Squirrel Eyes Squirrelize Squirrel Lies by Emily Charlton
The squirrel stares into the closet and the closet stares back.
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They walk in circles around the hallways, left, left, left, left, left, left, left, left, right. Everyone is being watched. We can’t have cheaters.
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It creaks the door open. Abyssal eyes make contact—eye to eye, eye to eye. They clatter to the floor, rolling and tumbling, picking up carpet lint, and unblinking.
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“Squirrel noises.”
“Squirrel noises.”
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It grabs a few, picking them up and examining them—their color, size, scent, consistency, and taste.
“Squirrel noises.”
“Squirrel noises.”
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It wipes away the flakes of skin and dust. They stare back, unblinking. It picks up another one. Carpet lint covered. Small. Firm. Not firm enough. Crushed. Splattered. Oozed.
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Its slow feet trudge back through the halls, kicking up dust with every step.
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Rounding the dimly lit hallways, the floorboards and walls moan in agony. Too many buried to hold. Too many secrets to seal. The door is ajar. The lights are unflickering.
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