Under the Spine

A Gwij microfiction (a companion piece to Conspiracy of False Citizens Episode 7)

Syjir awoke every morning comforted under the cool dim of The Spine’s reticulated underbelly, a hatchling under the warm scales of its vigilant reptilian parent. The bridge’s beastly construction was famous throughout the metropolis and the only one of dozens of bridges spanning the Shirfa that people cared enough about to give it a nickname. If below the belly of the Spine was his bedroom, the relative vastness of neighboring Jere-Qouel Park was his living room without the constricting walls of a home.

While under hiding permanent dusk of the Spine, he preferred the freedom of nudity. He often wished he was born a member of the nudist Des-ai Neo-culture. He didn’t care if the fine citizens of Gwij saw all of him during his morning routine. But he did care about being arrested for indecent exposure and did not have a sanctioned space to be clothing free like the Des-ai out on Nelori Island. No matter how comforting the belly of the spine was, he had to venture from its protection for his daily remain-alive routine. Sighs from society’s neurotic restrictions accompanied his stumbles and flapping as he struggled to put on his life-crinkling clothes.

He climbed up the steep riverbank freshly slick with the morning’s dewy fog 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. He had become protective of his park and despised holidays when his space became a raucous playground for what seemed like the entire population of Gwij. Only him, the grass, the trees, and his fellow vagrants were welcome.

“Egh, Gwij”, he snarled, “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 slowly unshaded his eyes. “But, I guess my soldiers are not yet tired of being burdened by the destructive infestation of children pulling down on their branches and trampling them deep into the mud.” He blew out a lungful of air, vibrating his lips, “I am.”

He no longer remembers how this city infused him with so much hatred; the city he spent his entire life in. “I’ll die within its uncaring mecha-bosom someday.” It was not from his wandering the Yohannus riverside without a cloudtower apartment to go home to; that was a choice he liked to believe he made. He sat down on a weathered, human-worn bench and began eating his daily breakfast of three mi-safra fruit. Three was enough to give him a jolt in the morning. His Shirfa-stained fingers played with the frayed holes in his Sanbani-tailored pants he stole from a stall at the Marshedin Market a few weeks ago. They were already frayed to the point where all the word could almost see his masculine attributes. He didn’t care; it kept the brats and their annoying nannies at bay.

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