tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post8003972031909240561..comments2024-03-18T09:09:59.625-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Her Grace, the Duchess of Yowl Flash Fiction writing contestJanet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-39758310588557323932015-11-22T09:52:21.141-05:002015-11-22T09:52:21.141-05:00I stalk my prey with tweezers among the whiskered ...I stalk my prey with tweezers among the whiskered shoots of tomatoes. There: four casualties, snipped below the cotyledon.<br /><br />The root-cover slips open, revealing unbroken loam. I breathe with relief. My ancestors would have feared a tiger coming upon them as they worked the soil. My nightmare has more to do with particles of dirt clogging the air-circulator, the terror of all who micromanage micro-crops in micro-gravity. <br /><br />The cutworm squishes with a satisfying pop. But tomorrow, of course, there will be more. It seems we can’t colonize a new world without a few damned stowaways.<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01488697356459881105noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-47764474392508983172015-11-22T09:47:16.312-05:002015-11-22T09:47:16.312-05:00Rain again.
“What the Hell, little brother?” Luc...Rain again. <br /><br />“What the Hell, little brother?” Luc asked.<br /><br />“Making a better garden,” Joe said. <br /><br />Luc laughed. “That’s a flood. What's that?"<br /><br />“Lamprey.”<br /><br />“No, not your damn fish. That?”<br /><br />“It’s a tiger.”<br /><br />“It’s being stalked by a shark.”<br /><br />“Luc! Stop adding things,” Joe said.<br /><br />“You’ll thank me for the boat. Mammals drown. Turn off the rain.”<br /><br />“Why are you helping?”<br /><br /> “Judgment Day comes soon. My world is already perfect.”<br /><br />Luc spurred Joe’s anger.<br /><br />“Says who?”<br /><br />“Dad,” Luc said. “What’s that whiskered fellow doing?”<br /><br />“Praying.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“So I’ll help.”<br /><br />“Joe, that’s cheating. You’re supposed remain invisible to your creation.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />E.M. Goldsmithhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18387494005655553037noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-33419364102896383122015-11-22T09:45:31.136-05:002015-11-22T09:45:31.136-05:00On a sooty street, I share my mat with Tiger.
I na...On a sooty street, I share my mat with Tiger.<br />I named her before someone told me she was black. <br />Her head seeks my chapped hand so I scratch it softly. <br />She paces, paws at me, whines.<br />Someone hands me a styrofoam container. <br />The top pops open. I smell Buffalo wings. <br />But it’s only a celery stalk.<br />Tiger pounces like it’s prey. <br />Her whiskers brush my skin as she chews. <br />She laps up blue cheese dip, then settles. <br />Her purr warms me like the hot coffee they serve inside.<br />I feel her breath slowing. Satisfied, she sleeps.<br />MChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17265717772342091525noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-23439650448262703532015-11-22T09:45:05.843-05:002015-11-22T09:45:05.843-05:00A young man slips among the spectators surrounding...A young man slips among the spectators surrounding an impassioned female orator and a bewhiskered heckler.<br />"You men want to silence us, to control us," the girl shouts over her adversary's catcalls. "You prey on our perceived helplessness, but together we stand strong."<br />The feminists in the crowd show their solidarity as she raises her clenched fist.<br />"She's a tiger," the young man fairly purrs, "in need of a greater cause."<br />She rants on as her admirer finalizes his plan to stalk her, seduce her, radicalize her, and when the time is right, fasten a suicide belt around her waist.vb holmeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18042714310345407971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-3440118756987174252015-11-22T09:42:27.380-05:002015-11-22T09:42:27.380-05:00
Jes suis Charlie Hebdo!
