The Rolling Cylinder

A smooth yellow cylinder lay across the floorboard seam. Still. Slender. I tapped its blunt tip with my lower jaw. It rolled. A sharp wooden clatter echoed through the silence. I stopped instantly. Dropped my belly. Planted all four claws into the grain. It did not strike back. It only fled across the boards. I waited three breaths, then crept forward, scrape by scrape. It settled against the dark bookshelf plinth. I drove my chin down against its painted side, pinning it to the wood. Solid. It did not escape.