Ghostmeat In The Grass – an excerpt

Mister Spoon had first become aware of the construction of personal fiction’s ongoing, permanent momentum while watching a cat. It was his first spring at the hotel, and he was mastering the tempering of the ovens in the main kitchen. This involved many trips back and forth to the to the wood pile beyond the south garden. The Concierge kept cats, a small breed of querulous little villains, as pest controllers. Spoon had seen them hunt, their singular focus, and he’d witnessed their courtship behavior, which was loud and angry. But the first time he’d ever seen a cat watching the clouds he’d known, deep in the core of his bifurcated ghostmeat, that people were making up their identities as they moved forward through time. Adding, adding to negate sometimes, but always adding. A cat looking at the clouds was a houseplant. A person looking at the same thing was searching for shapes somehow associated with themselves, a face they might recognize, or familiar genitalia. Something they might want to eat or avoid entirely. A sign. An omen. A warning. But always for themselves.

read more about Ghostmeat, cats and houseplants at http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com