Hiding like rats, the ...<br /><br />Jes suis Charlie Hebdo!<br /><br /><br />Hiding like rats, the terrorists planned their deadly attacks on the innocent Paris Friday night crowds of lovers and friends, dreamers and wanderers.<br /><br /><br />Abdelhamid Abaaoud imagined he was a great tiger striking the infidels.<br /><br /><br />He slowly stroked his whiskers while laying out his dastardly plan. He purred with excitement, rationalizing to his coven how to stalk their prey and kill the unholy. At 28 he was an expert at motivating his sycophantic followers.<br /><br /><br />“Kill in the name of the all merciful, peaceful, Prophet Mohammad.” <br /><br />“Peace be upon him,” Hasna Ait Boulahcen demurely whispered, checking her vest .<br /><br /><br /><br />Steve Cassidyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03166816870967552955noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-14645426132245068792015-11-22T09:42:03.264-05:002015-11-22T09:42:03.264-05:00
The abbot, a Buddhist monk, cherished almost all ...<br />The abbot, a Buddhist monk, cherished almost all living things.<br /><br />“Before you shut down the sanctuary, please come for a private visit. See what we’ve done here.”<br /><br />The minister agreed. The abbot, a global celebrity, required careful coddling <br /><br />The minister arrived before dawn, alone, a prisoner of his busy schedule. The abbot walked him through the gate and down to the valley where tigers ran wild, stalking their prey, licking the blood from their whiskers.<br /><br />He returned alone, purring with contentment after the unfortunate accident.<br /><br />“I told him not to pet the tigers.”<br /><br />One tiger was worth a hundred politicians. <br /><br /><br />Alan Milnerhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16967789907335148119noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-75455530251737493052015-11-22T09:38:24.283-05:002015-11-22T09:38:24.283-05:00LUCK BE A COUGAR TONIGHT
The tigress leaned forwa...LUCK BE A COUGAR TONIGHT<br /><br />The tigress leaned forward propping her ample bosom on the oak bar, heaving with anticipation. "Just a whisker of gin in a slow fizz," she purred. "And four cherries. I'm hungry." The bottle-blonde winked at Alan then turned to the roomful of college jocks deciding which tenderoni she'd stalk tonight.<br /><br />That broad is too old for them, Alan mused, fingering a vein. But in the nadir of his not so white tidy-whities he wished that tonight he'd be lucky enough to be her prey. But then, track marks would no doubt be a deal breaker.Karen Baldwinhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01522178275164058849noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-57355403067595687402015-11-22T09:19:14.413-05:002015-11-22T09:19:14.413-05:00They spotted a great beast approaching and chatter...They spotted a great beast approaching and chattered excitedly amongst themselves, declaring it was like nothing they’d ever seen. As it came to rest, discussion of a new <b>prey</b> came to them. They listened, hearing how it groaned, then <b>purr</b>ed. A strange smell rode the wind, a pungent odor, as if it rotted from within.<br /> <br />They chose their best <b>stalk</b>er to approach.<br /> <br />He froze in horror as the beast vomited bodies, faces strangely loaded with <b>whisker</b>s.<br /><br />One confronted him, staring at his own, oddly painted like <b>tiger</b>’s.<br /><br />It uttered a strange sound.<br /><br />“English?”<br /><br />Mesmerized, entranced, he touched a satiny sleeve.<br />Donnaevehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09026536210749494257noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-62217408757910100702015-11-22T08:29:44.071-05:002015-11-22T08:29:44.071-05:00With a throaty purr, the Duchess of Yowl preened h...With a throaty purr, the Duchess of Yowl preened her whiskers before lowering her stance. She viewed her prey cautiously, attempting to calculate its next move, before beginning a stealthy, tiger-like stalk across the courtyard. At last she pounced, flattening it with her paws, and breaking it from the ground with her teeth. And then, as any self-respecting cat would do, she proudly sat on it. Another weed wrestled into submission.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17721199388818362713noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-76881679638865372022015-11-22T07:46:17.105-05:002015-11-22T07:46:17.105-05:00"Go forth, Son. You are ready," Mother T..."Go forth, Son. You are ready," Mother Tiger purred.<br /><br />Young Tiger slipped furtively through the tall grass, whiskers parting stalks ever so slightly, allowing him to wait unnoticed by the water hole.<br /><br />The blistering sun ensured his prey would seek relief...and so they did.<br /><br />The big male bounded in with a splash. <br /><br />The female followed cautiously.<br /><br />The young one remained on the bank, unprotected. <br /><br />He exploded from cover, launched himself at his victim, sharp teeth and claws sinking into sweet, hot flesh.<br /><br />"Ow! Mom! This kitten is out of control!"<br /><br />Thwarted, Young Tiger pouted.<br /><br />"Next time, Son. Next time."CynthiaMchttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12175917641033760408noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-75917286720671047652015-11-22T07:20:40.497-05:002015-11-22T07:20:40.497-05:00I'd been waiting for this moment for years. S...I'd been waiting for this moment for years. Similar to a tiger stalking its prey, the game she played me for excruciating. The waiting, the thought of her bored out of her wits of me, the indifference, it was so overwhelming when she seduced me, it was the inevitable kill. I had wished I shaved though. My whiskers were nothing more than a typical 5 o'clock shadow, but they were as rough as sandpaper. I don't remember a lot of kissing, but I swore she purred in delight even as I whimpered about my one minute performance. Now if only I knew how to get rid of this decomposing smell.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04148789250122629732noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-73188566665781603862015-11-22T05:46:56.366-05:002015-11-22T05:46:56.366-05:00“Did you call me Duchess?”
