Flash Fiction Fridays
No themes. No word count. Open prompt. The Flash Fiction Fridays Free-for-All is running through September. Today, we feature a great piece from Wesley Jacques.
By Wesley Jacques
While sitting here watching my cat watch me, a golden cat that leaves stray gold hairs on every thing he touches, I contemplate murder, felinicide. Not because he's a troublesome cat in any way. More the contrary. He's loyal and loving. I watch him watch me with kind eyes and he reacts affectionately to my petting his fur (some attaches to my hand.) I consider killing him now simply because there's a knife in my hand from lunch. I cut bits of cheese and ate it with grapes. My furry friend had a turkey feast from a can. We enjoyed each other's company.
But now that lunch is over and the knife remains, I wonder how difficult it'd be to kill an idle animal with a soft white belly. I imagine it wouldn't be difficult at all. He sits there and closes his eyes and smiles when I rub underneath his chin, stroke his ears. He curls up and lies down when I begin to type on my laptop or read. He just wants to be near me. I don't imagine that I'd have to chase him or trap him or fight him too much. A knife would give me an undeniable advantage I believe. If I needed one. I'm near ten times his size. Smart as a whip too! as a teacher once told me. He's stupid. He chases furry faux-mice.
But then, the thought strikes me with a vengeance: What if he thinks about this too? What if he mulls over the prospect of murdering me in his little cat brain? This is why he remains so close. His ears perk up when the thought tantalizes him so. He may sleep on it, roll around and lick himself with the image of my death in his mind. Surely it'd be easy for him as well. He's often awake when I am asleep. He has claws and can jump up to those highest nooks in the apartment. He surprises me sometimes when he jumps down. I tripped over one of those stupid fake mice once. He's a wild animal! Now his eyes appear more sinister. When he yawns does that mean he's bored with me? If he's bored with me, am I done for?
But ha! I realize then that I open the cans that contain the hearty gourmet turkey feasts that fill his belly. He can't kill me. I think he knows that by the way he circles before he sits sometimes. We'll make a pact not to murder one another for now. I pat his head and he purrs in agreement. But just a moment later he rubs his body against my foot. What does that mean? I clench my knife.
Wesley Jacques has been writing short fiction for twenty years, not to be discredited by the fact that he is twenty-three. Born in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York, to Haitian immigrant parents, he was raised with in the web of group homes, foster homes and other non-homes. He has a master of arts degree in English literature.