Short Stories


Rexy wasn’t an elephant. Wasn’t a hedgehog either. They did look a bit like elephant, in places, a bit like hedgehog too. But in total, Rexy was clearly neither.

Because they were not a hedgehog, or an elephant, other animals found Rexy very confusing. “That’s not an elephant!” said the elephants. “It’s deffo no hedgehog” said the hedgehogs, terribly hip as they are.
“Maybe it’s an Oliphog?” offered the ants. That didn’t sound right to Rexy.
“They’re certainly not an owl.” said the fox. “Only mildly fox-like, me-thinks…” said the owl, from behind his Raybans. The camels didn’t know what to say, so they all just frowned with their nostrils, like always.

Many, many animals were far too busy thinking about what kind of animal Rexy could possibly be. It kept them up at night. “But, but, there must be some name for it? What if it’s something we’ve never heard of? That’s unheard of!”

Rexy did feel sad for a time. Unsure, tired, and sad, because everyone was so puzzled by them.

There were however some things Rexy knew for sure. Rexy knew, they liked apples. They liked apples a lot! Loved flapping their ears at the sun and the stars and the trees… LOVED rolling downhill, even if they looked very messy afterwards. Rexy loved to stomp in puddles. Rexy loved…

While Rexy was picturing all those things they loved and enjoyed, all of a sudden they understood. I know what kind of animal I am, Rexy thought. I am an animal who likes what they like and doesn’t like what they don’t like. I’m an animal who always finds new ways, to play and play and play… I am Rexy! That’s what I am, I am Rexy!

And so it was and that was that.

Some animals continued to puzzle over what Rexy was. Some animals were still up at night, wondering, wondering, wondering…

But not Rexy. Rexy knew. Rexy played and played and played, was sad when they were sad and happy when they were happy. At night, Rexy slept as deep as one can sleep.



I read Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes in High school.
I remember the part where the main character buries her father’s bloody clothes, as a final farewell.
I wondered what it smelled like, in that hot weather.

I didn’t throw the pillow out at first. She’d had a stroke and had bled all over it. In august. It had been a few days before they found her. It sat on the couch for quite a time, while I slowly cleared out the house. I had put my nose to it, smelled it, early on. The perfume she favored in the end was barely there. Mostly it smelled like old blood.

That scent changed over time. Her perfume disappeared altogether. It had died too. Finally, I threw it out. It was too early for a final farewell.

I do have her glasses. A small, gold-color frame. It doesn’t smell like her, but on the glass is an imprint of her skin.

I hope.

I wore it once, a few years ago. So I can’t be completely certain anymore that the imprint is of her skin.

I like to think it is.