Gary Budgen
Ten tiny little fingers and ten tiny little toes
There was a tiny figure in the cage no bigger than my thumb.
"What is it?" Alice said.
I looked closer.
"Some kind of shaved monkey," I said. But I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
"It ain't a monkey," said the pet shop owner coming down the aisle past the fish tanks. "It really ain't."
The pet shop owner was a huge man who looked like a 1970's biker.
"Then what is it?" said Alice.
"You have to look," he said, "you look at his tiny little hands and tiny little feet."
We both peered into the cage and studied the creature's ten little fingers, and ten little toes, so small, so delicate. I could see the lined patterns on its knuckles (no bigger than the short part of a pen tick), and the cuticles of its nails.
"Yes," I whispered. They were not monkey's hands or feet.
The creature had started to wave its hands around and then suddenly ran forward and waved and started squeaking.
"What…"
But I never got to finish the thought.
Later, when I came to, the creature looked at me from the other corner of the cage. Now I was the same size as it (him) I could perfectly make out his words.
"I tried to warn you," he said.
"What's going on?"
He nodded over to where Alice was asleep, perfectly naked, on the straw bedding.
"He'll sell you as a breeding pair now," he said.
