I actually had to subscribe to the Washington Post cause I'd read my ten free articles by 10/3 and the news was happening too fast to not actually be able to read about it right then. (I also subscribe to the NYT and the WSJ so you know it was dire.)
I'm also hanging around with my orange friend Loaner Cat this weekend. And cat petting turns out to be a very good antidote to the news cycle!
 |
| pigeon patrol! |
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
cat
splat
post
time
wall
3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: cat/catastrophe is fine but cat/chat is not.
4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.
6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.
7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)
9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
10. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens: 8:12am, Saturday 10/15/16
Contest closes: 9am, Sunday, 10/16/16
If you're wondering how much time you have before the contest closes: click here.
If you'd like to see the entries that have won previous contests, there's an .xls spread sheet here http://www.colindsmith.com/TreasureChest/
(Thanks to Colin Smith for organizing and maintaining this!)
Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid
Ready? SET?
Sorry! Contest closed at 9am.
58 comments:
Post coitus: sentimental promises, made posthaste.
Post proposal: a visit to the gynecologist. Wedding scheduled. Grad school postponed.
Post sonogram: invitations posted. Responses received. Few allergies (other than the groom).
Post rehearsal: sultry confessions from a former girlfriend on a Facebook post.
Post nuptial: an imposter among a dozen caterers. Plates delivered.
Post dinner: the cake is cut, a tasty riposte.
Post reception: hubby choking scarlet on the wedding suite floor. Hypostasis setting in.
Post mortem: wedding bed stripped. Flower bed composted.
Post investigation: Missing person. His crime, apostasy.
Post natal: tending Azaleas with little Megan, a postcard of happiness.
“I’ve got cat-scratch fever, and it’s driving me crazy!”
“You’ve got tertiary syphilis...” The doctor tapped a wall poster splattered with graphic images of various STDs. “…And you’re already there.”
“That’s not what Google says.”
“Where did Google get his medical degree?”
The patient’s jowly face flushed. “I don’t have time for this, ya fat hag!”
“Fine.” The doctor scribbled some words on a pad: “Rx: No pussy-grabbing.”
“That’s it?” His comb-over bobbed with rage.
“Of course not.” She waved a huge fluid-filled needle and syringe. “Drop ’em. Left cheek, or right?” She smiled. “Silly me. Right, of course.”
Aunt Wallis's platter splattered on the wall. Cat tried to catch it, and Tim eagerly lept for it, but not in time.
Next they practiced sticking Post-its to Aunt Marge's posterior. Tim got caught, so Cat won this round.
Aunt Wallis looked smug. "Try, try again. If you're going to win Thanksgiving with the Browns, you have work to do." Tim gritted his teeth. He'd make up time during passive-aggressive recipe writing.
“I’ll get rid of it.”
“It?”
“I mean—”
“DAD, you can’t call Squeaker McGee ‘it’!”
I slunk away from the yelling.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but when half of him is splattered on the wall—”
The yelling gave in to wailing. This called for emergency measures.
“We’ll get you a new mouse.”
“He’s a rat, and I don’t want an imposter, I want him!”
Oh, was that all? I trotted back into the room and retrieved the half I had left on my scratching post. She was such a terrible cat. Ungrateful, too.
It’s here again.
Staring.
It never speaks. Never moves. Just watches me every night. Lurking in the dark by the wetu door. Two feet tall, sharp grey nose.
Pukwudgie.
Pa dismissed my claims as codswallop. Ma’s platitudes were no better. But I know. I’ve felt its quills rake against my blanket. Seen the poison glisten off the arrow in its hand, always ready for riposte.
When the sun goes down, the presentiment returns.
It’s moving. Quick and vicious. I cannot scream, suffocated by fear as Sis is dragged off.
I chase through the dark, too late in seeing the cliff.
Mocked
by the tick-tock
of the clock
on the wall
above the bed.
One of those bulgy-eyed cats.
Orbs darting back and forth, back and forth, forth and back.
