I wiggle a cloud and the lake goes dark, revealing patterns among the stars. I poke a cat and pick up its sick so I can glue back together a chair. I place fly eggs on grilled fish to sate my master’s guests, and I snip open a sutured wound to release the writhing thing inside. I hunt sport with my shotgun from the brow of a hill, some of them on their morning stroll. I neatly pack away severed fingers, then pluck shadow men from gnashing maws. And at one point I’ve even got a screaming baby in my inventory too.
