the raccons

A shrill cry echoed from the mist.

The raccoons. Again.

This was no surprise to Janice. She’d been dealing with these wily devils for the past three years. Grab the tri-fold poster board to reinforce the windows. Blow out all the candles. One deep breath and grab the melon-baller. It was second nature at this point.

They wouldn’t dupe her. Not again. Never. Again.

Three long years ago she was a bright, young thing, stars in her eyes, and a skip in her step. Just moved in to her new home. Her home. She couldn’t believe it. A regular old pony like herself (this is not metaphor. Janice is quite literally, in every sense of the word, a pony). And they said she’d never make it.

After a long day of moving boxes and haggling with kids, she could rest at last. Curled up in an armchair with Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. For the first time in her life she was at peace. That’s when the first wail pierced the air. Of course she heard it. It was impossible to ignore. She brushed it off. All new houses scream sometimes, she told herself. But what happened next… even she (Janice the home-owning pony) knew… things would never be the same.

#onelikeonepryaer