by N. God Savage

My cat died today, and I whisper it to myself in schoolboy French: Aujourd'hui, mon chat est mort. I assume he died today, but I suppose it could have been yesterday or the day before: he has been missing for a while. I came home to find a note stuffed through my letterbox, its crumpled tail protruding like washed-out paper petals. It read: "cat dead / remains are in lane behind number 42 / you should probably clean it up / bring a shovel." That cat was the only thing tying me to this city. Without it, I am free.


N. God Savage is a writer and philosopher from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Links to his blogs can be found here.