i have a cat who
makes a little chirp
sound every time i
reach out to touch her
she squints and leans
in her tail twitches
and the fur on her
back ripples like my
hand brushing across
the tops of long grass
nodding in the breeze
perhaps that chirping
sound means she thinks
i am about to punch
her in the face each
time i approach
or maybe it is the sound
of her appreciation of the
anticipation of the caress
or maybe it is just her
saying ‘i am here
and so are you’
the black fire bridge untwisted
to reveal fishtanks overfilled
and apartment building hallways
filled with horses set free
to gallop under the exit sign glow
and witness the false toothed
second verse reversal
six string struggles with a
story bogus as a 3 dollar bill
scraped transparent and pale
malnourished from un-noodled soup
and backalley borscht
until released to riot between hooves
each unknown stride possibly the last
until tripped trampled and rolled
into the light and the
empty stage my father should
have dominated
Gaze deeply through the æther, through space both real and imagined, through the deepest reaches of time. In the vastness of the Dark, see a glimmering blue world warmed by a golden star. Look deeper. See the massive gnarled oak tree sitting atop a green hill, its branches clawing at the low flat grey cloudcover.
Look deeper.
Inside the massive tree, hollowed out, squated a child drawing shapes in the ashes of the hearth. The child is thin with copper hair which stood up like frozen fire. The child’s fingers were bone white with ash. A gnarled old hand spattered with age spots, dry and warm, set itself on top of the child’s. The twisted hand was encrusted with jeweled rings. The jewels twinkled in the red light of the fire. The hand belonged to Zazi. The child looked up into Zazi’s face, gold hoops pierced eyebrows and nostrils, the face framed by long wild grey hair, the tips brushed lightly through the ashes of the hearth.
‘Take care with symbols writ, Willa.’ Zazi said. ‘They hold power.’
The child knew Willa meant her. This was her earliest memory.
in a case being called
the first of its kind
by legal experts
a design firm employee
has sued his employer
for time spent
dreaming about work
Ruben Valetta, age 45,
who works as a
graphic designer
has sued Toronto-based
Raw Silk Design
for the hours worked
in his dreams
filing a suit with the
Ontario Court of Justice
Valetta and his
representation are
asking to be awarded
the same hourly wage
he receives in his
day-to-day job
“I work all day
for these people
then come home
and dream about
the job all night
why shouldn’t I
be paid for
those (hours) too?”
Valletta told the
Toronto Moon
attorney Apollo Divinia
claims the suit
has no grounds:
“Mr. Valletta will
first need to prove
he dreams about work
then he would need
a record of some sort
of how many hours
he works every night
it is my understanding
dreams are quite short
in duration.”
Raw Silk Design declined
to comment on the suit
the Politician small and squat
his face a Halloween applehead
swatted at the flies buzzing his desk
more swarmed in the office air
an undulating black cloud
they crawled betwixt cracks
surrounding the office closet
No doubt, said the Politician to himself,
the result of the corpses filling that closet
a solution must be found
the premier flycatcher in all the land
was summoned at once
a hotshot cracker
decked out in leather
goggles covering his eyes
with mystique his weapon of
choice simple yet effective
a rubber band and a paper clip
geometrically snapping houseflies
from myriad angles bottle
green exoskeletons splattered
the walls until but one was left
both watched it buzz about
breathing heavily
now, for the piece de résistance
backwards using a hand mirror
splik splat
the Politician recognized
murderous showmanship with
a gold tooth crammed grimace
yet pragmatism must reign
for the people
where previously there had been
a swarm of problems now
remained but one
the Politician
ruthless pragmatic
knew the Answer
packed though it was,
that closet could hold
one more
Cynthia was looking at strollers on their tablet when she first noticed the scratching. She realized later the sound had occurred for some time before she noticed. It scritch-scritch-scritched at the edge of her awareness as the faint light of the tablet glowed on her features. She rubbed one fingertip absently back and forth across her bottom lip as she turned a page. Scritch-scritch-scritch thump THUMP. She turned, some part of her mind finally coming to terms with the sound, and snapped: ‘Inky, stop it, for christ’s sake!’ then looked directly at the black cat as it crouched in the kitchen doorway, turned away from her, hypnotized by an invisible spot on the wall. Its ears laid flat, and back legs danced in place.
Goosebumps stood up on her arms.
