Matthew F. Amati

Where Things Matt Writes Are

We had to poke Alaric with fondue spears to get him to speak about his mother. Alaric had been an only child, raised in a cave full of owls. Alaric’s mother had cared for only the owls, and not a fig for Alaric. “There there, Too-Too, and how is my Mr. Friskers today?” Young Alaric had no toys to play with except a clock. He’d move the hands and pretend it was six o’clock, move them again and pretend it was half-past nine. When Alaric was fourteen, Mother had presented him with a scale model of Versailles. Years later, Alaric saw the real Versailles and wept acidly at the sight of gilded columns that were not crusted with owl scat.

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