FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Photo by Ozge Karabal: https://www.pexels.com/photo/glass-.....-zest-6514...

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It's bustling here. I could hear the band rehearsing already. Long brass against white muzzles. Ears straight-as-could-be, out to the heavens only for some of them to curve down unable to reach for it.

I've had a drink. Five of them. Six? The glasses went quick. The bartender tonight was about as anal as my sister was. It worked though-for his favor, not mine-to get my drinks going by faster than I could count. Numbers blurred and so did my comfort zone.

I approached a fine vixen a couple of seats down. I worked magic. Telling her I'd buy the next and stared at the pink liquid in a glass rimmed with sugar. It looked like a hangover, so I kept my focus on her. Her eyes reflected the Blue Hawaiian slid her way and her breasts justified the price on my tab. I choose right.

Her words were snappy like the drummer playing nearby. It came out in small bursts in a steady-yet-smooth rhythm. She said her home didn't treat her right. I said I could relate-too many could. She trailed words together about her life's dream and before she could give it away, I cut in, "singer."

"Try poet."

"Poet?" I curled a smile. "I'd love to hear a good one out of ya. What stops you?"

"There's no money in it. Not a dime to be had in a book of poetry and I'm much too shy to perform it live."

I downed a shot of whiskey on the rocks. "That's not what I meant. Why not be a poet while working some shit retail job?"

"I'll have you know I'm a bank teller, not some girl working Hot Topic," she sighed. "A real poet wouldn't need another job anyway."

"A poet is a person that writes poems. I'd say you're up to the description, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe. But that's just a poet. A good one sells; gets heard and doesn't throw paper to the fireplace."

I scootched in closer. "Why not keep throwing? That's the dumb thing about you creatives. You get your nose in it too fast. Asking about the money, the people, the market, and then end up quitting your shit. It doesn't make sense. I'm a shit pool player, lousy flirt, but I still keep doing it for the hell of it."

"You wouldn't get it," she gave a fake laugh that cut sharp. A wise man would shut up; I roll the dice. Double or nothing.

"I get it. I do. Do you think that Sylvia Plath up and decided one day that she wasn't good enough? Huh? That she should give up and never see what she could do?"

"Sylvia killed herself. In an oven too for fucks sake."

"Yeah, but she died with an attic full of the best poems the world's ever seen. She was famous, ya know," I shook my muzzle refocusing, "You can do that too. You can put on a blindfold to the outcomes and embrace what you love. Run with it, and chase it all. You may never catch it, but at least you chased it. A lot can't say the same."

"Well...," her composure crumpled and lips puckered. "Well. Well. How about next time you just fuck me like the other guys instead of running your lips on my brains. It's all I value in the end. You could've had my body." She stomped away.

"Pleasure as always," I rolled my eyes. A white receipt slid my way. The bartender didn't miss a beat once more; though he probably wanted me out.

The bar was sparse with only a handful of drunks slow on their drinks. The jazz band played just the same. Not an eye their way, but I smiled upon the enduring sax. Sweet and smooth as could be. It eased me as my eyes wandered down the length of the receipt.