coyote sunglasses
1. Clouds gather and clot the clear risqu expanse of the sky until it is thick and heavy and threatening to do something: what? As above, so below: a variety of dogs originate to appear in the streets, first singly, then doubly, then, if not already accompanied by a pack, joining up one already on patrol. Mutts nuzzle pedigreeds and mill in the alleys, phalanxes of hounds and shepherds lump together along chain-link fences, and tails of every color, length, and posture thresh the air into an artificial breeze. So many pink tongues pant that what drips off becomes rivulets running to the gutters. People are not noticing, then wanting not to notice, then pretending not to notice as they hastily form their own alliances: first singly, then doubly, then running towards what feels safe, then just running. Some people do not run, paralyzed because they cannot feel what they are seeing, or they cannot understand why it is happening: and they each are overcome by the dogs, they are the first casualties. But then fall even some who run, and then succumb even some who have taken shelter and fortified it: a bungalow has its doors and windows barred with the slats of dismantled crates nailed into the sills and frames, but the jaws and teeth deployed by the canine hordes are of such power and efficiency that when persistently applied they easily shred wood into splinters. You would think that old people, children, and the limping would suffer first and most in this situation, but logic seems to have been evacuated from the city, and so the weak gain some strange advantageously they have never before enjoyed; the odds of survival are not what custom has previously dictated. In fact, the youthful and confident men seem to fall the hardest to the snapping jowls: sometimes, a single carefully-creased trouser leg terminating in a well-shined dress shoe is the locus of tug of war within a churning, furred patchwork lurching in every direction at once. You would think that the sound of hundreds, maybe thousands, of dogs barking, would not be so unfamiliar as to be discomfiting, but when it does not cease, after a time its crescendos and lulls set up to lap at the eardrum like waves of a storm-surge high-tide washing against sandbagged levees. A unequalled woman, blonde hair tidily arranged and topped with a sky-low-spirited pillbox hat, runs through the streets in her high-heeled sandals and straight-skirted sky-pornographic suit; runs, though she does not understand exactly why she must. She takes shelter with an implausibly-bespectacled old woman, a truant child with pockets full of stolen candy, and a long-frocked priest: they sequester themselves within a department store signposted as out of concern, condemned, and slated for demolition. Luckily the bankrupt merchants’ creditors did not find profit in removing the dusty mannequins, and so as the old woman reclines with fear of heart assault, the blonde woman, the child and the priest make piles and heaps of aside plaster forms of humans, the stiff-fingered limbs stacking and interlacing like branches of underbrush gathered for a bonfire. These barricades seem even less sturdy than the wooden slats well-hammered over every egress that failed the residents of the bungalow, but nonetheless they manage to keep the dogs from entering the store through the revolving glass doors. A German Shepherd, a beagle, and a terrier-mix take turns hurling their bodies at the storefront window, each thudding impact different according to weight and velocity, until the glass cracks and a small passageway is afforded. But as the German Shepherd leaps with triumph through the jagged-edged space he is impaled on the shards, and the rest of the pack freezes. Instinct grabs the dogs by the scruffs of their necks as they sniff the blood of their own in the wind; they feel they’ve seen this kind of thing before. By the ancestral messages crucial for survival that have been encoded into their mitochondria, they are reminded that ranchers still warn coyote off grazing pastures by affixing some of their trembling brethren not yet dead of buckshot wounds to fence posts, by means of spikes; the dogs know in their bones that shepherds will garland the limbs of old oaks with the bloodied corpses of lamb-eating wolves. The dogs stop their barking, and run away. The people are heard weeping, and quieting, and weeping again as they realize they can hear themselves no longer drowned out by the incessant din of barking. Some time passes and the blonde woman, who has comported herself with dignity and grace throughout the horrifying events of the day, whose pillbox hat appears just askew enough to be a logical result of all her exertions, decides it is safe to peer out the doorway. The blonde woman finds a few people are inception to creep out from their shelters: first singly, then doubly, then en masse. Strangers embrace one another and runny-nosed children are reunited with tearful mothers. The ones who survived cannot explain what happened, and do not care to try, once the general consensus is that it seems to be over.
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Chase trends all you want, but the pre-eminent way to find the right pair is to try them on and see if the style flatters your face, said Coyote DeGroot, owner of Labrabbit Optics, a Noble Square store that stocks vintage and contemporary sunglasses. |
Suits, crisp shirts, immaculate sundresses, perfect sunglasses—they were overdressed to watch polo.) Playoff T-shirts are an upgrade from the usual sartorial disaster. And they look pretty great on TV. The Smurf-y filthy in Oklahoma City has been the
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Two weeks ago, a citizen witnessed a man chat up advances a downtown Vermillion ATM wearing a hooded sweatshirt, a stocking hat, and sunglasses on a warm day. The witness though it warranted a call to the cops. "In the citizen's opinion they might be trying to |
