Monthly Archives: April 2018
You’ve heard the expression “raining cats and dogs”, right? Here’s a little thing I wrote for Miranda Kate’s Mid-Week Flash Challenge – Week 51, inspired by the picture on the right there. The cat’s real name is Willow, and the dog is Lily, but I think Abigail and William work better for the story.
<the light tattoo of rain on glass>
“Go on, then.”
“In that storm? No. You go on, then.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m a cat. Cats don’t do rain.”
“Cats don’t do anything.”
“We do! We do sunshine and warm laps and high places.”
“Don’t forget selfishness, you’re the best at that. Cats don’t do anything useful.”
“Tell me, of the two creatures here, which one can work the window latch?”
“Which one, William?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“You can, Abigail. It’s you, OK?”
“Then we are agreed. My job is to open the window. Your job is to go out in the rain.”
“And get soaked.”
“One job each, William. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Hmph. I suppose.”
“Oh don’t sulk. Let’s get this over with. There, the window’s open. Off you pop.”
“I don’t think I can carry both bags of treats. I only have a little mouth.”
“Then fetch mine and go back for yours. Then we can work on opening them.”
“That’s two trips, Abigail! I’ll get even wetter!”
“Once you’re wet, you’re wet. And you can shake yourself dry. Dogs are good at that.”
“We are, aren’t we? Dogs are good at stuff just as much as cats.”
“They’re certainly good at being gullible. Off you pop, William.”
<the hiss of rain on the path between greenhouse and kitchen>
“I’m back! Here’s yours, Abigail. I’ll just pop back and get mine.”
“Take your time, William, take your time.”
“Gosh, this rain’s cold.”
<the cadence of rainfall and a soft click>
“Abigail! Abigail! Abigail!”
“You’ve shut the window again. Let me in, I’m soaked!”
“Not a chance. It is cold. And who wants to eat with the stink of wet dog in the air?”
“That’s not fair!”
“You said it yourself, William. Cats are the best at selfishness.”
A short story inspired by Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash Challenge No. 49.
“The lid of your jar.” He jabbed his finger against the thick glass, pointing above my head. “He’s forgotten to latch it. You could push it off!”
I reached up and ran my fingers across the perforated lid. The giant removed it occasionally to drench us with water, or to poke us with sharp objects, or to drop fire into the jar to make us dance. He secured the lid afterwards by snapping a metal catch, but perhaps this time…
I pressed upward gently; the lid lifted. A simple push and it fell to the side. I sprang to the thin, glass lip of the opening and unfurled my wings, stretching them wide, luxuriating in the caress of air on membranes that had been too long folded against my body in the cramped jar. By the trees, that felt good.
The interior of the crate that held the jars was dim, but I could make out some shapes. Above my head was the heavy cover. There would be no shifting that. I might be strong for my kind, but was still too small to budge such a substantial sheet of metal. There were a dozen jars in the crate, each with a sprung metal clasp to hold down the lid, each holding a prisoner. Their pale faces watched me as I perched on the rim of my jar, no doubt envious of my escape.
Down to my left, Rimbaud watched too, a grin on his pretty face. He blew me a kiss, and gestured to the side of the container, to the pale glow of an opening that we guessed was to allow air to reach us. My eyes widened. The metal clasp on his jar was also loose. The giant had been careless on his last visit.
It took me but a few moments to free Rimbaud, and we moved to the opening in the wall, mouthing our apologies to the other prisoners. Holding hands, we entered the passageway beyond. It was entirely circular, the walls and floor smooth, hard, and allowing a translucent glow.
“It’s good to touch you again,” Rimbaud said, squeezing my hand. “I’m scared. Are you scared?” I did not answer. “Are we doing the right thing? Death may await us along this path. At least in captivity we live, and our love endures.”
“Love without freedom is like wings without flight.” I closed my fingers on his, briefly, but my mind was on things other than reassurance. We could hope that this air tunnel led to freedom, but it seemed unlikely, given all that we had endured since our capture. Starvation and torture had taken me to the end of my sanity. Even the smallest chance of escape was worth grasping, and if this air-tube did not lead us to freedom after all, I would take my own life. I had suffered enough. We are not made for captivity, our kind.
The passageway ahead forked. Rimbaud and I looked at each other.
“There are two ways,” he said. “Which shall we follow? Perhaps one leads to escape, and the other to danger?”
“Let us each follow one. That way we will know the right path. Walk for five hundred heartbeats. If you have discovered nothing by then, turn around. We meet back here and compare findings.”
“Very well,” he said. His wing-tips caressed mine. “Be careful.”
I took the passage on the right. I have been walking for five hundred heartbeats now, but I do not turn around. I am close to open air. I can sense it. I smell leaves and grass, sunshine and summer breeze. Ahead of me an opening appears – I see trees against a blue sky. I almost run out of the opening.
I stand on a flat circle of earth, blinking in bright sunshine. All around me are breeze-blown birch, but between me and the trees is a wire fence that surrounds the bare circle. It extends above, too, a net across the blue sky. Behind the fence, staring at me, are giants. Scores of them, grinning, drooling, eating and laughing. I clutch my ears as a deafening voice booms, putting small birds to flight from the trees above.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fairy Wars!”
The giants cheer, a horrifying thunder. Across the circle of earth, I notice a second entrance set in the wire. Another of my kind stumbles into the light. It is Rimbaud.
“Two creatures enter!” the voice bellows again. “But only one will leave!”
Rimbaud’s eyes brim with tears. He looks directly at me, and I can sense the love he holds for me, rooted deep within his soul. Those wide, innocent, beautiful eyes are now haunted by despair at the sudden ripping away of freedom’s promise.
“Bids are now being taken for the corpse of the loser!”
Rimbaud shakes his head, slowly, and collapses to his knees, wings handing limply around him.
“Which of these magical creatures will earn their freedom today, and which will die? Place your bets now!”
I bare my teeth. By the trees, if this is what it takes to earn my freedom, so be it. I will not – I cannot – return to captivity, torture, and life in a jar. Rimbaud looks startled as I unsheathe my claws and launch myself at him with a scream.