GOAT NOIR IS AN ONGOING SERIES. NO CONTEXT. NO PROMISES. JUST SOMETHING BLEATING IN THE DARK, AND YOU DECIDING WHETHER TO OPEN THE CUPBOARD.
Charles didn’t notice the goat at first.
He noticed the sound. A soft, deliberate chewing. Like someone thoughtfully eating a single sock.
It started just after 3:00 a.m., which was when Charles typically conducted his ‘pre-breakfast’ anxiety pacing. It had become a routine: two laps around the living room, three deep sighs, one glass of oat milk, and then – back to bed to stare into the void.
But this time: chewing.
He opened the fridge. Nothing. He opened the pantry. Nothing. He opened the cupboard next to the sink.
Goat.
Not a picture of a goat. Not a whimsical decorative goat figurine, like the kind sad people buy at farmers markets. No. A real, living goat. Full-bodied. Eyes black as spoiled olives. Somehow folded neatly among the plates and chipped IKEA mugs, as though it had always been there and simply hadn’t introduced itself until now.
They locked eyes.
The goat blinked. Once.
Then Charles blinked. Twice.
‘Right,’ Charles said, in the cadence of someone who once read a mindfulness blog.
He closed the cupboard.
Then opened it again.
Still there.
The goat bleated – politely, almost apologetically. Patiently. Like it knew this was a lot to process.
Charles closed the cabinet door and backed away slowly. Sat at the kitchen table.
Googled:
‘What does it mean if there’s a goat in your cupboard?’
Autocorrect changed it to ‘coast in your cupboard.’
‘Yup’ Charles sighed, ‘because that makes sense’.
He called Animal Control.
‘I think there’s been some kind of something…’ he said, breathless, clutching the cordless phone like a drowning man clutches seaweed. ‘There’s… something in my cupboard. Something… ungulate.’
A dispassionate voice on the line asked for his zip code.
‘12764,’ he said.
‘Sir,’ said the voice, ‘we don’t service metaphors in your district.’
Click.
The goat chewed louder.
Then the phone rang.
Startled, Charles reached for it, ‘Hello?’
Silence.
Then: Chewing.
Charles repeated: Hello!’
A polite bleat then a goat voice ‘You’ve reached Animal Control’.
He sat up, ‘Who is this?’
The goat voice: ‘We understand the cupboard situation. Do not open the drawer under the counter.’
Charles blurted reflexively, ‘Why not?’
Click.
He just stood there. Confused about being confused.
He looked at the drawer. Reached for it. Then stepped back. Then reached again. Stepped back.
Then: ‘You know what? Fine.’ He yanked the drawer open.
Inside, one spoon. Slightly warped from use, but totally ordinary.
Charles leaned in – the spoon was humming. A tune he instantly recognized, a Cher tune – ‘If I could turn back tiiiime…’
He slammed the drawer shut, ‘Oh, no, no, no! Noooo, thank you!
The goat bleated from the cupboard.
By next breakfast, Charles had accepted the goat’s presence. It wasn’t aggressive. It seemed clean. It smelled like hay and mud pits.
He tried to carry on with his life, but the goat was there now. He couldn’t un-know it. Couldn’t un-see what he called ‘the quiet judgment’ in its eyes. When he opened the cupboard to get a mug, the goat would shift slightly, allowing him room. It never interfered. It just was.
One day, Charles opened the cupboard and said:
‘Are you here for a reason?’
The goat didn’t respond, but somehow something inside Charles wilted anyway. Something that remembered a letter he never sent. A job offer he never followed up on. A woman who asked him what he wanted, and all he could say was ‘I don’t know. Something… else.’
He closed the cupboard.
That night, Charles didn’t pace. He just sat. Quietly. Waiting to hear the chewing. It didn’t come.
The next morning the cupboard was empty. The goat was gone. Only the plates were arranged differently.
He stood there, dumbfound.
Hesitated for a moment then opened the drawer under the counter.
Just silverware. No singing spoon.
He looked at it for a long moment.
Then quietly closed the drawer.
And sat alone. In Apt 2B.
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