The Best Mousetrap by Angela R. Hunt

The Best Mousetrap 

By Angela R. Hunt

“I wonder what it is really like out there.” Susan said as she looked at her reflection in the glass. Her whiskers touched the glass. Beyond was dark right now, sometimes it was light and a vast room was visible with many shelves, cupboards, and tables. Her companion’s ears twitched with nervousness. His serious black eyes stared at her. 

“You get such crazy thoughts. In here we have all the seeds we need. We have room to nest, clean pine shavings to nap in and even wheels to run on. The old timers say that it was too dangerous out there.” He looked irritated that she had brought the subject of Beyond up. He hated when she went to the glass and stared out. He was afraid she was planning something. She was always too inquisitive, always to restless, and she never seemed to care that she was safe and well fed here. He often wondered what was wrong with her. None of the other mice wondered what was out there. None of the other mice wanted to go out there. Perhaps if he took her to the Elder, maybe the Elder could help her see things more clearly. 

As they wandered the maze looking for dinner he brought the subject up. He thought she would not want to see the Elder, that she would consider it an attack on her judgement. She was excited and stopped him in the narrow hallway. Her eyes sparkled. Her whiskers twitched. 

“Definitely! I had not thought of that, why wait? Let’s go now!” She called out as she turned around and ran back out of the maze. He sighed and followed her. He paused once to scowl back at the glass. She would be the perfect mouse if she would just stop being so audacious. 

He followed her out of the maze into the large nesting area. It was dark there, but they used scent to find the little nest that the Elder had dug into the back wall of the room. The Elder was awake, sitting and dreaming as he often did. His eyes often focused on the past more than the present. Some days he ranted, some days he gibbered and some days he joked. It was hard to tell the difference between when he raved or taught. 

The Elder opened his eyes as they approached. They greeted the Elder. He greeted them and welcomed them to join him. As they sat she blurted her question out “What it like Beyond here?” 

The Elder was silent for a moment. Then he quietly shared his tale. Most mice think it madness, but what if it is not? 

I was born in our burrow in a large field. When I was young my parents did not come home one night. My oldest sister raised us. She looked out at the field. I looked too, but no one noticed that I looked. Hawks dove and caught mice. Snakes struck and took mice. Cats, dogs, foxes, and so many other predators just lurking out of scent and sight waiting for a tasty mouse bite. She would look out at that field every day. She looked back at my siblings. She told them only of tasty food, the seeds and leaves she brought us. She told them of flowers and sun. I helped her gather the food. I saw death, I smelled it, I was injured as I ran to escape a predator’s appetite more than once. I knew pain. I knew that mother and father must have died out there. I knew sorrow. The other mice did not. They were raised with soft stories and indulged with safety and confidence. I argued with my sister. They should learn the ways of the world. They should learn to survive, to thrive, rather than waiting for someone else to provide. 

She wanted them to have what we did not. She wanted them to have a beautiful youth. She wanted their memories to be full of joy and good. She was caught by an owl on our way home one night. I needed help gathering food. The others were useless and could not understand why they would need to work now. They had never had to before. I was so frustrated. I finally convinced one to help me. When we went outside he froze in the sunlight. He wandered around picking flowers and singing, I kept telling him to be quiet and to stay beneath the cover of the leaves. He ignored me. Five minutes later I heard his song cut off as wings snapped. The hawk was already gone. When I went back the others decided they did not need me. They blamed me for his death. I moved out. I felt responsible for how they had become. They had no food. They had no sense. They were helpless. 

I did not look back. I made my way to the edge of the field. I made a burrow in the soft, decayed wood next to a tall tree. There were overhanging plants and roots to hide in. It was great.  I was out in the field gathering seeds a few days later. I saw the nest ripped open, as if some great beast had dug them out. There was no sign of them. They were all gone. I searched and found no sign of them. A shadow fell over me. I was caught. 

We were all brought here. I have endured so many generations of the ones who never learned. The Beyond is where we live. This is a cage. We are fed by large predators. Sometimes mice go missing and are never seen again. Most are safe here. Most like the regular schedule, the knowledge of what their meals will be and when, as well as the clean fresh bedding to burrow in. It is safe here. It is certain here. It does not really vary other than the walls moving in the maze. I miss being Beyond. I miss the thrill of outwitting everything that wants to eat you. I miss the fresh food. I miss the breeze. I miss the rain. I miss the uncertainty. I miss life. If you would do something wise, leave here. Do not look back and do not take any of these other mice with you.” 

