WHAT THE TABLE ATE FOR DINNER
When she was four, her parents bought a mahogany table for the living room. Legs swooped from the center, tipped with dainty brass feet, knuckled toes and claws. It prowled the house at night, tiptoed around corners, lurked in the hallway, waiting to eat little girls on their way to the bathroom. At night, when the moon had been up for hours, she crouched at the foot of her bed and peeked down the hallway, saw the table feeding on hissing and blistery whispers slipping under the door of her parents’ room, its single drawer with brassy knob opening and closing, feasting on secrets.
Author Bio: Kathleen Stancik favors a brand of pop from the past: Sody-Licious Pink Lemonade. It exists only in her memory, so she settles for hard lemonade. She's had some work published in print and online but is always greedy for more. Find her on Twitter at @KatsthePoet.