I was enjoying the view from the sidewalk. It started to drizzle. I started to move, explore the city. I saw a guy getting mugged, nothing I could do. Was I going to meow the mugger away? I don’t think so. The smell of food was irresistible. I meandered to the trash behind the restaurant and dug through there garbage for left overs. I walked to an alleyway and found some other cool cats to keep me safe while I slept. Just as I was about to doze off, my owner found me, picked me up and brought me home.
About the Creator
Alex H Mittelman
I love writing and just finished my first novel. Writing since I was nine. I’m on the autism spectrum but that doesn’t stop me! If you like my stories, click the heart, leave a comment. Link to book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQZVM6WJ
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More stories from Alex H Mittelman and writers in Fiction and other communities.
A Fillet
“You need to allow your son more freedom,” Francis, my therapist, said. “Why? I’m just protecting my son,” I said. “He’s 36 and doesn’t need your protecting. He needs independence. He’s not a damn baby,” Francis shouted. “You just don’t understand a mothers love. He’ll always be a baby to me,” I said and smiled. I approached him and grabbed his pencil. “What are you doing?” He asked. I stabbed him, took him home, chopped him up and cooked him. I invited all my friends over. “Fillet of Francis, anyone?” I offered. Francis just didn’t understand a mothers love.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 years ago in Fiction
The steps to losing a child
Step One: Lose a child. Not what anyone wants to happen and nothing you can do to change it, but you can go through steps to becoming happy again. You can go through steps to loving again. You can go through steps to become a new you because after losing a child you will never be the same person you once were.
By Tabitha Hinkley5 days ago in Fiction
How to eat Cornflakes
I grew up in a blue-collar suburb flanked by factories. We were the only Asians within a two-mile radius. Our neighbours were men dressed in hi-vis vests, cargo pants, steel-capped boots and either hard hats or hair nets. They would pour out of their steaming boiler rooms at the sound of the smoko whistle, empty truck palettes becoming makeshift seats for them to perch on as they wolfed down their salami and cheese sandwiches in a few ravenous chomps. Their wives would pack them cool drinks in summer, and thermoses of hot tea during the bleak winter months, when daylight savings would cloak the world in longer stretches of darkness. Mind you, it didn’t make much difference to the workers in the windowless factories. At the end of each day, they would stream out of the factories like ants making their way back to their respective queens who were waiting dutifully at their single-storey fibro nests with their supper of meat and three veg. The asbestos poisoning and lawsuits by dying men and their soon-to-be-widows came later; though that is a different story. Ditto the chemical leaks into the local water supply.
By Paris Rosemont4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Hahahahaha omggg this was so funny! Why would he pretend to he a stray when he had a home. Help, I cannot 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