The Eastern Feral House Spouse: Presented by David Attenborough
A short, silly flash by Maggie Slater
It begins with a wail.
The shrieking cry, although terrifying, is the House Spouse’s offspring, awakening to yet another dawn. The Eastern Feral House Spouse stirs, its hair matted, its eyes red from a bit too much whiskey the night before. Unlike its domesticated cousin, the Domestic House Spouse, the Feral House Spouse is an unpredictable creature, driven by whims only it and its mate understand.
The offspring are young. The Feral House Spouse, clawing herself from beneath twisted covers that are never laid orderly upon the mattress, lurches down the hall in the pre-dawn darkness, her ears finely attuned to the wail of her offspring. Bad dreams. The Feral House Spouse clambers into the nest of the young, burying herself under the vaguely sweat-smelling blankets that desperately need a wash. But where a Domestic Spouse would routinely wash their young’s bedding, the Feral House Spouse does not. She is not bothered. Her young snuggles close, before sleep once more slips its veil over them both.
Dawn. Post-dawn. The Feral House Spouse is not an early riser, but her offspring rarely remain in bed beyond the first glow of sunlight. Its kicking and wriggling stirs the Feral House Spouse. She bares her teeth, a mild show of irritation that makes no impression on her young. The Feral cub bounds out of bed. The Feral House Spouse drags herself upright.
While the Domestic Spouse might maintain finely tuned routines, their minds bred for reliability and passivity, the Feral House Spouse is largely unregulated. Mornings begin with an infusion of caffeine, likely too much, leaving the Feral House Spouse on the verge of a panic attack. The young sates its hunger on bowls of cheerios and cow’s milk, leaving a film of debris across the typically cluttered dining table. It will be some time before the Feral House Spouse awakens enough to rectify the mess.
The Feral House Spouse lives in borderline squalor. Her den is her haven, her safest of places, and within its walls are the remnants of a dozen obsessive hobbies, now long forgotten. Unread books are the most common hoarded item in the Feral House Spouse’s abode and stand in unstable piles she occasionally sifts through. Unlike the Domestic Spouse who might use only the prettiest books as decor, the Feral Spouse fills her shelves to bursting with everything from used paperbacks to beautifully produced Kickstarter graphic novels. Her hunger for knowledge and art is insatiable.
On this particular morning, as her young curls up in the laundry piled on the couch, the Feral Spouse turns her attention to cooking. There are old vegetables in the fridge, and frozen homemade broth, and these she puts together in a medley that will eventually become something akin to soup. Her offspring, frustrated by the odiferous project, flees outside. Unlike her domesticated counterpart, the Feral Spouse gives her offspring a great deal of leeway, though she does, from time to time, freeze by the window to observe and assure safety.
The young has found his bicycle.
While the soup simmers, the Feral Spouse has become absorbed in her cell phone. She scrolls. Time passes. A wailing from her offspring draws her attention, abrupt and alert. She rushes for the front door and finds her young on his side beneath his bicycle, having failed an especially unwise trick. The Feral Spouse, while wild and unpredictable, is nevertheless a fierce and devoted caretaker. Scooping up her offspring, she carries him into the safety of her den and there, tends gently to his wounds. They are not serious. Within moments, her offspring is running and shrieking with delight once more.
The Feral Spouse refills her mug with coffee, despite knowing she does not need more caffeine. This is a drama that plays out every day. The Feral Spouse, while generally intelligent, never learns her limit.
Their days continue much the same. The Feral Spouse engrosses herself in a task or a project; the offspring makes a mess or has an accident, requiring her attention. By suppertime, the Feral Spouse is showing signs of fatigue.
Domestic Spouses are well known for their regimented bedtime strategies and sleep schedules, however the Feral Spouse favors simplicity in all things. Teeth are haphazardly brushed. Pajamas are optional. The only indisputable requirement is that the young empties his bladder before making himself comfortable within his nest. The Feral Spouse has peeled off too many wet sheets in the early morning hours to tolerate such a risk.
Bedtime. The Feral Spouse crawls into the next of mangled blankets and menagerie of stuffed animals along with her young. Her eyes are already closing. Her young shifts and wriggles for some time yet. But before very long, the Feral Spouse and her offspring are asleep, curled up close together, sharing dreams.
Hi there! If you don’t know me, I’m Maggie Slater. I write speculative fiction of a variety of stripes ranging from outright horror, sci-fi, and fantasy to strange, humorous literary stuff. My work has appeared in genre mags like Apex Magazine, Metaphorosis (and even got translated into Mandarin for Science Fiction World), as well as in literary magazines like Redivider and The Core Review.
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