“Isn’t that you?” Too...“Did you call me Duchess?”<br /> <br />“Isn’t that you?” Toothless dared ask.<br /><br />The Queen of the Kitty Kingdom sat on her haunches. Head held high, ears perfectly perked. Her tiger-eyes bore holes in the impertinent creature.<br /><br />“You’re not the QOTKK, you’re the Duchess of Yowl. It says so on your tags.”<br /><br />The QOTKK moved toward Toothless with slow, graceful strides, as one would when stalking prey. “Off with you head!”<br /> <br />“Wait, you’re not the Queen of Hearts either,” he purred.<br /><br />“But my claws are sharp.” She twitched her whiskers.<br /> <br />*Bop*<br /><br />“Now, what were you saying?<br /><br />Silence.<br /><br />"That's what I thought, Headless.”Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-30477214035262166352015-11-22T03:29:28.383-05:002015-11-22T03:29:28.383-05:00I promised my mother – promised myself – no more s...I promised my mother – promised myself – no more stalking. But the voice. <br /><br />It purrs in my head.<br /><br />Without planning, I find myself back here. Why don’t they know I’ll come?<br /><br />Three exit the train. Small red blouse is my favorite. She walks beneath the lone streetlight, but it gives way.<br /><br />My heart doesn’t race anymore. That thrill ended. But the voice growls like a tiger.<br /> <br />Sorry, mother.<br /><br />Prey for me.<br /><br />Red blouse walks by, a whisker away. Not the first time I follow her to her silver Corolla. But it’s the last.<br /><br />She turns. Flashes a badge. And a Glock.<br />John Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01702305890462479118noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-40749522470108862972015-11-22T02:41:18.121-05:002015-11-22T02:41:18.121-05:00He stalks the town children. Play, not prey.
