Alana DeBelina

Ashland MFA Candidate

SHADE KING

If you get, oh, three zebras in a week—that’s a roar. A gazelle and a warthog: a growl. But if you’re only coming up with ground vermin and the odd stray monkey, that’s just… a shame. Isn’t that right, Brooklyn? (Poor kid can’t catch pond scum.)

See this? Zebra flank. Grass-fed. Clean sneak. You can taste when the ambush wasn’t done properly, but this, this is pure. Poor schmuck didn’t get a whiff of her. Hold on, they’re yelling at me—don’t pick my teeth? That’s leftovers! That’s good food! I don’t waste good food.

Anyway, what was I saying? No, don’t go that way, stay over here. The girls’ weird—I mean, I don’t know what it is—their weird art project is over there. It’s just sticks and whatever. It’s a safety hazard. Uhh… Oh right, we were talkin’ ambush. 

Now, I don’t hunt. Males don’t hunt. The meandering and chasing and tracking, that’s for females. Why? No mane, no say. (Don’t tell ‘em I said that.) But they’re built for it. They have the, uh, you know. The focus. Something about the mane: it pulls our energies in different directions. Like, cosmically. It’s exhausting. It takes me a lot to get through a day. They don’t understand. They think I have it easy. Sometimes I hear ‘em talking about it—whispering—but they won’t do nothin’. They gotta hunt. That’s what I’ve been saying. It’s not a manly profession: noses perked in the wind, sussing for whiffs of hide on the breeze: feminine. One ear to the dirt, listening for the drums of hooves on trampled grass: lady business. Cornering prey and opening throats with claws and clean teeth: babe stuff. They’ve got to. I mean, we gotta eat, but… they like to, and that’s half of it right there. Me: not so blessed. This mane, like I said, it takes more than it gives. I don’t have their natural stamina. I wish I did! I wish I could be out there with them, showing them how it’s done, but… I mean, even if I could, I don’t really enjoy the hunt. The killing’s okay, but the running, the pace—it’s an all-day affair sometimes. They’ll leave at sundown and I won’t see them till sun-up, and I’m starving, bored, about to nod off for good. They’ve been eating the whole way home and here I am, waiting around like some pining putz. They’re in good spirits when they get back, sure, what with the adrenaline and the fresh hot meal… It’s a bit gluttonous, you know? They don’t even realize it. I mean, I don’t expect them to, but I swear they bring back less and less each time. And here I am, ribs poking out on both sides. I don’t have that temperament I guess. But that’s why things are the way they are. They do their job, I do mine. It’s all important. Equally, maybe, but I’d argue there’s a bit more pressure on the shoulders of the one than those of the many. Nobody takes up my slack, you know? 

My job? You see, what I do—and do well, I should add—is lay around and make sure no one takes my spot. You’re smirking. It sounds like a joke, right? But I’m not kidding. I mean it. It’s my right. It’s divine. 

Look, everyone wants my spot. They want my cubs and my hunters—who wouldn’t? They’re food-bringers, they’re babes—but deep down I know what these other guys want, and I mean truly crave, is this right here: my shade. My tree and my rock and my dust. Swear on the rain, best dust around. But none of them are willing to work for it. You have to earn the plain; it isn’t given. When my sons are old enough, they’ll learn just like I did to go off and find their own spots. That’s just the way it is. I mean, maybe one could stay and inherit this one. You know, if he were a favorite. If he respects his old man enough, and if I’m near retirement. Who knows? We’ll see.

The ladies, they don’t get it. What I do isn’t so easy—it’s a different kind of sacrifice. I once heard them chatting: Why do we feed this guy? A pile of rocks could do his job. I hear their complaints—they’re not privy to what I’m doing. Anything looks easy from the outside. Plus—and don’t tell them I said so—but they don’t really have the patient-gene. It’s mane-linked, so I can’t blame ‘em. 

Look, I’m really not sure what you’re hoping to gain from this. You don’t need me to tell you what’s up here, just look around. There’s the girls—women, I mean—and there’s me. What else can I say? You wanna stick your nose around here, sure, go ahead. I don’t mind. The women, they might mind. What’re you gonna call this, anyway? Pride of the Plain or somethin’ cheesy? Ha! That would be something. 

What? You’re calling it Love Savanna? No you’re not, that’s dumb. That’s not even… I mean, you know we have a Savannah over there, right? Her mom’s from the uh—what was it? Georgia rehab center. Nice girl. I don’t know that I love her. Love is different here I guess. It’s not really about love. Are you sure you don’t wanna call it something else? What about Shade King? What about—

Hold on, hold on. Sugar, stop wasting your time with that thing. It doesn’t even look like anything. It’s nothing but rocks and grass. Where are you even gonna keep that thing? 

The stuff I put up with around here… my old man never dealt with any of this, I can tell you that. What he said was law. What I say? Who knows. Sometimes it’s like they don’t even hear me. I might be crazy, but sometimes I wonder if they wish I wasn’t here at all. 

Anyway… hold on just a second. What are you girls moving that garbage into my shade for? It’s too close. Holy hyena, look at that. That’s ridiculous, that crap almost looks like it could be me lying there. They’ve got the mane right and everything. What is that, lemon grass? Unbelievable… they really adore me. 

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ALANA DEBELINA LIVES AND WRITES IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. SHE IS AN MFA CANDIDATE IN FICTION AT ASHLAND UNIVERSITY.