24 December

The cat sits on my lap and watches me typing. Every now and again he raises a paw, half-ready to strike at the screen or my hands, but never does. His chest and his belly vibrate; he has happiness for both of us. The ending of my story curves away from its original destination.

Inspired by Francis

The house smelled of animals

The house smelled of animals. Perhaps birds, all the windows were closed. Or snakes. The heating was on. Definitely dogs. And at least one cat. But no, there were no animals there. None that moved at least. But.

T thought he would back out quietly, out of the living room, along the hall, backwards through the kitchen and back out through the window. Quietly, very quietly, feeling each backward step as he took it. A good idea but much too late.

He put his foot down in the wrong place.

Off to work

The chocolate Labrador looked out of the white van window, his pork pie hat tilted forward over one ear. “Left hand down a bit, mate”, he growled, flicking the butt of the very thin roll-up into the gutter. “Just park here. Let’s go. Let’s do it.”

Animal we are

Animal we are.
Blood pulses at our throat.
The feel of the flesh that forces the spasm
is as living in us as in those we look down on.
Muscles twitch our skin.
Though clawing for beauty, claw still we do,
the wink of an eye our only betrayal.

Animal we are.
Animal we die.
The roar of the rage at the end of the hunting
despite our soft bellies wells up all the same.

Animal we are.