FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

All around me is desolate. The bar, the people it contains, all have a desolate past and desolate dreams. Ones that had been wasted in this suburb of some failed 'urbia' that had never reached all of its potential. Whether it was a lack of money, or maybe even stupid to dream of such things, nobody knows. Maybe a city was never meant to happen where there was nothing to make and sell. The minimum-to-median wage jobs support the imported goods that facilitate consumerism, but nothing more. No great tycoons or geniuses would be born or raised here, unless they were born wise enough to leave and raise themselves up elsewhere.

I really have no excuse why I am here: In the town that is, the bar was the only place to go after 8 pm in this quiet town anymore. My friends had left and are in the process of leaving. My parents always fighting, or building up to the fight. Down the bar, I can see other souls like mine in this 'alternative' club (because to be gay was too niche a market). A fox with red, black, and gray markings stirs his drink as he pops something under his tongue, probably MDMA. The look of irked determination on his face as he swirls his tongue around in circles inside his closed muzzle confirms it, as he seems to be trying to coax out the effects to facilitate some form of happiness in the nearly empty bar. The DJ (somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend) is playing the 'closing' set-list, and has been for months. It's been a while since anything resembling a party had broken out on the dance floor, and it shows. What had been a club had become a bar over the span of a year, and it began to be frequented much more by the 'quiet types' than those who were ever looking for a bumping bass soundtrack to go with their night of drinking.

Perhaps the oddest factor of the place, and what keeps bringing me here, is that. The bar itself seems representative of the city I live in, and the patrons of it remind me of myself, at all points in my life - past and future. I can see in the fox with the interesting markings myself years ago - desperate for fun and experience and hoping it is something one can be hooked up with for a price set by the nearest dealer. I look around the bar, cupping my ears to the faint snippets of conversation to keep myself from staring at the younger vulpine as he drugged himself. Unfortunately, there isn't much other than him to hold my attention. A bear and otter are making out in a booth, with a set of various half-empty shared drinks between them. Off in the corner, some wolf at the peak of drunkenness is leaning on the broken jukebox, nodding his head completely out of sync with the music.

It's sort of odd to think that I had been there when a romantic interest of mine had lost his temper at the passing praise I was receiving and took his anger out on two and a half years ago, and that the holes in the plastic siding had never been repaired. The small canine who'd been my muse for months had reached inside and torn the arm out of the record player, and left it never to be fixed; perhaps showing me that our relationship had taken a similar route. My ears sort of buckle and fold at the memory, and I hasten my eyes back to the fox seated down the bar from me. He can't be older than 22, and probably is only 21. Barely legal takes on a new meaning in a town where the one alternative club is the only place to hook up.

At least the owner hadn't decided to ban me was well, realizing I was as surprised as everyone else when the guy I had been sleeping with decided to ruin the music player, which had been there since his father had handed him the keys to the bar. He'd simply held me in his sad gaze and wished me better luck with my romantic life as the police dragged out my sobbing ex boyfriend.

The fox's eyes are looking a little dopier but his expression is still legitimately strained as he continues to swish whatever has dissolved around his tongue. His ears might be a little more relaxed. He's realized at least that the bartender won't be paying him any mind; we get weirder folks in here all the time, and a little passive drug use hardly warrants a raised eyebrow anymore. It almost seemed expected nowadays. His tail had gone from stock still and limp to passively twitching and bobbing to the music, and he does look markedly happier as whatever he's popped in his muzzle starts to kick in.

Across the bar is myself, reflected in the wall-length mirror that seems to be the norm in old dance clubs like this. My own expression is vague and bored, and my gray fur does little to make me stick out against the backdrop of the empty and dimly lit booths behind me. I take another swig of my Screwdriver and lock myself in a gaze, examining my aging self as if I were another as I wait for the fox down the bar to take a swig of his drink and free his muzzle up for conversation. I don't look too old, though I know I've been telling myself that for a year now. In reality, my 25 year old self looks a little worse for wear in the mirror - a little tired, maybe battered if I were actually unbiased when describing myself.

The fox down the bar's throat clicking is audible over the ambient music, and a quick look confirms that he is taking a few swigs from whatever foo-foo mixed drink he's ordered and undoubtedly overpaid for.

To be continued? Tell me what you think!