A little rat. Scurrying around the house, nibbling whatever it can lay its two front teeth on. Never finishing off what it started, the size of the find far exceeding its capacity. Never going back to finish either, because who wants to eat rat-bitten stuff? Until it begins to see the waste. If only food came in smaller portions, it sighs.
So i went and bought me a book on short stories. Called (ironically enough, no wait, i'm not sure this is irony. Strangely enough? Coincidentally? Inappropriately? Ahh, i think i'll go with that) The Cats Pyjamas.
One short story later. I dont think i've got the hang of reading short stories. I keep expecting the last sentence to deliver some kind of a punch. To go with a bang, not to fade slowly into the sunset.
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