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Cats are like reliable ghosts that predict our futures and prove our pasts. Laughing cats peruse our days as they hunt mice. But before confidence lifts their tails, kittens are frightened.2
Suburbia’s known for cramped front yards. The harsh white porches are optimal for little creatures to escape our lying world. And I find myself on hand and knee, sinking into mud and rotting leaves under Mr. Sigh’s porch. The rain drips through dusk and brushes my toes as I pull them into this cave.3
The kitten recognizes something and slips into my hands like the warmth of a dark promise. I clutch him in the crook of my arm, against where I think my heart is. I turn in the mud and sit down, watching my washed-out house. The kitten stares. It can hear the argument better than my fragile ears. The disagreement isn’t new: a hiss of tension between being productive or poetic or pathetic. The kitten is new and isn’t used to the downward spirals or hurled objects. 4
Question marks hover like owls above us and their silhouettes. We stare and the heartbeat of the ghost in my arms reminds me of the chiming of music boxes. 5
Author notes
Exactly 200 words.
I don't actually have a cat, but I do have a loving family. My fiction's all fiction.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
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amazing, I felt the heartbeat every word of the way
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Your word count is right on.
I have to admit I got a little lost a couple of times in this and I anm not sure if it is my misreading or maybe that I am just not grasping the perspective you are writing from. For me as it stands this is a little vague.
Thank you for sharing and good luck.
Susan -
Maybe. No idea though. Being the Lit Editor's great except when it comes to my own work.
Log -
awesome imagery hun (do i smell a litmag entry?)
<33
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