Quote:
1.
You can call me B. They say theres power in knowing a person's name and they, for once, would be right. Just not in the way they might think.
I am aware that people think I am strange. Especially were they to meet me at a moment like this - scraping a dead rabbit off the road into a bin bag.
A girl at college thought I was using the entrails to divine the future. Thats ridiculous. I wasn't brought up to know things like that.
Bog, however is different. I feed Bog the entrails and he divines the future for me.
2.
I cycle the short distance home, the still warm lump in the bin bag banging against my leg as I pedal. Yes, it is gross. Its not how I'd chose to spend my time given the choice. I'd much rather be down the pub talking shite with my friends. But I have more pressing matters to attend these days. Its imperative I stay one step ahead of the game, knowing the future is a survival tactic.
I'm not being a drama queen, though I'd certainly forgive you for thinking it. It's just the way things are. You'll appreciate this in time.
We live in an old farmhouse, its not exactly the middle of nowhere - its inbetween a small town and a village, each about five miles away in opposite directions. We, being me, my Mum and my brother. My Dad is...well...lets just say he's not here for now. Oh and Bog lives, to some degree, "here" too - I'm coming to that.
My Mum works in town. She runs a small shop that sells "weird things for weird people" as my brother says. What he means is, its what you'd probably call a New Age shop - crystals, essential oils, tarot cards and general bric-a-brac. She's out most days 'til about six o clock, so the fact that I'm bunking off college and getting upto, well, mischief? Is not concerning her right now, being that shes oblivious to it.
My brother is at school. He's fourteen and as generally annoying and nosy as fourteen year old brothers are. He knows something is going on, but I've managed to keep him out of it thus far.
I stick my bike and the bin bag in the shed and walk in through the back door. I'm quite hungry, so I'm going to wash my hands and have a snack before I go anywhere near Bog. Its not his real name. His real name, or at least what he calls himself, is totally unpronounceable by the likes of you or me. As it is his English is quite archaic. I call him Bog because he stinks...like a bog! He's not too bad when he's in his dormant form - a smell thats a background scent easily covered by the incense sticks I burn. They also have the added effect of keeping my brother at bay as he can't stand them. But when Bog assumes his other form, which he must do to perform such tasks as I frequently ask of him, he smells of something wet and rotten and...i don't know, in a film I love theres a "Bog of Eternal Stench" and thats exactly what I think of when I smell this malodorous odor.
When I'm done I collect the rabbit. I don't need to prepare it in any way, Bog is not a fussy eater! I take it upstairs to my room, lock the door - its never a bad idea to take precautions - and waft the rabbit carcass around the underneath of my bed. Bog emerges.
In this form Bog looks like a small puddle of slime. You know that stuff you get in pots as a kid, you stick your fingers in and it makes an amusing fart noise. He looks like that, a greeny-brown blob of slime. He's the size of an avarage cat. He has a mouth and eyes that appear as no more than holes and a slit in the ooze. He's not entirely disgusting though, I don't mean to give you that impression. He's quite...no, I can't stretch to cute, but endearing in his own way.
I dangle the rabbit just above his head, and crude arms reach out of the blob that is Bog, and stuff it uncerimoniously into his gaping mouth...did I really call him endearing? He eats the flesh and fur alike, but spits out the bones onto the bare wooden floorboards. At this precise moment he begins to smoke. At this precise moment I rush to open the windows. He starts to smoke and a sizzling, bubbling noise can be heard. He begins to elongate, curving upwards like a cobra being charmed from its basket. its hard to see entirely what happens because of the smoke (which is also the source of the stench as far as I can tell) but this is the way it happens every time. And when it is done Bog is an entirely more impressive creature.
He looks like a Chinese dragon to me. His head is small and almost cartoon like, with fiercely intelligent eyes, brows fringed with tufts of golden hair. His snout is long in that almost equine way typical to illustrations of Chinese dragons, with flaring nostrils and a beard of that same golden hair, growing from the underside of his jaw. He is still greenish brown in colour, but now scaly rather than slimy. I am not sure whether this is Bog's true form, or just something he's assimilated from my imagination. I think this only because at times when I've been ill or drunk or otherwise distracted, he's shimmered and even shifted shape momentarily.
Bog studies the bones and then he speaks. He communicates to me telepathically. I gathered this two ways. Firstly and obviously, because his mouth does not move when he is talking. And secondly because I've known of instances when my brother has been right outside my door and hasn't heard him.
You may think it strange that I didn't instantly recognise that Bog was speaking to me in this way, but that is presumably because you've never experienced telepathy. If you are adept, or the person transmitting to you is adept, then the voice is as clear as if they were speaking out loud and standing infront of you. When I first encountered Bog, I was also encountering telepathy for the first time. Hence my confusion.
I'd welcome amy comments, its the first time I've written in this way for a loooong time!