She entered the tiger exhibit as one of them; licking her paws as if pricked by thorns, prowling the limited space, waiting for raw meat to plop down when and where it did everyday. the other tigers observed her as an imposter, but the children around the yellow handrails didn’t see a difference amidst the tiger family. the dead cattle was placed out and the tigers, captive and not needing to fight for food, shared with the woman. after she was full of flesh, she worked off the meal by flying to the bird enclosure.
the birds thought she was a camera, sent to spy. tiny turns of the head, recording every blink. She perched on top of the cage lined with high-threaded netting to prevent the birds from passing notes or kisses to outsiders. She eyed them bathing in their tub the size of a microwave. She positioned and took aim, shitting in their reservoir before swinging into the monkey mountain exhibit.
the monkeys didn’t mind that she was different. She squeezed in line to receive and reciprocate grooming — picking off ticks that had latched onto skin. once done, they howled like zombies and beat their chest, a few challenging each other to duels. the woman, too exhausted of existence and too polite to be troubled, shapeshifted into an angel fish and drifted away in the moat that separated specimen from audience.
She swam along the plumbing and tore through filters, penetrating the aquarium. the clown fish swam in schools carrying intuition. the woman pitied their mirage knowledge, only to be a tank full of bubbles popping out of water. the children on field trips ignored the signs, tapping on the glass, creating vibrations the strength of a unity concert. the woman elongated herself and slithered out of the tank and into the hallway.
the humans were enthralled by other animals, viewing a lower tier encased for pleasure. the woman wished she could stay trapped here all day instead of returning to humanity. She felt good-natured and thought the crowd might wish the same. She unhinged her jaw and began consuming the line of humans waiting for the food court to open. they didn’t seem to be disturbed as the woman inched through the line, mouth-cutting each person, becoming the shape of a station wagon ready to reside on broken axles.
~
Corey Miller lives with his wife in a tiny house they built near Cleveland. He is an award-winning Brewmaster who enjoys a good lager. His writing has appeared in MoonPark Review, Pithead Chapel, Barren, Cleaver, Lost Balloon, Hobart, Cease Cows, and elsewhere. Corey was a finalist for the F{r}iction Flash Fiction Contest (Spring ’20). Follow him on Twitter @IronBrewer or at www.coreymillerwrites.com