These Old Tomcat Feelings

In our final piece for Fiction Week, Amelia K. on the hunger and fragility of it all.

This morning I put a mouse into my pocket. I will use it for many things. Things that require small hands, for instance, or to pose beside larger items for scale. I will feed it accordingly. I will protect it from hawks, traps, and poisons. I will remove it for washing. I will give it a name. When I am finished, I will swallow the mouse. Its nails will leave micro-tears that will heal easily, but dreadfully. Forever I will remember its passage through the greased cylinder of my throat. I will not remember its face, as I never had a chance to look at it. However, I can swallow another mouse. I can even give the next mouse the same name. There is a timetable of acceptable grief for swallowed mice and I have no intention of exceeding it. I no longer think about the size of its bones. Further, as the mouse completed its lifespan inside me, there is nothing to bury. There are worse things. It is complete. 🐈‍⬛

OCTOBER FICTION WEEK