A plastic rack stood lonely between the magazine stands and notebook stacks. My footsteps echoed, disturbing sleeping layers of dust.
A dozen porcupines hung from the rack’s wrinkly, gnarled arms. Squiggling to free themselves from the cage of ink and washi, they punctured the stale air inside the corner store with their squeals.
They were intelligent, devious beings. Whining, whimpering, wheedling, they lured me in with innocent smiles until the tips of my finger grazed the rough fibers of washi. A chill crept up my arm. My joints creaked. I hefted my fingers to eye level.
A drop of blood trickled down my palm. A porcupine had pricked me. He was the tiniest porcupine trapped on the piece of washi, naked except for the splash of red on his neck. A bowtie fastened itself on the porcupine’s neck.
His name tag read Walter.
Walter’s bowtie loosened, dissolving and diffusing until he was completely red. Life bled into his eyes. I stood, rooted to the ground as Walter swelled into three-dimensional space. The top of his swelling body teetered out of balance, the bottom part still glued to paper. The piece of washi stretched to accommodate Walter’s growth, flattening, churning, disfiguring the other porcupines.
Walter was now the size of a basketball, his washi skin so thin that he was almost transparent. Tiny tears crisscrossed under its quills, forming bleeding constellations under the twisted bodies of other porcupines.
Walter stood, baring his teeth and flashing its needles. Blood blossomed from his opened mouth and stained the floor. A small part of me wondered if I was responsible for mopping it up. Walter pounced.
Quills dug into my leg, and I swayed from shock and pain. Walter pulled away, preparing himself for another pounce. My sweaty palms stuck to the dust-covered floor. My nerves jumped as Walter neared. My eyelids trembled to the rhythm of my racing heart. I shut my eyes.
The attack never came. Instead, Walter leapt at the paper cup I had dropped at his first attack. and lapped frantically at the liquid pooling out.
COFFEEEEEEEEEE!!!
Walter closed his eyes, preparing to relish the surge of caffeine tumbling among the fibers of his skin. Instead, a haze of chamomile tea soaked him. Walter stared into me, his eyes tinted with betrayal. Droplets of pale yellow condensed and coalesced into Walter. Streams of chamomile wrapped around Walter’s throat, choking him until he finally lay, silent and deflated, in a pool of herbal tea.
coffeeeee…
I picked Walter and the porcupines up and hung them back onto the racks.
My footsteps echoed, soothing the chattering layer of dust covering the unswept floor. A plastic rack stood lonely between the magazine stands and notebook stacks.
Next time, Walter, you might be more fortunate.