Feral peacocks roam the suburbs, crying in the night. Their screams sound like children endlessly calling “Mom! Mom!” but it’s just peacocks. It’s always just peacocks.
Something slams hard against the boarded-up windows during a hurricane - you say it was just a tree or lawn chair, but the red stains suggest otherwise.
You don’t go to the beach. Only tourists go to the beach, swarming in droves, forgetting that even on overcast days, their pale skins can indeed burn. They return from the beach, scarlet and peeling. They never meet your eyes.
After hurricanes, sometimes you do go to the beach, searching among the washed up debris for interesting things washed ashore, ignoring the things with too many legs or geometries that suggest body plans unknown to man.
When you do go to the beach, you walk slowly, carefully sandaled to protect your feet against man-o-war tentacles that lie hidden in the sand, dead for days but still able to sting. Even dead things can hurt you. Especially dead things.
You walk along the sandy bottom offshore, shuffling your feet in the sand to warn creatures of your coming. A stingray the size of a manhole lifts out of the sand in front of you, rising from the floor like a UFO, before slowly undulating away, tail flowing behind it as one last warning.
The classroom iguana disappears during a storm. You search all over for him, but he is nowhere to be found. After a week of mourning, he falls through the ceiling tile and into the music classroom, looking substantially larger than when he went missing.
Your school has a whole week where for one hour a day, you learn about dangerous creatures and how to avoid them, of how to run from alligators and when a stick isn’t a stick at all. You tell your cousins, who live out of state, as if this were a normal thing that happened all over the country. You don’t notice their horrified looks.
Your dog is huddled in the corner of the porch, whining. A cane toad is eating your food, and eyeing your dog like they may be next. You start to wonder what happened to the neighbor’s dog when it disappeared last month.
“BOW-kuh”, they drawl, with their plumped lips and skin drawn too tight over their faces, their bodies more plastic than flesh, their skin tanned leather over silicone and bone, creatures not quite human but attempting to pass as such. “We’re from BOW-kuh.”
The pelicans swoop down and fly off with squirming seagulls and pigeons in their pouches. They eye you, as if trying to determine if you’d fit, too, and wondering how you’d taste.
There is a gator blocking your garage. There was a gator blocking your garage yesterday. It has been five days since you have been able to leave the house.
that animator who’s working on that Portal short that everyone was excited about was looking for storyboard artists and I was like “hey I can do it” and I didn’t expect him to answer but he said he liked my work and added me on deviantart and told me to add him on facebook and I might get to do some boards for it and i