Silly, like a child's nursery rhyme.
I remember I'd walked out to the end of the drive to grab the Post Gazette.
The scream stopped me in my tracks.
The ladder slipped. But my legs locked.
I couldn't get there in time. I couldn't stop his fall.
Then came the sound I will never forget.
A grotesque splat
as the pavement opened his head.
Now I have nothing. Nothing but time.
“Dinner time!” she called to her cat, Diego.
Oh boy! Diego left his scratching post and trotted to his food bowl.
From the fridge she pulled out a can of Beef in Sauce, and dropped a spoonful into his bowl with a splat.
Diego’s eyes narrowed, and he turned up his nose.
“Well, sorry kitty, it’s all I’ve got.”
He rubbed the wall. “Meowwww...”
“Sorry kitty, that’s it.”
Later she returned to find the bowl empty. “See, that wasn’t so bad!”
Diego paused from face-washing and twitched a whisker. Wait till she sees what I left her on the bed.
“Catatonic?” I ask.
“Nothing as serious as that,” Dr. Wallace says. “Focus on the fact the epilepsy is alleviated.”
That’s a helpful hint (I cling to those). Trace the timeline then and the only conclusion is that it must be post-surgery.
“In the 1950s it was cutting-edge treatment,” he continues.
Wet-clay thoughts splatter and drip away.
A man watches me in a white coat. Dr. Wallace? Must be. Context (I cling to that). The desk calendar reads April 8th, 1978. A precious clue.
“Catatonic?” I ask.
The skittering splat in the wall was back so I pulled up Craigslist. One post listed a mouser. The big orange barn cat looked like what I needed.
I barely got back in time for the appointment with the detective. There were more questions about my disappeared spouse. The false trails and red herrings had run their course.
The detective was looking at me when the cat pulled something from a crack. I thought it was a rat until I saw the ring attached to a greasy finger. Then I saw the detective’s eyes were actually glued to the mirror.
Tomcat, polecat, Time cover splat.
Wall Street Journal, locker room, frat.
Wheezing, flailing. Give up the ghost.
“Wrap it up,” calls The Washington Post .
birds on the wall like a
cat’s platter
cos it
don’t matter
timed ten days straight
since i last ate
don’t feel so great
wanna pop em with a gun
like cans on a post
what’s hurtin the most
is you left me dyin
when bullets started flyin
you know i would be lyin
if i didn’t feel better
knowin as you read this letter
them guns is gonna get ya
made a deal for a meal
now you know how i feel
with the reaper on your heel
ain’t got no soul to sell
see you in hell
brother
The turkey was the last straw.
He swallowed it whole off Ma’s platter, then brought her the dish. Beaming like either he wanted seconds or he wanted her to make the treasure a toy, now he’d gotten the pesky bird out of the way.
This was after he chewed every catalog we got (Pa was glad Ma’s spending went down that summer), and ate Pa’s antique timepiece.
Ma made me take the picture for the poster. He hammed it up, smiling with his whole body, unaware of the caption he’d get.
Puppy, free to good home. Loves to play.
This is how it began, a splat of clay, slick sides rising to meet skilled fingers. Over time a bowl took shape, wide and deep, a wallow for fruit. White and yellow paint brightened it, glaze finished it.
Scrambled eggs filled it on Easter morning and kapusta on Christmas Eve. It held post at the door on Hallowe’en, spilling out bags of chips to eager hands. Most days the top of the fridge was its home, cradling nuts, dried fruit.
Now the bowl’s a mere scattering of shards on the kitchen floor, casualty of the cat’s endless need for height.
“We’ll take it slow. All you would be Jackson Pollocks, with your splashes and splatters, can leave now. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to deal with you.”
“But it’s sposta be fun.” The blond girl pouted.
“Fun is for amateurs. I’m here to teach you the proper techniques. If you don’t intend to become a serious painter, you’re in the wrong class.”
“Nazi,” she muttered.
