The Widow’s Cat
I found a black widow shaking in the bedroom, sitting in the morning sun on the windowsill. She was mumbling the rosary in a small, desperate whine, like a faraway train trying to stop. Through a lace veil, draped over her head and the top of her abdomen, I could see the silhouette of the little beads slipping methodically through her jointed forelegs. She became still and silent and turned to me, her eyes, two rows of four, clouded and quivering. A tiny tear dripped off the end of her fang.
“Don’t worry,” I told her, “there is no Cat.”
From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat
Brook’s non-fiction, humor, poetry, and fiction have appeared in Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat’s Ass Review, Peacock Journal, and other journals and anthologies. She has completed a full-length hybrid manuscript, is writing a novel, and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college.
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