The Mongoose and the Goat
by Miranda Erdt
Issue No. 195 ~ August, 2013
When the thick animal scent knocked me over, I looked for more goats in the corners, or perhaps a raccoon; one mammal couldn't smell so much.
When the thick animal scent knocked me over, I looked for more goats in the corners, or perhaps a raccoon; one mammal couldn't smell so much.
What if something happened? No, it couldn’t have. If it did, there would be evidence on your friends’ profiles, well wishes and get well soons and maybe even a group asking for support and prayers but there’s not, there’s nothing, I have nothing.
The kid gets my drift. Me and this kid, we’re buddying up. We’re having a real good time, me and this kid. I drain the beer, close my eyes, just thinking about stuff I buried long ago. When I open them the kid is still there. “Say, how old did you say you were?”
Of course, in this Job - He capitalised job, a biblical pun to emphasise his suffering - in this Job there are plenty of bad knockers, but that is something I have to cope with.
He left, and I popped open the computer. The screen flashed up, familiar and dreaded. Five words. The footprints of an idea I had been chasing for weeks.
In the stillness I had time to register things, to dwell. What, I wondered, would push someone to that point? I know confusion. I know difficulty. But killing myself? That had never crossed my mind.
Having nothing else to do, Dalia married her high-school sweetheart. They accomplished nothing spectacular.
That’s the thing about photographs, isn’t it? They’re silent.
Sam and I search streets of abandoned homes and lawns waist-high. The odd local leans against a wall, an elderly couple inch along a side-walk.
Her back was turned to him. She was washing the cutting board in the sink. The way her elbows churned, Grace looked like she could have been strangling someone.