“That it. You’re out. Scat.” The instructor waited until the offender had stomped away. “Anyone else? No? Good. Then we’ll begin. Tie on your orange aprons and grasp your thick-napped rollers like so.”
A hitman looks at sixty.
I never gave em’ sympathy, never. Most of the time it was a small caliber bullet to the head, splattered on a dark alley wall. Sympathy…really? Never picked my targets neither, work was work. Jobs was scattered. Some wanted sympathy. Told em, “look in the dictionary, it’s posted between shit and syphilis.”
Been thinking lately. Looking back. There ain’t no forgiveness there, neither. You did what you did, you just had to live with it. Can’t change nothing.
Like that old saying goes “Forgiveness is the smell a flower gives off, after being stepped on.”
I lay across my big brass bed, tangled up in blue sheets.
Why wait any longer?
I slip out as he sings in the shower; water splattering the tiles adds percussion to his song.
Why did it all go so wrong? Two Wall Street jobs, we were going to make our mark. Time for babies later. But babies never came. And we lost each other.
How many years can some people exist in bitterness and pain?
I catch the last line of his song, “the answer is blowing in the wind.”
Maybe.
I say goodbye in a Post-It note.
CAT: Computerized Axial Tomography.
WALL: Wilson's Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.
POST: Prognosis Or Status? Terminal.
SPLAT: Shock, Pleading, Learning, Acceptance, Tranquility.
TIME: Today I'm Mostly Exhausted, Though Otherwise Lately I'm Very Excited.
LC liked his alone time, especially during the hunt.
He intuited the times—like today—when he should go balls to the wall.
Throw caution to the wind.
Seize the fish!
He crouched.
He fidgeted as he dug his nails into the wooden floor.
His pride at risk, his failure—death and destruction.
If he miss-timed his jump, his new moniker would be “Splat.”
It was time.
Leap.
Wham!
LC face-pawed his forehead.
Damn window.
Outside, the pigeon cooed.
Loaner Cat figured he’d turn the bird into compost later.
LC’s eyes narrowed as a second bird landed…
My cat does Facebook.
Believe that!
But only a silly person would
Post nonsense on her wall.
I’ll splatter you with snide comments and
When I’m in a mood –
“Unlike” you.
We've no time for idiots.
Let’s get real;
You shouldn’t either.
Fluffy doesn’t believe everything she reads.
NOW READ THIS WAY…
Fluffy doesn’t believe everything she reads.
You shouldn’t either.
Let’s get real.
We've no time for idiots,
Unlike you.
When I’m in a mood–
I’ll splatter you with snide comments and
Post nonsense on her wall.
But only a silly person would
Believe that
My cat does Facebook.
Dry, emergency rations clatter into my bowl. Clearly some catastrophe is imminent. New kid acts like he doesn't care, gobbling his food and splattering chow everywhere. After breakfast, he joins me at my bathroom post when he's supposed to be patrolling the outside wall.
When the apocalypse comes, and perhaps if it doesn't, I'll be forced to eat him. He'll taste of the unseemly things he snacks upon, but I'll not suffer his loutish ways for all time. I clout his head as my aide exits the bathroom. Forgetting her place, she reprimands me. Another course for the apocalypse menu.
Pleezedtameetcha. I’m Sam. Lemme git the cat’s plate, then we’re off to the track. Post time’s comin.
Here’s the field: Green Silks’s a lightweight, Paint’s lost at the gate, Cremello‘s inbred. And, lookit that damn Palomino, so busy sniffin the fillies he cain’t even git on the dirt.
I regret buildin this course; I planned for normal people, but horse racin draws its own, and they ain’t normal. Every race’s a cockfight.
Cats’re better: independent, accommodatin, clean, quiet.
I’m so sicka horses, I’m buildin a wall to keep em out. Made a scratchin post instead, puttin cats in charge now.
Bzzzzzz...
Float like a butterfly; sting like a...
Splat!
Mr. Cattastic returned to his scratching post after licking gutgoo off his front paw.
Fly, meet wall, he chuckled as he wondered if his human knew it was close to dinner time.
