Party Animals | Chelsea Stickle

The drunk raccoons are at it again. I’m trying to watch this documentary about serial killers when their screeching and carousing overpowers the narrator’s monotone. My sweating single-serve yogurt suddenly lacks appeal. The mini chocolate chips and oats no match for whatever made it into the garbage this week instead of my stomach. The raccoons know Wednesday is trash day, so the party’s always Tuesday night. Tonight. Bandit masks required. To gain entry I once made one with kohl, but they sniffed me out. I was too clean. They wait until everyone else is asleep then chitter, snort, growl, snarl and scream. Sounds of fear, pain and joy. The first two overpower the third for me. I admire their fire from the second floor window. The way they bite each other’s necks with ferocity but no carnage. The play implicit in the act when all I see is danger. Sometimes I drop off the night’s trash and say hi. They break up the merriment to politely chat with me. “Yes, the humidity is disgusting,” they agree, licking their paws and examining their nails. “Hopefully tomorrow will be better.” I back away with my hands up and a tight smile, an eternal obstacle. Always sober. Always careful. Always wanting to make sure everyone’s okay. The raccoons can handle themselves. They have sharp claws and killer instincts. They know I won’t take a baseball bat to them. I won’t lock them out. I won’t poison the garbage. I just want them to be happy. 

Chelsea Stickle lives in Annapolis, MD with her black rabbit George and an army of houseplants. Her flash fiction appears in Monkeybicycle, The Molotov Cocktail, matchbook, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and others. Her story “Postcard Town” was selected for Best Microfiction 2021. Breaking Points, her debut chapbook, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press (fall 2021). Read more at chelseastickle.com/stories and find her on Twitter @Chelsea_Stickle.