Pride
Somebody trained him to love without loving him back, and so one February night in a soft snow they slipped eight or so pounds of feline fur to the street and left. There was a church down the block which would hopefully wake up to its duty and take the ball of fur to its heart; or not, but it ought to, he was only eight pounds. Or so. They hadn’t measured before letting him go.
She found him in the same snow at less than eight pounds definitely. Twelve days and the church had said no room but life is precious here’s food. Twelve days and she said I’ve got an apartment, will it do?
His name was Baby. Her name was Yellow. She was friend, and he was the bundle who sometimes rested the full weight of his little head on her arm.
Alessandra Davy-Falconi is from Boston and Pittsburgh, and a student at Bryn Mawr College. She has been published in The Marble Collection: High School Magazine of the Arts, won the 2011-12 Helen Creeley Poetry Contest, and read her work at the 12th Annual Boston National Poetry Month Festival. She is always searching for stories to tell in whatever way she can.
Sassafras Literary Magazine 