Triumphant executives clutch
their feast-stuffed bellies,
vomit in the alley
behind the karaoke room.

Did they ever wonder 
what happened to the 
dozens of squatters
driven from their developed
properties, left to starve?
Do they care?

Emaciated, we dwindled away.
gachi gachi
Only our bones remained.
gachi gachi
Grown into something more.
gachi gachi
What’s that rattling? 

Eyes up from the gutter, 
managers. Widen at our grinning 
visage, teeth like shattered window-
panes looming between rooftops. Cringe 
as our bone-stitched claws reach down, 
squeezing tighter and tighter, as we 
were once squeezed. And burst: limp 
executives lifted skyward for a bite.

[Chris Clemens teaches and writes in Toronto, where he has defeated 8.5 raccoons (with help from his wonderful family). Nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, his stories and poems appear in Best Microfiction 2026, Matter Press, The Literary Review of Canada, Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, and elsewhere. More at linktr.ee/clemenstation.]