post mortem

I wanted to play the piano, but I forgot to practice. I wanted to write books, but I couldn't stop reading other people's. I wanted to live life, but I couldn't stay awake long enough to make much headway. I wanted to listen, but I was unwilling to stop defending myself. I wanted to speak, but was afraid I might say something stupid. I wanted to sleep, but was afraid I might have that dream again. I wanted to give up, but was afraid I might regret it. I wanted to be still, but couldn't stop making waves. I wanted to be left alone, but was afraid they might take me up on it. I wanted to spill the beans, but was afraid there might be nothing else to eat. I wanted to be happy, but thought it might be better to be right.
It wasn't.

The Spoilsport.

14 May
She walked in to the bathroom to find the two fat felines sitting primly at attention, still as statues, their yellow eyes focused on a wicker wastebasket in the corner of the room. Behind this crouched the now humbled and obsequious gray mouse. He was well into the second day of his captivity. Softly rebuking the pair, she placed a hand towel over their little victim, to which he desperately clung, and lifted him out of harm's way. Through the door, down a hallway and onto the patio she cradled him, sequestering the cats behind her, and there released the tired little rodent into the warm sun of a late afternoon. Uncertain at first whether to trust in his sudden change of circumstance, he skittered drunkenly off in the direction of the English ivy. She smiled at the housecats' discomfiture as they glared at her through the glass. Pretending not to notice, they narrowed their eyes and commenced grooming themselves with greater than usual attention to detail.