruding. You're always welcome."
"I don't wanna get in the way," the robot said (with a tinge of ... some kind of sharp emotion), "of young love."
"Ma," Adelaide insisted.
The panther, in the midst of turning, stopped.
"Please. Don't go."
The panther hesitated. She'd never known love. Not like they knew it. Not like how everyone dreamed of knowing it. Were robots capable of love? She had all the emotions that normal furs had. She was getting closer to having a soul, maybe, every day. Getting more real. Outgrowing her programming. She went to church with Field and Adelaide every Sunday morning. Spent a lot of time with those two. They were her closest friends. Well, them, and Super C, but ... Super C was, often, a bit TOO much to take in one sitting.
"I assume you've got news?" the bat asked seriously.
A nod from Ma.
Adelaide opened the door. "I'll make you some hot chocolate."
Ma just nodded. "That would be nice." She looked around. "I'll just ... sit on the couch."
"I'll, uh ... go get dressed." Adelaide said, a bit sheepish.
Ma just nodded plainly, taking a seat, as Adelaide went to the bedroom to fetch Field. And to dress.
And Ma found herself fidgeting a bit. Had she ever fidgeted? Why am I fidgeting? Maybe it was the news she harbored. News about the conspiracy. Right here in THEIR Sheridan ... news that could chill even the most steely fur. But ... or maybe it was because, on a cold, autumn night, she was thinking of the definitions of warmth.
And how one could be warm and cold at the same time.
Regardless, this night wasn't over. And good thing, too. For, with the news she had, it would be a long one.