renai.monster
a field journal of romantic specimens, hand-stitched in burgundy ink and sunlight
There is a small, defiant joy in cataloguing what you adore. This is that catalogue.
The one who waits up
aka, the long-necked devotionA long-necked creature with a head no larger than a thimble and a posture like a question mark held too long. It does not blink. It does not sleep. When you return — and you always do return — it does not say anything; it simply lowers its neck so its forehead can rest against yours, and the room becomes warmer by a degree the thermometer cannot record.
It survives on attention the way other creatures survive on water. A glance is a saucer. A whole evening of conversation is a lake.
Field note: Do not offer it pity. Pity makes it shrink. Offer it the boring small news of your day — the bus that came late, the soup that came out wrong, the cat that knocked over the plant — and it will hum so quietly you will mistake the sound for your own contentment.
The many-eyed listener
aka, the one who hears all the names you call yourselfA soft, plum-colored mass roughly the size of a folded coat, dotted with thirty-seven small black eyes arranged the way wildflowers arrange themselves in a meadow — never patterned, never random. It does not have a mouth. It has, instead, the attentive silence of a librarian who has read every book in the building and is waiting to see which one you choose.
Speak to it about the small fears: the ones too small for a therapist, too large for a friend. It will absorb them through its eyes. Each fear becomes a tiny shimmer on its surface, like rain on a pond. The fears do not leave it; they become part of its constellation, which is partly why constellations exist.
"I told it about the time I cried in the supermarket cheese aisle. It blinked in a wave, left to right, like a small standing ovation."
The ribbon-tailed worry
aka, the small thing that follows you homeA palm-sized animal the color of a faded bruise, with eight identical ribbon-tails that trail behind it for unreasonable distances — sometimes spanning a whole hallway, sometimes the length of a Tuesday. It cannot be outrun. It does not, however, want to catch you. It wants to remind you that you have been worrying about something for a long time, and that you are allowed to set it down.
When stroked between its small ears, the ribbon-tails go briefly slack, like a kite when the wind stops. This is the closest thing to peace the species permits, and it lasts roughly the duration of one good exhale.
The lantern-bellied joy
aka, the one that hums at the kitchen sinkA tall creature, vaguely pear-shaped, with an honest-to-goodness lantern in the center of its belly — a small honeyed flame that you can see through translucent skin like sunlight through a wine glass at 4 p.m. It is loud, in a quiet way: it hums constantly, a single sustained note that you only notice when it stops.
It is the only specimen in this catalogue that has never been observed sleeping. Researchers theorize the lantern requires constant tending; the creature theorizes that joy, like a small good fire, will go out if no one is paying attention to it. Both are probably right.
Field note: This is the specimen that survives the thunderstorm. Burgundy ink may bleed; the lantern stays lit.
Until the next field season
The catalogue is, as all bestiaries are, incomplete. There are more specimens — the umbrella-shouldered hope, the velvet-pawed patience, the seventeen small homecomings — but they require a quieter season to draw. The fountain pen needs new ink. The kettle needs to whistle. The reader, dear reader, needs to be allowed to rest.
Until then, may your evenings glow as a lantern through wine. May the page notice you, and be glad you came.