Unhinging the bottom of its visor, so its articulated tongue could emerge from the sheath within, the Karma Kameleon licked, in a low squat, some of the snow from the mountainside. Retracting the black slug, the mirrored glass and black metal folding in, the Kameleon considered the texture, scent and taste of the white flakes, before realising it was being watched.
Three men in parkas, one holding a long chain with an emaciated husky at the end, whistling through its nose, stood stock-still, having witnessed the entity arrive through a hatch floating in mid-air, the interior once a train, before it slipped away like a cloud, or hot breath on cold air.
The Karma Kameleon approached the man, and one yanked the chain to try and make their hound bark ferocious, only to make it whimper more, and lay down, head on folded paws, “You keep the animal?” The Kameleon asked, in that burnt-zinc voice.
The men looked at each other, one even laughed, to offset the fear, “The fuck are you?”
The Kameleon considered this question for a moment, folding its arms defensively across its chest, where strips of tinfoil fluttered in the mountain breeze. Its chainmail elbow-length gloves clinked against its breastplate. For a moment, it looked like it might answer, before snapping its head up, evidently offended by the question, and the three men collapsed into singularities. The husky ran down the mountain, barking with joy for the first time.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The Oneiriad: Periphery to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.