The Elder went silent. The two young mice were silent. 

Finally he laughed nervously and said “Ridiculous!”

She looked thoughtful as they left. That night while all of the mice slept, two mice went missing. The mice do not know and do not care whether the humans took them or whether the Elder and Susan found a way out of the cage. None of them knew if the two had escaped into the Beyond. They thought about the new toys the humans gave them. They snuggled in the cedar chips and pine bedding. They enjoyed the taste of the seeds and cheese they found in the maze. They savored the fresh water. They reveled in the lack of concern their lives required. 

The Most Terrible Monster

The Worst Monster

By Angela R. Hunt

Joe had always enjoyed a good horror movie. Fake blood, big tits, pale faced vampires and zombies, werewolves with spirit glue and computer generated fur. He spent his days shelving stock at a large chain store. Now and then he thought about the four year degree that got him no where. On those nights he drank.

He tried dating, but girls really weren't impressed by a guy who's life achievement is putting cardboard boxes on shelves. Hundreds of people do that. He would sit in front of his computer and slaughter thousands of artificially generated opponents to feel a sense of accomplishment. 

Commercials begged him to recycle, friends on Facebook shared news stories encouraging social change and awareness of a thousand causes from stopping animal abuse to corruption in the government. He ignored every request and pressure. He did not involve himself in politics. He did not donate to charities, after all: who helped him pay off his college loans? He watched his rights shrink with every law and bill passed by Congress.

He lived a life surrounding himself with a thousand collectibles, a fast car and name brand clothing. He knew he was better than most people, because he never did anything illegal or controversial. He spent his money on whatever he wanted. He paid someone to clean his apartment and do his laundry. He hated that stuff.

When he died in an accident, there was nothing remarkable that anyone could think of to say. There was no great accomplishment, no struggle, no victory, no challenge. He had never really loved. He had never really won. But in the lack of adversity he had never found a reason to strive, he had never become. His life was that of a consumer. A pig fatted on the richness of materialism without a purpose. Nothing to remember him by, no reason to try. He was never left behind. He never changed the world.

He was nothing and became nothing. He never helped anyone, never cared and never tried. Everything he did and was could be summed up as unremarkable. The terrifying truth is that there are thousands out there, men and women who are content to be Joe. Who wake up every day justifying the empty and meaningless lives they lead by pursuing false realities found in virtual worlds and material goods never living the real life they have.

What is so terrifying about Joe? That it is easy for someone to choose to live a meaningless life; for someone to choose to pass by chance rather than risk failing because they value comfort and safety over accomplishment.

Joe believed he was a hero because he played a character in a game that had a magic sword and special armor. Joe wasn't the character but believed he was. He believed he could slay dragons and that he was exceptional.

As I finished telling the story about Joe, the children in front of me shuddered.

“How terrible.” One girl softly said.

You could see each of her ribs beneath her skin, the skin across them like wind through a field of wheat. 

“He had more food and money than he needed. He threw it away. He could have saved his money and planted a garden. He could have given food to people who need it. He could have volunteered and helped those in need; fighting really monstrous things including poverty and starvation. He could have made a difference. He could have cared. He wasted his life.” One of the boys said as he made patterns in the dust with his toes.

The children were talking about Joe, butting in as each of them came to more horrible realizations. “He did not even live." "He might as well never have been born." "If I had been him I would have loved every minute of air conditioning, every chocolate bar and I would have slept surrounded by baskets of fresh fruit!” “I would have driven to see a lake! I would have learned to swim and would have used the money he wasted traveling!” The children were horrified by the waste that was Joe. "He lived in a television! That's not real!"

It was one of the younger boys who looked up with large eyes. 

He said “Joe is the most terrifying monster you've told us about. He WAS real. He had so much and never valued it. He wasted and squandered things that would have given relief to a whole family here for a month or more and he never even cared about what he wasted. He was selfish and worthless despite the money he had and for all of that he was a part of a country that goes around making rules for the rest of the world. He did nothing to change the inconsistency in how his government treats other countries; he did nothing to stand up to the corruption there that has engineered war for its own profits and his benefit."

A trap waiting patiently to snare a free mind. 

