Mice

I have a new story on pineapplewar. It is a story I wrote in response to a couple of short prose things Blake Butler wrote.

Theme/motif: Mice, the size of bears. (Huh?)

I think my apartment has mice. I think so, but I don't know for sure.

Yesterday when I came home from work, my trash can was tipped over, and their was garbage scattered all through the kitchen. My cat was hiding under the bed.

And sometimes I think I hear a tiny squeaking noise when I'm trying to sleep. I hear it in the wall. And a tiny scratching sound.

And often when I come home, there are thick, deep claw marks in the plaster.

I think my apartment has mice. I think so, but I can't say for sure.

The day before yesterday, my bookshelf was torn down, and my books were ripped to shreds and scattered through the living room. My cat was hiding in the closet, up on the shelf and way in the back. My clothes had been torn down.

And sometimes I think I hear them scuffling around in the attic, ripping apart what sounds like a raccoon.

I go up to the attic, but I never see them.

They hide quickly.

The day before the day before yesterday, I came home and found all my windows and screens torn open. My cat was on the ground, torn up.

I went out and got another cat.

Mice. I think my apartment has mice.

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Also, Andy Warhol has a burger.

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UPDATE:

I've written seventy-two words. Chapter 50.