Feral vermin slither through holes in concrete foundations.
Rising from the arteries of excrement and sludge that run like veins through the belly of the earth
It hides in corners. Pockets of space
Containment is essential
Death is inevitable
The screeching must be ceased.
There really is a rat in the cellar. A far cry from the silent and beautiful beast I so gingerly stuffed two autumns ago. This creature has emerged from the guts of a bacteria-ridden city and entered my home. My home. It is here now, as I type, lurking and plotting in the blackened corners of an unfinished cellar. A space intended for the aging of fine wines and the hoarding of remnants of holidays is now a dwelling area for an unwelcomed feral beast. This can only end in violence.