“There… there!!! That pesky little rat!” The mouse was a smooth-furred, jittery-nosed, small-as-grass field mouse. I remember sitting on the roughly carpeted floor early in the mornings, when it was too cold to go outside, and watching him swipe food before the chipmunks and birds, who were at least two times the size of him, got at them beforehand. I remember sitting there for hours at a time, every morning, my face so close to that cold glass door that every two seconds I had to wipe off the foggy blotches my breath made against it. And after the first glance of that mouse I ever had, I knew I had made a connection with him—one which I never wanted to be broken. I never told anyone when I saw him. Because I knew that if I did, they would have killed him. In the time when the sun rose above the peak of the mountain across the road from the two-floored cabin that my grandparents owned in Colorado Springs, after the time of my daily watching of the mouse, me and my grandma sat out on the porch. Me, my sister, my mom, and my dad call her Granny. We sat there, silently, watching the chipmunks and the birds feast on the sunflower seeds we placed out that morning. What a pretty day, I thought. We haven’t had one in a while. Unfortunately, the August rain had been pouring down on us for the past fifteen days, and since we only had two more out here, I was hoping for it to be the best ones. “There’s a lot of chipmunks out here,” Granny noted. I nodded. “There is—much more than yesterday.” Granny rocked slowly in her thickly white-cushioned rocking chair. The paint on the metal bars that supported her, at least thirty-five years old, was chipping off at a steady pace, revealing its rusted corpse. She sipped her mug of coffee, careful as to not let any drip on her once light purple, now light gray, stringy old jumpsuit. A gentle tap of her thumb against the mug handle soon sufficed for the awkward silence she left by gazing off into the distance. What’s she thinking about now? I wondered. It was typical for her to do this, as was it for me to think about what exactly she was playing around in her mind. It was around seven o’clock in the morning, and though her eyes were still a little groggy, they were keen on the lookout. For that mouse. I had always kept my daily sightings a secret for a reason, that being I was quite alone with my relationship. To everyone else, that mouse was a pest that deserved to be gotten rid of. I often wondered about that mouse as much as I watched him. About what was going on in its small brain. Especially if some seventy-eight-year-old man was rapid-firing a BB gun at you as you nibbled on a piece of celery that was thrown out for the little bunny after dinner. About how that would feel. About how it would feel if everyone hated you. It was as I thought about this that that mouse bolted from under the porch and into the play area of the chipmunks. Instantly, Granny lurched to the edge of her chair. “There… there!!! That pesky little rat!” She pointed toward a small stubby tail that was poking out behind one of the cinder blocks. She whirled quickly to me. “Get your bow!!! Kill it!!!” she growled at me. I jumped up, scaring a few birds away. My mind was blank—no thoughts came through to me. And I wouldn’t know this at that moment, but now I know that it wasn’t me who was thinking this. This wasn’t going on in my head. It was Granny’s thoughts. The want to make her proud of me invaded my mind. It controlled me, my behaviors, my thoughts. My feelings. My actions. Like a parasite, eating away at the moral meaning that I once was. I dived through an array of chairs on the other part of the porch, grabbing my bow and three arrows. I gripped them hard as I bolted back to the edge of the porch. I nocked an arrow with swift movement, locating the mouse sitting in a tube, eating some seed. I pulled back. I didn’t stop. I aimed. I bet I would have stopped. I let go. The arrow whizzed through the air slower than ever. I could see each of its carefully placed rubber tails. They spun with such precision, such determination. The air seemed to not even move as the arrow point sliced through it like a pair of scissors against a sheet of wrapping paper. One singular sliding motion. So delicate. So nasty. Ssshhhheeiinnggg! The arrow wedged itself in the gravel right next to the tube. I could see the mouse start to shiver in fear, even ten feet away. I stopped for a second. That was that little mouse who I watched so affectionately every morning. What am I… My grandma stopped my train of thought. “What are you doing??!! Shoot again!!!” I reluctantly nocked another arrow. I have to make her happy, I thought. I pulled back on the arrow. Ting!!! This time the arrow slammed into the pipe and ricocheted a few feet away on the gravel. The mouse jumped and moved a little bit forward. It was vulnerable. I drew back slowly with my last arrow. And then I stopped. “Do it!!!” My grandma looked like she was at a wrestling match—her fists were clenched in a defensive position. She held them tight, close to her chest, looking like she was ready to throw a punch at something. At that mouse. But instead, she was making me do it. Why? I looked at the mouse down the arrow. It was shivering uncontrollably. I have made this happen. I have scared a little mouse of no
Animals
The Jago Bird
There in the sky are the unmistakable brown and purple feathers of the Jago bird “S’bongo!” I hear my mother’s voice ring clear and loud across our homestead. I look up. There in the sky are the unmistakable brown and purple feathers of the Jago bird. Its massive wingspan blots out the sun and its black shadow twin chases me as I start running toward my mother. She motions for me to get inside—not that inside our mud-and-stick home is much safer than outside—yet it’s all we have. We huddle together underneath our window and wait, still and quiet. The Jago bird is one of the most ruthless, destructive creatures in our region of southern Africa. Its wingspan is the biggest any in our village have seen. Bigger than the tallest of the men. Its cry has the ability to send a surge of cold through our bodies, even in the heat of summer. It has attacked our livestock, eaten our crops, and even attacked adults and children. We have reason to be frightened. Whenever the bird comes around we hide. It has become our first instinct. Some of the old people say the bird is a curse on our people. That we have upset the gods, that when the bird is seen a time of trials and suffering will begin. When we are sure it is safe, we slowly walk out of our hut. It is