The Man Who Ate Cats by Lucinda Kempe

The Man Who Ate Cats

The man who ate cats was full. He’d had a Maine Coon for breakfast. Cervical vertebra and oblong skulls littered his front porch where he sat rocking. The house had a terrible reek. The smell came from the vats in the backyard, where he made cat soup and cat clothes from their many coats of different colors. In fact, he was wearing a cat suit now. The neighbors didn’t like him or his house and run-down yard filled with animal bones. He didn’t care. The man who ate cats missed his mother and wished he could have kept her alive so she could fix his favorite chicken fricassee. Mama had taught him everything he knew about cats: how to brush their coats and trim their nails; how to lure the sick strays with tuna and sardines; and to snuggle with them on your lap.

It had begun to snow. Flurries caught in his fur. He remembered reading about Cecil the African lion, killed by that dentist, and Cecil’s beautiful black mane. Fat tears rolled off his whiskers down his chinny-chin-chin, and froze into ice balls. But the man who ate cats wasn’t cold. Not with that big fat furry cat suit he had on. Dissociated, he didn’t realize he’d turned into the very thing he craved. Soon he’d discover he’d eaten every cat in the neighborhood, in fact, he’d eaten the last cat in world.

And he was alone, not a cat lover like his mama in sight.


pasta cat wwwgoofballcom


Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming in the Summerset Review, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, decomP, Corium, Metazen, and Metrofiction.  Presently, she is a M.F.A. candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at Stony Brook University.


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