His...He stalks the town children. Play, not prey. <br /><br />His enormous whisker disappears behind a tree stump, and he gives a guttural purr. He peeks out again, to be sure. The child screams and runs, her little dirty legs clumsy with fear.<br /> <br />If he was still kitten-sized, they’d stay. Now his gigantic tiger stripes scare them. <br /><br />He lumbers toward the thatched cottage’s shrouded smoke and blasts the blind hag with his hot hunter’s breath, ready to kill her for making him a monster— <br /><br />“Fire’s warm, cat,” she says. “Stop rumbling and come inside.”<br /><br />After the usual deliberation, he follows.Karen McCoyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02640324898284007337noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-7232261656605609312015-11-22T01:13:19.214-05:002015-11-22T01:13:19.214-05:00The dead moan past, and up we boil from our hiding...The dead moan past, and up we boil from our hiding places: whiskers twitching, tails lashing, claws digging into the clay bricks underfoot. Stalking our prey through the silver moonlight. Protecting the gates, the Sunlit Lands beyond. <br /><br />"How dare Anubis," Set purrs, tiger-eyed in the moonlight. "To ask this of you."<br /><br />Ears flattened, we hiss.<br /><br />"Damning you here," Set mourns. "So very far from the sun."<br /><br />We stretch with remembered warmth.<br /><br />"Only let my friends pass," Set urges. "Just the once."<br /><br />We twine between his legs. Watching the gate as the dead flood through.<br /><br />We are only cats, after all.JD Paradisehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-78250301613101134822015-11-22T00:32:46.288-05:002015-11-22T00:32:46.288-05:00I smell the stench of cat urine before my partner ...I smell the stench of cat urine before my partner Marcus meets me outside the victim's house.<br /><br />“Hoarder. Housed a bunch of cats, fed them. Most of them anyway.”<br /><br />I grunt. “People shouldn't keep animals they can't care for.”<br /><br />Cats everywhere. A miniature tiger stalks me like prey. A calico purrs in the corner.<br /><br />Marcus leads me to the body. Bad shape. Picked clean to the bone in spots.<br /><br />“What the—” A white Persian with a pink smile and bloody whiskers prances by.<br /><br />I look at Marcus. “You asshole.” He laughs.<br /><br />Gonna be a long fucking day.CEDhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10411394450673673225noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-48900141656939838372015-11-22T00:22:29.697-05:002015-11-22T00:22:29.697-05:00After twelve hours on the road, I was desperate fo...After twelve hours on the road, I was desperate for a comfortable bed. <br /><br />Not long after closing my eyes, however, I heard the host’s one-eyed cat, Popeye, purring loudly. Stalking me. Popeye leapt onto my chest, his solitary tiger-eye fixed upon me in the moonlight. My nose burned. I needed to sneeze, but couldn’t. He knew I was easy prey.<br /><br />Popeye rubbed his whiskers, creating a flurry of dander that filled my nostrils. My eyes watered; I was drowning in phlegm. Paralyzed. He licked his willowy paws, watching me suffocate.<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17789856000120732491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-20571606906006296712015-11-21T23:59:11.142-05:002015-11-21T23:59:11.142-05:00"Hello, Whiskers," she would purr when h..."Hello, <i>Whisker</i>s," she would <i>purr</i> when he hadn't shaved in three days. "Heya, <i>Tiger</i>," she would say when he had <i>stalk</i>ed up to her while she watched TV. Slugger. Boss. Sleepy-head. God, how he hated her nicknames for him. Chief. Buckaroo. Tiny Heinie. He gripped his ax. Now he had a nickname for her.<br /><br /><i>Prey</i>.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-70773028739122402042015-11-21T23:28:41.683-05:002015-11-21T23:28:41.683-05:00Matt entered, noticed her immediately: an irascibl...Matt entered, noticed her immediately: an irascible tiger eyeing her prey. The strong knew to avert their faces. It was the weak who’d be targeted. The pitiful. They’d endeavor to please her. In vain. Always, in vain. <br /><br />Matt just had to keep his head down. Remain unnoticed. Escaping by a whisker each day wasn’t pleasant, but it was better than the alternative.<br /><br />Her eyes slid from mark to mark as she stalked to the front. The corner of her lips rose. “Good morning, class,” she purred. This part was always the most delicious. Choosing which ones she would torment today.