This story made it to the final 64 in Writing Battle’s Spring Microfiction 2025 contest.
Prompts – Genre: Housepet Adventures; Setting: Courtroom; Character: Deep Sleeper
Max word count: 500 words
Unpaid parking tickets. Murder. I’ve seen it all.
Not that my old peepers see much these days. A blind mouse. You couldn’t get more cliché.
Ever fancied being a fly on the wall? I’m the next best thing: a mouse in the courtroom ceiling. Best seat in the house, where thin beams of light stream through nibbled peepholes like searchlights. But sometimes I yearn for a simpler life behind bars like my domesticated siblings. Fed, watered – shielded from the outside world. Freedom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Today I’m squinting through my favourite peephole – over the dock – at a huddled blur of demure strawberry-blonde, delicately swathed in Lancôme.
She’s as innocent as the day is long, and the jury knows it. I can almost smell their cynical lip curls as the prosecution pontificates. Her husband tried his best in the witness box, weeping over the fake memory of being smothered in the early hours. She was asleep at the time – the defence made it clear she’s a deep sleeper – and the bedroom security-camera footage proves it.
I yawn and stretch as the judge announces a recess before his summing up. Probably needs a break for his prostate-pressed bladder. You and me both, Your Honour. This’ll be over in the shake of a rat’s tail, and we can all get some sleep. The defendant darts a watery smile at her lawyer as an officer guides her out.
My pee corner is right over the toilet cubicle reserved for the accused. I hobble there and enjoy a moment of relief. A door flaps shut below.
‘You got this, babe. They love you.’
The harsh whisper is familiar, yet different. I scramble to the pinprick hole above the mirror and see a strawberry-blonde blur. Lancôme wafts up.
‘You should’ve finished the job, rid the world of that loser. Lucky those twelve idiots can’t spot fake video footage. Suckers.’
I emit a squeak. The strawberry-blonde blur moves, and I shrink back. The door opens, the officer outside mumbles something, and the Lancôme dies away.
I scurry-limp back to my spot above the courtroom. Once the judge sums up and the jury retires to consider its verdict, a guilty woman will walk free.
Shifting light through the peepholes and reverential murmurs tell me people are finding their seats. The judge clears his throat and the hubbub recedes.
‘Ladies and gen—’
The ceiling, perforated with my peepholes, gives way beneath me. I flail helplessly, tensing at the prospect of hitting the hard wooden floor. But my fall is broken.
Strawberry-blonde Lancôme surrounds me as a scream fills the courtroom. Hands grab at me, and I run blindly towards a dark corner.
‘A mouse! Little runt! My hair! I’ll bloody kill you like I should’ve killed him!’
I tremble in the corner as officers rush to her. Don’t know why she’s making such a fuss. She’ll be fed and watered. I peer in the judge’s direction in the hope he’ll put me behind bars too.