The mouse is tired of being a mouse. In fact, it’s a bit tired of being anything at all.
“What am I?” wonders the mouse. “A bag of flesh, bone, fur, electrodes. Where in the mess of me do I find meaning? Where in the mess do I find me? How did I ever find myself on this island?” The mouse clearly has more questions than answers. In fact, it doesn’t even know if it is actually the mouse, or whether that is just the name it has been given since its birth.
“What if I’m actually Pear.”
“Or Contessa.”
“Or Drawknife.”
“Or maybe I’m no more and no less than I’ve always been. Here.”
And so, Here stands up on all four feet. It wiggles its tail. Sniggles its ears. Criggles its nose. And then Here screams as only other creatures similarly proportioned and composed can scream. Piercingly.
The scream was for no one besides Here.
Though on second thought, the scream may have also been for Now. But that’s another story.
Alex Carr Johnson 