The police ripped Ray’s shack apart, searching for her body. They destroyed the drywall, uprooted the floorboards, and overturned the compost heap. All to no avail. No bone fragment nor blood splatter was found.
Vindication didn’t come with the apology the officer spat at Ray’s shoes. The other man in the video of the woman’s last sighting wasn’t having his mansion ransacked. He didn’t spend a night in county jail.
Ray swept up the sentimental pieces broken from the raid. He tied the garbage bag and tossed it in his Buick’s trunk, next to a pair of trembling manicured hands.
He wakened on the shore of the crashing Pacific, his tuxedo matching the shorebirds surrounding him.
His catastrophic rejection at the altar before hundreds of guests had splattered his self-esteem like a premature shower of rice. No postcoital celebrations for him.
The weak waddles of the tuxedoed murres mimicked his inability to mobilize. Nature’s refrigerator failed them; his own ego walled him off.
His attempts at annihilation had resulted in exhaustion, like the murres diving for a reward no longer there.
He wrapped his arms around a single murre and plunged into the waves again—this time exhaustion would win.
Born in an alley, Curious-Kitten rose to be the scrappiest fighter of all time. Considered most qualified to lead all felines, Curious-Kitten’s fame spread from backstreet to high-rise. She was admired by many until Big-Cat, an oily-tom born in a penthouse, stepped forward to stop her.
Bloated with self-importance, and imposter for change, Big-Cat splattered his worshipers with dreams of perfection, in a world of chaos.
“This is my alley,” Big-Cat howled, “my walls. You do not belong.”
They fought.
She won.
Moral of the story:
Pump yourself with pomposity and Little-Curious kills Big-Cat.
SHOPPING LIST
Z-quil nighttime sleep aid
Cat food
splat “blue envy” hair color
Rubber gloves, ladies m
post-it notes
Spackling compound
drywall & tape
TO DO
-google weight dosage/ “how long white fur to dye?”
-print riddles/post-its
-use ‘found” landlord key LOL/give hunky neighbor’s kitty spa time
-put up post-its/kitty/drywall back of his bedroom closet
-hide dye/pills in his CRAZY GIRLFRIEND biotch’s clothes LAWL!
REMEMBER
He WILL come over- good neighbors amirite? dress-up/answer door xoxo!
BE concerned- help him “FIND/rescue” kitty/dye/stuff
When biotch shows up, start CRYING “how could you?” LAWL
After he dumps her –enjoy– YOU DESERVE HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Tell us your name,” said PossumSleepingTruckDriver flatly, adjusting himself on his heavenly cloud.
“No.”
“Why won’t you tell us your name?” This from GoosePlanePropeller, her formerly majestic honk now a faintly shattered squawk. “I told you mine.”
“I don’t care to.”
“You think you’re better than us, don’t you?” PigSummerBarbecue said crisply.
HounddogBearTrap scowled. “She don’t look no better’n us.”
“Maybe it’s not your business.”
“Everything’s our business!” shouted FruitflyVinegarBowl. “Tell us!”
“I won’t.”
“Not everybody falls for peer pressure, you know,” sniffed LemmingCliffBottom.
“How about you try guessing?” And CatSplatPostTimeWall’s eyes swept across the cloud, laughing as silence fell.
He jumped from the garden trellis. “I am Cat,” he announced.
Honed from the body of a true feline, he purred. Bit my arms. We cavorted, pranced. Batted sparkly balls around furniture.
“What?” I asked next morning.
He glowered, green eyes static. Sniffed the air. His dribble splattered my best sofa. Nevertheless, I conceded. Brawny as a poster boy, that boy. I stroked his jaw, petted his skin. Fed him clams.
He said, “It is time.” His ears twitched, eyes darted.
“What?” I asked, puzzled.
He clambered onto the garden wall. Dropped out of sight.
“That’s typical,” I said. “Next.”