The boy sat on the cold ground. He was too young to be so astute. He was too young to have had to go without meals or learn that emotions are a secondary thing you have after you deal with life threatening situations including losing your parents in a war zone. He understood that the worst monster is an apathetic one that wastes everything that has true value in pursuit of emptiness. Zombies aren't only in movies. 

Look around you and take a true accounting. How many people do you know that truly live? How many just mark time? How many use denial and excuses to avoid living? How many fail to thrive and how many avoid emotions through mood altering prescription drugs and alcohol? How many people tell their children to strive and at the same time manipulate their children to avoid taking chances or risks. 

No great hero of history or decorated General has ever uttered those words. No explorers, no inventors, and no scientist has ever said “I better not try that, I might fail and I can't risk my parents being upset.”

None of the children could sleep that night. Joe was the new monster and they could see him staring at them listlessly every time a plane flew over or a bus went by full of plastic looking tourists in their bright colored clothing with their rude and disconnected loudness.

The Shape of Things

The Shape of Things

By Angela R. Hunt 

Kelda never liked the rocks at the river. She always thought they looked too smooth, too perfectly rounded, to uniform in their gray color. She could have sworn their numbers grew every time she peeked over the side of the bridge it seemed they stretched closer and closer to where she stood. Sometimes she felt an irrational fear that they would grow and grow in number until they became a mountain tumbling on her and burying her in their dark, dusty depths. 

She noticed one of the round gray pebbles at the edge of the sidewalk one day. It seemed like a small thing that day. She had laughed and dismissed it, after all the rocks lined the ground on both sides of the river beneath the bridge. A small child could have carried it up as a secret treasure, only to drop it by the gray sidewalk. 

The next day there were two. Two perfectly gray and round pebbles sat next to the cement as if they were regulars waiting for the local bus line. It troubled her a little. She hesitated and stared at the rocks as if the intensity of her gaze could make them talk, dance, or perhaps retreat back down to the riverbed. They did not move. They did not speak. They were stone and they sat, cold and gray in her sight. She shook her head and hurried home. 

She came home with work swirling through her mind, distracting her for the next few days. The rocks sat unnoticed, unremarked, without unsettling anyone. 

It was friday and Kelda had gotten an official reprimand at work, she was going to take a pay cut to make up for an error she made on a costly sale. She walked home slowly, feeling defeated. She could hear the ocean crashing in her ears. She could feel the weight of the water bearing her down, the inevitability of her gray future. 

Kelda saw the stones before she saw the bridge. The stones had lined up as an honor guard to escort her to the bridge. They sounded trumpets loudly to announce her arrival to the multitudes below. She could see the bright vivid colors of captured spirits inside the plain, dull stones. She could hear them calling out in despair at the prisons their lives had become. Each one alone, each one unable to see their prison or break free. Thousands of them, surrounding her. Thousands of them, all cold and void of connection. Thousands of them, writhing in her mind and showing her her fate if she stayed. She would wake up one day a stone. Unable to move, unable to live, unable to feel anything but mad desperation and sickly sweet denial. She would be gray and smooth. 

Kelda shook her head, rain pouring off her as she stood on the bridge over the raging water. The water smashed into the round stones, breaking them and carrying them away. She could be shaped and slowly destroyed or she could be broken and truly released. 

She fell like a stone, her clothing shuttering and snapping like dead branches in a strong breeze. She broke with a wet wrenching sound, almost a groan as she was much softer than a stone; into a bright red blossom almost glowing on the bland gray rocks below. 

The round gray rocks pile up, uniform and smooth as silk; without a single flaw. They did not seem to notice what had transpired, they were stone. 

A Safer Place

A Safer Place

By Angela R. Hunt 

It happened many months ago, it started at this very pond. I was a young leopard frog then. I swam. I leaped. I sang with my family and friends. Our community was loud. We sang all the time. Laughter floated on a breeze soothing the soul with the sweet scent of hedge roses. The cattails swayed and played a smooth counterpoint to our playful songs. We enjoyed our games and we practiced leaping to catch the tastiest flies. Everyone had a dream to strive for, even if that dream was sitting on the bank in the sun on a lazy afternoon or skating on the ice in the nippy days of winter. The fish were too small to eat us and turtles never bothered with our tiny pond. 