‘What is it Inky?’ Cynthia asked, placing the tablet on the sofa beside her, sitting forward slowly and quietly. The flesh on her back began to crawl. The cat acted as though Cynthia did not exist. It stared at the spot in the center of the wall. Whatever was making the sound was shockingly loud. It sounded like a Slinky being pulled violently through the drywall.
Mice. They had mice.
Tyson was watching hockey when she pushed open the door to the bedroom. He was sitting on the end of the bed, elbows on his knees, hunched over the small old television set. ‘Tyson,’ she said, and one hand flew up to silence her. She closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the door, exhaling slowly. ‘Tyson,’ she repeated, eyes still closed. ‘We have mice.’
‘Mice.’ he echoed, eyes still glued to the screen.
‘Yes. Mice.’
‘Nope,’ he dismissed. ‘we got the Inkster. He’d tear them a new asshole.’
She chewed at her bottom lip. ‘Well then I guess it’s rats.’ she said, folding her arms tightly under her breasts. ‘Or fucking raccoons.’ She watched the side of his face as he nodded at the tiny screen, whispering under his breath. ‘Or maybe homeless people.’ she added. ‘It was loud.’
‘Yes, go! Go go go go go. Get it! Get it!’ he said in rapid succession. Crying ‘Yes!’ in jubilation he looked to her, still grinning, as he bounced up off the bed and back down. She waited. As he took a long slow breath in, Tyson’s smile faded, while wiping one large hand down his face. ‘Ok, what? Mice? No. Out of the question.’
‘Out of the question.’ she repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘So, you think I don’t know what mice in the walls sound like.’
He snorted.
She set her jaw. ‘I know what mice sound like.’ she said while grinding her crossed forearms deeply and slowly into her ribcage. ‘You should hear them in there, it’s like a fucking oompah band.’
Tyson’s eyes flicked back to the screen. ‘Ooh, commercial’s over.’ When she sighed, he turned quickly back to her. ‘I’ll be out at the end of the period, ok?’
‘Out of the question.’ she said flatly. He sat across the table from her, his fists between them resting on the tabletop.
‘Well you want rid of it, don't you?’
‘But I don't want to kill it.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Kind of hard to get rid of it without killing it, Cyn.’
‘No.’ she said. ‘There are ways.’
‘Oh yeah?’ he asked with more of a smile than she was willing to sanction. ‘Effective ways?’
‘Tyson. This isn't the Stone Age anymore.’
‘You'll take care of it then?’ he asked, that wry smile growing more bold.
She stared at him. ‘Yes.’ she said. ‘I will.’
Cynthia set the trap under the sink as Tyson stood watching behind her. To her surprise he had offered no suggestions or critiques, simply watched. When it was properly set, she sat back on her haunches. ‘There.’ she said.
‘How does it work?’ he asked.
‘They go in here, and then boom, they get stuck and can't move. When we get home we walk it outside, pour a little canola oil on its feet, and it's free.’
‘I’m sure that’s as easy as it sounds.’
She said nothing.
‘What did you set the bait with?’ he asked.
‘Cheese.’
There was a pause. ‘Ok.’ he said. She could hear the smile in that voice. Cynthia stood up, turned, and looked at him. ‘You don't think it will work.’ she said. It wasn’t a question.
‘We’ll just see.’ he said.
They heard noises in the walls over the next few days but nothing showed up in the trap. After a week, with still nothing to show, Tyson said: ‘My turn now.’
He emptied the items from the plastic bag onto the kitchen table, one by one: razor blades, tooth paste, condoms, and a single snap trap. ‘So you're going to kill it.’ she said.
‘Your way didn't work, so now we're going to try mine.’ He walked over to a kitchen cupboard and removed their jar of peanut butter. ‘Your first problem was your bait.’ he said. ‘Mice eating cheese is cartoon shit. Mice love peanut butter.’
‘That's nice,’ she said. ‘so you set my trap up to fail.’
He took a small scoop of the peanut butter and spread it on the catch of the trap, then pulled back the hammer and set it with the bar. ‘Hey, you had your chance.’ he said, then crouched down and replaced her trap with his own. ‘Let's see how this works.’ he said.
The next morning Cynthia woke up after Tyson had already left for work. After stepping from the shower and standing in the bathroom doorway she looked over at the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She dried her hair, then stopped, thinking she had heard something. She waited, listening, staring at the cupboard.