Splat! Dang cat, stay off my keyboard! It’s hard enough to post a 100 word story about my deepest feelings without you pouncing on my fingers. I’ll bounce you off the wall when I catch you.
Now, where was I? It was a dark and stormy night… Nope, too cliché, been there, done that.
I need a break. I think I’ll take a shower and go visit the indie book festival at the fairgrounds. It’s time to escape the rat race for a while.
I don’t even like poetry. Why am I doing this? Back to working on the novel.
Everything seemed apropos that morning. Almost everything. Sam in his usual overalls. Sun creating a golden hue over the llama farm. Autumn air crisp. Latte in Sam’s hand?
“Ma, maybe llama farming isn’t for me.”
“But with your brother running off to Africa, that leaves just us to tend the farm.”
“Yeah, Jed’s off photographing the Serengeti--me, I’m stuck mucking llama dung.”
That evening we heard them. Sam took off running for the gate, yelling. “Wait! Wait! Wa--” Llamas stampeded.
Sam’s head isn’t in this. Must have forgotten the latch.
I’ve been thinking about trying something new myself.
‘Catatonic.’
‘Any hope?'
The doctor shook his head, noted the time of death on the patient’s chart.
‘But he’s not dead …’
‘Yet,’ finished the doctor, turning off the switch, pulling the plug from the wall. ‘The post-mortem will show natural causes. And our cisplatin trials will continue.’
‘Continue? How many more are going to die?’
‘As many as it takes,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s the price we must pay.’
‘You mean the price they pay.’
‘For the greater good,’ said the doctor. ‘Let’s call it our little secret. Now, how about a drink and we can discuss your promotion.’
“Your son’s on the phone.”
“I don’t have time to talk to that loser. Gotta catch a train.”
The man sticks today’s Post under his arm, grabs his coat, and stalks out of the office into the miserable night.
“Spare a quarter?” The man ignores the figure huddled against a shadowed wall, walks on.
“Anyway, God bless.”
“Platitudes,” snarls the man, stepping off the curb into the path of a Metro bus that does not stop.
“Or not,” says the beggar, unfurling gleaming wings.
No one ever blamed Mrs. Norris for being the dumbest witch in town. Dropped on her head, they said. Splat.
Unfortunately, she’s the only one willing to feed me. I just wish she hadn’t read that damned “Diabetic Witch Today” article. She’s not even diabetic, for heaven’s sake.
Now I’m left postulating the furry pants around my throat, finding it difficult to swallow. All the witches think I’m growling at them, but I just want someone to spare a spell for a poor, choked cat. No one has the time, it seems.
Hush now, and sleep my dear. The harvest moon sails above us all and winter time draws near. The autumn knight is a dormouse paladin, who keeps sternly to his post throughout the years. Each night he paces the shadowy walls of dark forest halls in search of errant dreams to rescue. At midnight, he sallys forth astride a snarling, brindled tomcat whose hot, heavy breath splatters wetly upon the fallow fields. In the morning, there will be frozen ferns of delicate ice that brush your window, cats paw soft, and melt away with the waking dawn.
In my family, we clasp latticed confessionals like lovers. We know all the proper hymnal chords - and that 3/4 time belongs to Lucifer - and cherish brokenness as proof of Divine love. We show love how we are shown, and fear the emptiness that follows.
I didn’t know forgiveness until I met Lucy. Lucy, the question in love’s catechism, made an answer out of me. We danced, our legs off-tempo stilts. Lucifer clapped along.
Sirens singing. Shattered hands in mine.
Love is turning cheeks. She wouldn’t strike, and I don’t know how to love a gentle thing.
I tried.
Tonight it was the Cisplatin that had me puking at 3 am, throwing up the high calorie shake that was supposed to keep me alive long enough for the toxic agent to do its job.
I shuffled back to my recliner. The cat took her post at the base of my feet, the crocheted afghan pulled up around my shoulders. I had always longed to have those bones exposed. And now, well…
I looked up at the clock on the wall, the seconds indifferent to whether I lived or died.
“It’s just time,” I sighed. I closed my eyes.