One day two long tall pillars rose to a gray shape towering into the clouds. It seemed to move now and then, but we thought our minds played tricks on us. We had never seen a heron before. 

Suddenly, everything changed. There was sharp sudden waves, vanished frogs carried screaming and squirming away in the beak of a heron. The heron preyed on our trusting nature, it fed until we all learned fear. We learned to hide, to stifle our songs, to live in the safety of cool brown mud. 

The heron’s shadow finally lifted away. Many watched the sky and quivered, refusing to come out of the mud until they had too but racing back to safety as quickly as they could. Some shouted that the bullfrogs had a conspiracy that brought the heron so they could dominate the best parts of the pond. 

Several frogs found a silver shiny pot, smaller than their muddy home. This pot had a lid that covered most of the top but was slid open a tantalizing crack. It was nestled in a muddy hole near our lovely pond. It was new. The depths inside seemed warm and inviting, safe from the sight of those who enjoy feasting on frogs. No heron could reach us here. Many frogs were adamant we should all move into the pot. 

 The frogs who found the silver pot fed on the power and respect they gained over the frog community. They told us not to sing, the told us to live in the bucket. Many did. They said they were making us safe, that they wanted what was best for us.  

A few shouted and sang and leaped outside the pot, calling out a warning to all of us inside. They weren’t being snatched up by predators. They were fine still living in the muddy pond.  I watched many frogs in the pot lower their fearful heads while a few grew restless and jumped back out. I watched as most of the frogs held their heads down and stayed.  I was curious so I waited, certain I could leave any time and trying to decide whether this idea was a good one or not. 

The pot shifted, the water spun in a crazy way. Frogs were thrown against each other, everyone struggling to swim and to figure out what was happening. The sky changed above the pot. There were humans gathered around looking in, the lid was gone. There was gray smoke and crackling sounds around the outside of the pot. The water started getting warmer. It felt good. I did not want to be in the pot anymore. Many of us struggled and several tried to convince us all to stay. 

The wildest, craziest, bravest frogs struggled out of the pot and raced away. Some of those frogs were killed horribly by predators lurking around the outside of the pot waiting for just such a chance. Hawks, herons, cats, dogs, foxes, snakes, it seemed every ancient predator we feared had come for us. I was amongst them, I kept my eyes on a patch of tall grass. I leaped as fast and far as I could. I made it! I watched as my family and friends, the bravest and boldest raced away from the pot. 

Many froze in fear certain the end was near, there were too many predators around.  Somehow they all knew that the pot had a lot of frogs. For many it was the end. A few looked back and leaped away faster and more determined than before. They realized what they saw, I saw the same thing from my patch of grass. The sight drove some mad. I looked. I saw. 

I am warning you. It is the most important lesson for a frog. Do not live in a silver pot. You cannot live in a silver pot. Safety is not life, it is preparation to be consumed by something else. You see, that silver pot had moved and rested on red hot rocks in the middle of lapping orange waves of fire. I watched, waiting for the screams of those inside. As their green and black turned to an ugly color I listened and heard them joke about how stupid we were for running away! 

They died with smiles on their faces. I watched as the humans picked them out, friends and family became nothing more than stew and gristle left stinking in the weeds by the riverbank. 

Children, sing. Sing loud, leap high, strive to catch the wind and taste the sweetest flies. Beware of the shadows around you. Beware of a fearful frog, never heed its songs as they will only lead to madness and sorrow. To tell the truth I think the humans made this pond to lure us here, to tease us with comfort, excess and eventually to get us into that silver pot. Never rest in a home of silver, regardless of how golden you think it is.

Welcome to Thought Provoking Parables for the Modern Age!

This blog will have parables and short fiction stories for you to enjoy and share. Stories to offer the opportunity to look at society and our roles. Perhaps in fiction we can explore what we become. Perhaps we can use what we learn to make better choices, to strive to grow and heal.

Enjoy and share!

The fiction here is all written by me, Angela R. Hunt. I have a pending Master's in Clinical Psychology and over ten years traveling the country storytelling and meeting amazing people everywhere. I have heard the stories of their struggles and their successes. I cannot always share them, but I can share fiction to offer a different view. Something to think about, not always happy and not always bright but often harkening to the thoughts and feelings we all have, sometimes kept from sight.


You can even find me on Amazon; my books are available now!