Inkspot sat at her feet. ‘Mrgow!’ it cried at her.
‘Is anything in there, Inky?’ The cat rubbed up against her legs, then wound between them. Cynthia stepped around the cat, with some effort, and strode to the cupboard. She breathed in and out slowly, staring at the door, then she opened it. The trap sat there, still unsprung. She relaxed slightly.
‘Mrrrgow!’ Inkspot called at her, standing near its empty food bowl.
‘It's still kicking.’ she said, ostensibly to the cat.
She stared at the trap. The peanut butter now looked greasy from sitting out for hours. It made her queasy. Inkspot purred as it rubbed against the back of her legs while she stared at the trap. Cynthia opened a drawer, fished around, then pulled out a chewed up old pen. She leaned over and poked at the trap until it snapped, flipping over in the process. She closed the cupboard and fed Inkspot.
‘Huh.’ Tyson said, looking down at the trap. ‘They're pretty smart I guess. Wild animals gotta be.’
Cynthia nodded.
‘Still,’ he said, looking to her. ‘at least it tried this one. As far as we know, it never even touched the other trap.’
Cynthia took a sip of coffee. Tyson crouched down, his knees popping, and reset the trap with a grunt. He looked at her. ‘At least we know it liked the peanut butter.’
She wiped the little drip of coffee off the cup, then set her napkin down. She looked at him.
‘They love peanut butter.’ he said.
‘Mm hm.’
‘We’ll get it this time.’
Two nights later Tyson was updating the Netflix software when Cynthia noticed a high pitched squeaking sound, like when Inky’s claws slid down something plastic. She looked into the kitchen. The cat was chasing some toy rolling across the floor. The toy made a right turn, trying to get under the stove. Inkspot pounced on it, pinning it. ‘Tyson.’ she whispered.
‘Gimme a minute.’ he grunted.
She began to stand up, her eyes glued to the cat and its prey. ‘Tyson.’ she repeated. ‘Tyson, it’s the mouse. It’s in the kitchen.’
His head snapped around. ‘It what?’ he asked. His eyes darted around and found the cat. It had lost the mouse again and was chasing after it, its paws skidding around on the linoleum. The cat cornered the mouse again and pinned it with its paws. The mouse squealed high and sharp. The sound seemed to snap something in Tyson. He stood in a single swift movement. He stared blankly.
‘Tyson! Do something! Get it!’ Cynthia cried.
His mouth hung open and he looked to her. ‘I’m. I’m in bare feet.’ was all he said.
The mouse broke free again and dashed toward the living room with Inkspot on its heels. Tyson screeched out and jumped to the couch. His eyes were wide. He watched the cat chase the mouse, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.
Cynthia had stood without meaning to. She found she had a stool in her hand. When the mouse ran back toward the kitchen again she slammed the stool down without aiming. Inkspot skidded past, then turned back. Her pulse was pounding in her ears and her mouth was dry. She pulled the stool back and there laid the mouse. It was tiny. Smaller than she imagined. It was the color of chocolate milk. A drop of blood dripped from the corner of its mouth. Its tiny legs twitched.
‘Holy shit. You got it.’ someone said.
Cynthia set the stool down. Her breath was ragged.
‘You fuckin got it.’ someone said. It was Tyson. ‘You creamed it.’
Inkspot sniffed at the dead mouse.
She placed the stool back where it belonged and walked into their bedroom. She laid down on the bed with her back to the door. After a minute she could hear his steps approaching. ‘No need to be upset now, it’s dead.’ he said. ‘You got it. You rock.’ She closed her eyes.
For a while he said nothing, but she knew he was there since she hadn’t heard his steps. She licked her lips and swallowed to try to get some moisture back in her mouth. ‘Look,’ he eventually said. ‘if it freaks you out that much, we can just move.’
She opened her eyes. ‘There are mice everywhere.’
He snorted.
‘And if there aren’t mice, there are rats.’ she added. He laughed and she heard the laugh drift off as he turned his head towards the living room. ‘Game’s on. Gotta go. Cheer up. We won.’ he wandered back to the living room ‘If you want Netflix, I’ll move to the bedroom.’ he called to her. She could hear the announcers calling the game. She closed her eyes. Cynthia could hear scratching in the walls.