Do. Re. Do re ti me.
-Sound of Music crap.
Solfège. Shut up.
I sketch notes with my Bic. At least they didn’t throw all my pens away. Sharp nibs only.
-Cuh-rap.
It’s for him. Valentine’s Day. Handmade gift.
-Gross. You wanna give him a gift, go sexy. Get Lipo.
Stop. It’s platonic.
-You wish, whore.
That better be a joke.
What did you do?!
The song’s crumpled. I take the pill hidden under my pillow. Stare her down in the window. Her smugness blurs.
A knock.
“Mrs. Thomas? Time to see Dr. Drake.”
“Ok. Can I bring his gift?”
The writing was on the WALL. Literally.
Someone had capped my tag over a double row of POSTers and onto an original Banksy.
When I found the wannabe who spray painted my fingerprints on their crime, they’d be graffiTI MEat.
Still, I’d need to go low pro for a while.
Lights flashed along the alley. Shit.
A rock through the bodega’S PLATe glass might buy me some getaway time.
No way were the cops gonna CATch me. At least not until I’d paid back the poser who tried to steal my style.
A most important day, with musical accompaniment. "Moments to Remember" (Four Lads, 1955)
Come home from work; he's gone. "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" (Frankie Lymon, 1956)
No clothes in his closet. "Helpless" (Platters, 1957)
His phone doesn't answer. "I Need You" (Beatles, 1965)
Find the note. "The First Cut is the Deepest" (Cat Stevens, 1967).
Skip dinner. "Alone Again (Naturally)" (Gilbert O'Sullivan, 1972)
Wine. "Killing Me Softly" (Roberta Flack, 1973)
Pills. "Bad Time" (Grand Funk, 1975)
"Another Brick in the Wall" (Pink Floyd, 1980)
"Fade to Black" (Metallica, 1984)
"Pearly Gates" (Poster Children, 1997)
It was time again! God fearing man I am. Cat house lost another one in a short minute. Splattered that sinner’s innards all over everything. Knife better… no noise this time. Her warm blood tasted funny. I spit it out. My heart tasted hot lead. No spiting it out. I slid down the wall… our blood mingled. I looked straight up at the moon. A giddy-up breeze chased a wisp of cloud across its smiling face. I closed my eyes. Can’t post this one on twitter. Damn cop!
“Time!”
Veronica handed LeBoeuf his plate, the one with special sauce. He didn’t like bland food served by bland girls. He’d told her so, twenty years ago.
“Do I know you?”
She shrugged.
“Bread pudding should be warm,” he barked.
“This one’s best served cold.”
He took a bite. “It reeks of almonds and isn’t even fit for my cat. Veronica, you are flambéed!” The judges’ thrones spewed flames. The audience cheered.
As a 12-year-old on Flambéed Junior, those words had nailed her to the wall. Now she smiled as she crossed the border, a chef de postre seeking work.
Timestamp 20211016 21:14:10
Her severed hand splatters blood on code book.
Keep that warm. The hand stains his shirt.
Scattered voices commanding him, mocking him, muddling his thoughts.
Shut up. Shut up.
Enter code.
Shut up.
Posted. Please wait.
System Processing
Code accepted.
Select target 1. Enter.
Russia. No, Canada. Both. It’s only a game.
Do you wish to add another target? Y/N
Belgium, China, Cuba? Select all.
Draw a new map.
It’s only a game.
Touch keypad for verification. Bloody.
Swallows the pill. Launch. It’s only a game.
Voices silent. Peace at last.
Game over.
Chartreux is at his usual post beneath the catalpa when a catastrophic gale topples the garden wall. His cater-wail, heard throughout the alley, is choked off by falling debris.
Neighbors spring to action. Their paws scratch at the rubble as though it were giant pieces of litter. Minutes turn into hours. Miss Devon Rex’s famous Cat-A-Tonic sells out completely.
And then, as Savannah carries plates of anchovies to the search-and-rescuers, a spectral figure slinks from the would-be catacomb.
