White Whale Review: Trent England

MAMMAL STORY

Trent England

The healing arrived late and when it wanted to go to the back room, we stopped it and said the child had died. The healing genderlessly wept for the girl and we had to hold it up from falling.

It remained with us for some time longer, and outside it established a pregnant dog. She swung her tits like a wave, she circled the dirt and wagged her tail like a staff. There in the circle she gave birth, and the healing brought forth seven healthy mewing pups. They were wet and fat in its hands, warm, stinking of the number seven.

The healing did not stop there. Wiped its nose and knelt down to see the box rabbit under the patio. The rabbit had been six for years. The healing tickled it with its fingers, making girl sounds, and the rabbit turned seven and hopped out of the grove and into the rotting Ford.

We did not know what to say when the healing left. We still do not. It left behind a goat in the kitchen, tied to a milking stool. The healing said we could milk the goat, turn the milk into cheese, and if

we needed, we could slaughter the goat for food and turn the pelage into profit.

The healing left a checklist with us that included feeding times and glad tidings. It prefers to work in physical houses in the physical country where you can sleep outside and smell the elements. Apartment buildings are different as they require less healing and it is difficult to tell apart the actors from the singers and the bankers from the financiers and they are rarely due a visit as they are all godless and profane.

The healing reports every death on a small afterthought of a note card. Holds them up to the light. Dog-eared, some of them have been dribbled with stain and smell of snot. Files them nightly in a closet on the west side of town. Why it continues to live with that housemate is anyone's guess, but the pay is slender and the healing needs the conversation, and the housemate continues to advance promises that he has a backbone.