Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

▲
FEED ME
Kellis Pike
The sun has not even begun to rise as I feel my cat’s paw smacking my face. I roll to my
left side, eager not to let her win the battle this early on a Saturday morning. No
such luck, she begins smacking me with her now open-clawed paw. Brat, I think as I
throw the covers over my head to protect myself from her blows.
“My bowl, it’s empty.”
What? Who said that? My roommate left for work an hour ago, I’m home alone.
“Hello?” I whisper, my eyes fearfully shooting open as I pull the covers from my head.
“My. Bowl. It’s. Empty.” A voice echos once more.
“Hello?” I say again, my voice shaking with nerves.
“It’s me, you idiot!”
My jaw drops. “This is not happening. I am still asleep.”
“Did I stutter? I said, my bowl is empty. Fill it! Now!” My cat’s soul-capturing eyes are
now staring directly into mine.
“Did you jus-“
“Yes, yes, yes, I talk. Now that we’re passed this and on to more pressing issues, the
food bowl situation still remains empty,” she says beginning to lick her left front paw: as
if when she used it to wake me it gave her germs she could no longer stand to possess.
“But… How? Why? Why now?” I stutter.
“Because you nitwit, like I’ve so clearly mentioned before my food bowl is empty! I’m
hungry now!”
fiction 43
GABRIELLE WALTER. Melt Down
Chalk Pastels.