Fiction

On the Brink

Today I sleep. Curled, shaggy fur nestles my eyes, I tighten my tail to protect my greasing pouch that marks my territory. Restive, I hide concealed within a cored-out log, deep in the undergrowth, tuck my muzzle low and wrap myself in a ball to still. The timber quivers to a dogged thump, thump. I curve my ears and listen. Man sounds, far off. My nostrils twitch. My enemy’s nose also sniffs, smelling out my secretions, my droppings, while imagining barbecued meat. Palms, moist from tropical downpours, drape close to the sodden soil and I rest, curling closer, my breath…

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