“He lives,” whispers Pixie-Bob. “It’s a miracle.”
“Wasn’t his time,” old Sphynx reminds him. “It was only number eight.”
Cathleen's breath comes at me like a rusty old tire iron. I close my eyes and imagine her splattering my guts all over the bedroom leaving shards of glass and wooden splinters in our amorous wake. The bed post here, the headboard over there. I open one eye slowly. Cathleen's hair is already a mess. The light in the hallway glows just enough to illuminate the blondish summer streaks covering her face. Last time we did this the neighbors called the cops. She backs me slowly into my favorite corner. Christ, can't you just almost imagine it?
Joe walloped me good this time but I was grateful he didn't splatter me across the floor.
“No cat scan needed,” the doctor said, examining the gash on my brow. Its fresh mark crossed over an old one.
“Take Advil. Ice it for the swelling.” he finished, eyeing me.
“Do you feel safe at home?” the doctor asked abruptly. My eyes cut to Joe, seated near me. A domestic violence poster behind him.
No.
Nowhere, really.
“I live alone,” I replied and turned to go.
The doctor watched her leave as she came, alone.
11:13pm
Post time. You sit resolutely at your computer, you'll get a good start on fulls.
First book; "SELACHOPHOBIA", you snicker and scroll down to #2: "NYCTOPHOBIA". Seems to be a phobic trend.
Outside, lightning and thunder collude with the flickering streetlights; you jump.
Rain splatters on the iron fire escape with determination. The wind, insistent and guttural with admonishment moans,
"...Janet...why..."
Your sphinx-like loner cat, green eyes glowing, sits fixated on the blank wall behind your desk.
"...Janet...no..."
The night intrudes as the electricity convulses into obscurity.
"...Janet...stop..."
11:33pm
Decision's made – chocolate, vodka, "Pride and Prejudice" and Somniphobia.
Per pale indented, sable and argent, a man and a woman addorsed, on a chief azure two wedding bands entwined.
Per pale argent and sable, a woman and a man respectant, the man dimidiated with a wolf.
Gules, a man bitten and clawed prostrate.
Per fess azure and vert, the sun in his splendour or, a man splattered and gory.
Sable, a wife wall-eyed and grim, a husband posthumous.
Per fess sable and vert, the moon in her plenitude argent, a wolf rampant transforming.
Gules, in bend dexter, a woman armed septime, a bullet argent, a monster adjudicated.
We liked being the youngest. The idea of becoming middle children didn’t sound too good.
“I’ve got a job for you two,” said Mama. “I need your help baby-proofing the house.” She hung a poster on the wall: 100 Ways to Keep Baby Safe. It was splattered with eye-catching colors, and showed all the dumb ways babies could accidentally hurt themselves.
Well…we guessed that didn’t seem so hard.
The whole family pitched in. By the time the baby came, there wasn’t a single thing left in the house that could hurt him.
So we improvised.
Flitting anxiously to and fro in the twilight, the insect searched for safety. High, preferably. Dry. That wall? No, the inn’s cat lurked there. The tree? No, a storm approached. Undercover, somewhere, was needed.
Sh’lar, astride Belzahn, thought so too. Time was, he’d never have overnighted at an inn, but the threatening storm had his elderly dragon agitated.
Tom, the asleep ostler, awoke at the noise. It’d been years since he’d stabled a dragon, but an immense red was landing now. He hoped their stay would be brief.
The wasp, late that evening, chose to alight on Belzahn’s nose.
Hey! You're just in time to check out this post of a cat splatting into a wall!
-Very funny. Leave me alone.
No, I'm serious!
-Well I'll be. Ha! Play it again!
-That kind of looks like our cat.
-And our wall.
-Where's the cat?
The rain raps a sharp staccato on the porch roof and splatters my boots with mud. I wait for the boss.
Meeting here is dumb. Yeah, offing Frankie at this cabin cemented our partnership, but who needs such sentimental codswallop? We should be somewhere warm. And dry. But hey, when the boss says jump...