a simple home, one round room with a thatched roof and no door. We are very poor but it is home to me, my little sister, Nkugle, and my mother, Boniswa, whom everyone calls Bon. I don’t remember my father. He died when I was three. Days later, I collect my water jug and head off into the dense forest surrounding our village. My shoeless, calloused feet have traveled this dirt path many times. I have to go collect water for my family before dark. If I stay out later I risk getting bitten by a snake or losing my way home. Getting to the river takes about forty minutes. The return takes much longer. I’m still slower than my mother, but she can’t collect water as she looks for work in town. As I walk I hear a screech. I know that screech. My body immediately reacts, sweat is replaced by chills like a winter gust. I realize I need to hide. Dropping the jug, I scamper up a nearby broom tree and hunch down. At the top of the tree I look down. The bird is pecking at my water jug. I wish I could scream at him—tell him to leave. But I can’t, I have never been able to speak—speak a word, sing a note, or even laugh. Not being able to speak can be very frustrating. Not many understand me. My mother has always understood me though. Since I was little, I was able to draw with sticks in the dirt. When drawing in the dirt was no longer sufficient, she bought me a set of pencils, a small notebook, and one rubber eraser. I don’t know where the money came from. That notebook and pencils are my greatest treasures. The tree is rocking violently now. Looking down, the bird is gone. Looking up, there he is. My grip on the limb loosens and I don’t remember anything until I wake with a sharp pain from a scrape on my knee. My head rests on a pile of leaves near the tree. I can’t see the sun anymore. As fast as I can, I gather my empty jug and limp home. When I arrive, my mother takes one look at my knee and rushes inside to get moss to soak up any remaining blood. Once my wound is clean, I draw her a picture. It’s of an ant and an angry Jago bird. “Oh, S’bongo!” Mother shakes her head and pulls me next to her. We both soon drift to sleep. The next morning when I wake my mother has already left to collect water. When she returns she is clearly weakened by the effort. She lies down on her mat and falls asleep immediately. It’s a bad sign, as she hardly ever takes breaks from work. I hope tomorrow I have the strength to collect the water. The next morning, however, it is clear no one is collecting water today. My knee is puffy and sore, and the cut oozes. My leg cannot support me. My mother is ill and it is painful for her to breathe. When I try to give her hot pap that morning, she winces. The trip to the healer takes three days time, and she will want some form of payment. We cannot afford that. I hold my mother’s hand and rub her face, comforting her with my eyes. The next day I go to the next homestead and motion for my best friend’s mother to please watch over my mother and sister as I go to collect water. This trip is less eventful. I return as children are coming home from school. The children stop laughing and joking as I pass. I hear them murmur “curse” under their breath, and they move away from me. My best friend smiles at me, but it is a timid smile—even she thinks I may be cursed. Then the screaming erupts. Everyone runs toward their homestead. My mother lies there, unable to move toward me and my sister under the window. We keep a watchful eye on her. My mother’s eyes look frightened. This time the bird’s visit is short. Soon I walk back outside. As I emerge I notice green herbs scattered around the front of our homestead. Did the healer come as I so wished she would? I bring the herbs back into our homestead and show them to my mother for approval. They pass the test. I grind them in a small wooden bowl with a spoon. They give off a small
A Monster
I aimed the tip of the barrel up at the squirrel The branch shook silently as the wind whistled through the oak trees. The little ball of fur jumped to another branch as I pointed the flame-red sight at it. It hopped around a little, found himself a nice, big acorn, and settled on a branch. He gnawed on the nut silently as I sat below, watching, thinking, and most of all, scared. I aimed the tip of the barrel up at the squirrel. I barely tapped the trigger… Kapowwww!!!! I flinched and turned my head away, hoping to God the tiny creature had dodged the death wielding bullet. It was silent for about three seconds, then all of a sudden… Thump! I tried to blink back my tears, but it just wasn’t possible. I chucked the BB gun as far as I could throw it and sprinted away sobbing. Wh-why had I taken his life? He didn’t do anything to me, I thought to myself. I ran inside and threw myself down onto the couch and began to soak its cushions with my miserable tears. After about an hour of sobbing, I decided I needed to confront the fear of what had happened. I slowly trudged toward the crime scene. There was just a BB gun… and some blood-soaked leaves. Then there was a rustling in the leaves behind a thick oak tree. I slowly tiptoed to the tree. I let out a loud gasp at what I saw. Lying in the leaves right in front of me was a squirrel with blood dribbling down the side of his head. He was alive… barely. I ran back to the house, grabbed a towel, and sprinted back. I wrapped the towel around the tiny ball of fur. I held him tightly against my chest. It was quite clear I had found my next pet… even if it was illegal. I brought him back to the house. I had no idea how to explain this bizarre situation to my dad. My dad came out the door right at that moment. “Hey, so… what is that?” “Well, um, I kind of shot him, but he is still alive, and I feel horrible.” “Son, you can’t keep that, it’s already half dead anyways.” “But Dad!” I screeched. “He’s just suffering; you may as well put him out of his misery.” “I’m not killing it and neither are you!!!” I bellowed. “Why did you shoot it?” “I-I-I don’t know. I usually miss, and now that I hit him I feel terrible.” “It’s OK, buddy, but he’s really really bad hurt.” The bullet had literally pierced the poor thing directly in the eye, and it was working its way right into his brain. He would be able to casually stagger around for about three seconds, and then he would start paralyzing in his left side and fall over. He was nearly dead, and there was nothing I could do to save him… He would pass on into his afterlife. I would never forget how monstrous I felt that day. Trentin Lyle Stalnaker, 11Nitro, West Virginia Matthew Weaver, 8Kingwood, Texas
