He twisted himself silly, flattened his body, accordioned it, but nothing worked. He was simply too large to fit.
He sighed out a plaintive meow and reached one black toed paw through the opening. His attempt to turn his longest claw into a snare, a hook, a spear, was completely without success.
The mouse laughed too hard, upended himself and rolled within reach.
He caught it, tossed it into the air and reached out his paw to snag it again.
He jumped, missed the mouse and, half defiant, half ashamed, turned his head to meet her eyes.
“I wasn’t going to eat him.”
A single tear spilled from her right eye and slid down to glisten on her cheek. “You promised.”
He released the cat, let the transformation take him. Seconds later, he was once more just a man.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… I miss it sometimes. Humans have so much more stress.”
Katelyn Thomas is a writer, poet, and photographer who works in the children’s department of her local library. She spends her free time hiking, reading, and watching her rambunctious hens cavorting in the sunlight. She has recently been published in or accepted by One Sentence Poems, Bones Journal, Failed Haiku, Ariel Chart, and Califragile. You can find more of her work here.