So many lies since. The posturing. The power plays. I've often wondered if I'd have been better off in Frankie's spot.
I don't hear the approach at all. I'm slammed backwards, then kissed hard on the lips. She leans back and grins.
"Hi, honey. Happy anniversary."
I can’t help who I love.
Mom tries to understand. Scatters a few compliments, but she doesn’t like me spending time with him. She worries about how it looks.
Dad doesn’t even try. Splatters my hopes like paint on a canvas. You’re can’t play with him! He’s a rat! From the dirty part of town.
They don’t realize, I just think he’s fun. Besides, it’s only hide ‘n’ seek.
I spy him sneaking into our living room. Such nerve! I straighten my posture, swallow my own nerves and approach.
“Meow,” I say.
“Squeak,” he answers.
Goody! My turn to hide.
Shells plummet. Not for our side but against. Sonny’s platoon is broken; if the bombs don’t kill them, time will. It’s winter. The cold conceals the scent of the dead; the scant remains of cover shield the wounded.
Sonny catalogs the remnants of his company from his post.
Lenny – Limb shredded, artery nicked.
Ralph – Head lesion.
Eugene – Guts embraced with gauze.
The air raid siren is blaring.
“Swallow all your fears men!” A match was struck and smokes shared.
“May God have mercy on our souls.”
But there is no mercy in war. There’s decay and sorrow.
She scattered words across Time.They fell in beautiful droplets from the skies. And those who looked might read the rain.
The soil, too, absorbed Her fluent notes so in turn we could learn to read the land.
She posted Sentries, tall and green, Guardians of the air.
Her. Message. Crystallized. Crisp.
Later, too many remained illiterate, ignoring Her signs, imagining we knew all.
And in our arrogance, we let down our Guards, and saw the Ice Giants fall.
Emmeline's wrist bears a tattoo: "Revenge is a dish best served cold." Got it after the fourth time she failed to kill Charles.
Pause, rewind, try again.
Same time, same attack. He grabs her, she reacts, he escapes.
No, no! Too slow! The vortex sucks her back to the present with a gasp.
Later she compares her times posted on the wall. Her rage is slowing her down. But if she lets it go, the need disappears and that would never do.
Pause, rewind, try again...
Wait. What happens if she catches him before his attack?
Audio only
'Hurry up Donnie my knees are smarting'.
'Don't stop Hillie, I like to take my time'.
'Mwu uh ah'.
'Oh this is good, did you do it this for the Kenyan?'.
'Muh wa… no he's gay'.
'Really, friendly with George was he? Can we move over to that wall, this lamppost is murdering my back?'.
'Okay, where did that cat come from?'.
'Don't worry, I'm used to an audience, put your glasses on girl, there's going to be fireworks'.
'Mah uh guh'.
'Woah girl, not so fast—you didn't overdose on your meds again—Hillie…'.
SPLAT.
Splatta Fish is piped in 24/7, food, water randomly.
I ask for a poster.
“Why?”
“Something to look at.”
He brings me one – of the beach. I tack it to the wall, later move it to the water-stained ceiling.
I stare up at it while he’s staring down at me.
He says I’m a “real catch.”
“But, looks don’t last,” he warns.
Next time, the poster is on the wall.
Ceiling.
Wall.
Ceiling.
“What’re you up to?”
“Nothing.”
Next time, no poster.
Sweaty faced, he looks around.
I got him figured now.
He backs out, forgets to lock the door.
The door jingled and I took in her fragrance first. I turned, and the first thing I saw were the legs. Long legs.
She fixed me with those eyes that could see through the soul. I bared a smile. She didn’t. Didn’t even know if she could.
I waved the barista back over.
“Sir?” the chick purred.
Seriously? She definitely didn’t have the body for that voice. “Give me the cat’s platter and the Venti Mew, all over the rats,” I hissed. “And make it warm.”
They sent up Ostrich. This was going to be a hell of a night.
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