<br />Kae Ridwynhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10356868531870405990noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-9414239385009344152015-11-21T23:25:45.310-05:002015-11-21T23:25:45.310-05:00The hunter becomes the prey. That’s what I love a...The hunter becomes the prey. That’s what I love about big game hunting. The thrill of stalking the stalker, turning natural order on its head. Looking the law of the jungle in the face and spitting in its eye. It’s that pivotal moment spurring me on, when the target realizes it’s about to die. Understanding and fear form a human-like expression. I grip my rifle, wait for a sign. A whisper, a whisker. They say tigers are endangered. Killing one won’t matter. Then I hear it. A growl. Not where I thought. I turn, terrified. The hunter becomes the prey. Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-20455964111413101972015-11-21T22:42:37.022-05:002015-11-21T22:42:37.022-05:00He's a magnificent specimen, a snow white tige...He's a magnificent specimen, a snow white tiger with crystal blue eyes. He's a trophy I must have.<br /><br />I watch from a distance, his whiskers twitch like silky threads and even from here I can hear him purr his contentment. He feels safe in his environment, but not for long. <br /><br />I stalk my prey from behind bars. Slowly, I surmount the obstacle and slither to the ground without a sound. I wait—ready to pounce.<br /><br />A struggle ensues, but I'm stronger. I take him, his fur softer than I imagined. He's mine.<br /><br />Until, "Frankie, give tiggy back to Mikey."<br /><br />"Waahh!"<br />LynnRodzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10796099106913990163noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-52349499223277272042015-11-21T22:01:39.950-05:002015-11-21T22:01:39.950-05:00In my day job, I keep parasites out. I clean up la...In my day job, I keep parasites out. I clean up lakes, guts, animals, lives. I’m too good at compartmentalizing.<br /><br />Until lampreys entered my dreams. Hundreds of them latching, their combined feeding a steady purr. <br /><br />I couldn’t stand the jealous sap, tracking me everywhere.<br /><br />A body deflated, spread out to imitate a tiger-skin rug. Limbs collapsed like dying leaves on a stalk. <br /><br />A whisker-width misstep is enough to land in the containment tank, where writhing parasites wait to be destroyed. <br /><br />Once they latch on, those suckers bleed ‘em dry. RachelErinhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09510327163701754950noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-53394630648552917342015-11-21T21:56:27.249-05:002015-11-21T21:56:27.249-05:00
I hardly manage a sip from my fourth two-for-one ...<br />I hardly manage a sip from my fourth two-for-one when the bartender hands me an envelope. <br /><br />“What’s this?” <br /><br />“Somebody slid it under the door last night.” <br /><br />I tear open the flap and coax out the contents. <br /><br />Spurrey bud.<br /><br />Dried cornstalk.<br /><br />Feline whiskers. <br /><br />Golden tiger’s eye.<br /><br />A decade of secrets scatter onto lacquered mahogany.<br /><br />I didn’t see her there. I couldn’t stop. <br /><br />Hidden in a cornfield. Buried with lavender blossoms.<br /><br />Face on a milk carton alongside my Cheerios.<br /><br />Catalina Stone. Kitty for short, it read. <br /><br />I stagger into the night as someone approaches. <br /><br />Onto my knees. Hands locked together.<br /><br />I, prey.Calorie Bombshellhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18039655088542854847noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-86025497060480831852015-11-21T21:46:15.321-05:002015-11-21T21:46:15.321-05:00I stalk through leaf-strewn streets, spurred on by...I stalk through leaf-strewn streets, spurred on by nameless desire. <br /><br />A newspaper blows at my feet. On the front page, a photograph of my most recent venture. Disgusting. The Tulsa Tiger? How artless! Me, a clumsy, marauding beast? The Oklahoma Osprey, perhaps. Or the Scorpion! Yeah, I like that.<br /><br />A whisker of moon breaks through the clouds. I tense. She turns the corner, and I pounce.<br /><br /><i>Clang!</i><br /><br />What the…?<br /><br />My blade skitters to the ground.<br /><br />She screams. I run, but it’s too late. The cops are too eager to pen me for good.<br /><br />Who the fuck put a mailbox there?Beth H.https://www.blogger.com/profile/14281003524857655329noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-83507187909221616762015-11-21T21:42:12.346-05:002015-11-21T21:42:12.346-05:00Again we were cast upon a purrulent shore. It was ...Again we were cast upon a purrulent shore. It was closer than the other times but our works failed when they were a whisker from fruition. The eye of the tiger stalked our young and we were prey in this place. A place we had mastered for a time.<br /><br />We longed to stay awake and free but the stakes were too high. The long sleep with its nightmares of the fall beckoned and we had to heed. Perhaps the next awakening would be in a time when the Earth had healed, when it would again succor humanity.Craig Fhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07157301156577795781noreply@blogger.com