HEY GUYS, GUESS WHAT
I GOT A NEW KITTY. (Si said I should post ALL of my kitten photos but . . . I have a lot (one of my friends demanded constant kitten updates when we brought her home yesterday) . . . so only a few?)
We considered naming her Link, Epona, or Midna (since we have a Zelda) but didn't like any of those. My sister likes Peach, but I've taken to calling her Xena. (The bite marks in my hand certainly tell you that she's a mighty warrior princess)
Zelda is not taking well to the kitten invading on her territory, thus far:
(Xena was tucked in the corner of the couch next to me for this exchange)
We're kind of surprised because Zelda is very sweet and gentle, but there's a lot of hissing & growling and glaring whenever she sees the kitten. XD
|Okay, I think I'm done now.|
Word Count: 300 max
How: Submit your stories as a comment to this post, along with your name, word count, and title (and Twitter handle or blog if you've got 'em!). One entry per person.
Deadline: Midnight tonight, PDT!
Results announced: Next Wednesday afternoon.
Remember: Your entry must begin with the prompt! The prompt can be mutilated, but not beyond recognition. (Pictures do not need to be incorporated into your stories, they're for inspiration (and sometimes our amusement)).
"I think I preferred your old hobby."
By Ronel Janse van Vuuren
‘I think I preferred your old hobby,’ the dauphin said drolly.
I looked at him surprised. I hadn’t even noticed that he was still there.
‘I should have known that you chose that dress for reasons other than being my princess for the night.’ Amusement twinkled in his eyes.
Blushing, I straightened invisible wrinkles from the numerous folds of my ball gown. He was right, though: I had chosen it for the hiding places it provided for my knives.
‘So when did you go from chef to knife-thrower?’
Moonlight glinted off the knives barely visible in the misty forest; imbedded almost to the hilt in the would-be assassins.
‘We should return to the party. We’d catch cold out here,’ I said, trying not to look at him.
A cat, as black as my dress, slinked past. Its green eyes flashing in warning.
‘Now, if you want to live,’ I said harshly, grabbing his arm and pulling him back through the doorway we’d used to leave the castle earlier.
He didn’t resist. I wish he would. Then my instincts would kick in and I could complete my mission. The dauphin slipped his arm around me and my bones nearly melted.
They should’ve sent someone else to assassinate the dauphin. I’m incapable of harming him. Even if it means killing the CAT who saved me from a life of iniquity.
*CAT = Criminal Assassin Tactician
By Sian Brighal
I think I preferred your old hobby, despite the thrill of seeing you again, watching you work.
I smile. This is roughly how you found me. I thought you’d scream and run, but you stayed and watched, eyes wide, breath brushing past parted lips in tight, controlled huffs. You asked to watch another, and you did: many times. I recall your fingers ripping paper, picking at loose thread…or—my favourite—winding through your hair, earthing your burgeoning thrill. You visited more often, lingered longer. Watching me work became your favourite pastime.
Your fascination intrigued me, inspiring tentative thoughts of mentoring, sharing exploits…companionship. Maybe I should have discouraged you; in hindsight, I was preparing a replacement, but your eyes and busy little fingers were so enticing. So I let you closer, divulging snippets of wisdom, refining your newfound hobby. You devoured it all, but I knew it wasn’t enough…you were always left a little hungry. I knew you wanted more before you begged.
I remember your first. I made sure it was perfect: mine was rushed…messy. The thrill was hot and hard, but burnt out too quickly. I felt empty afterwards, scooped out. I slowed you down so you wouldn’t consume it all in one rapid, rabid bite. You were glorious. Then you outgrew me. I couldn’t keep you, and you owed me nothing. My interest withered as yours flourished, but I looked for you, seeing you in headlines, wishing I could share.
Your fingers flutter over the blade slipping free from between my ribs. I’ve never been this side: being watched instead of watching. I must be perfect; your greedy eyes lap me up. I hope you gave me more thought, prepared with greater care, deemed me more than just ‘one of the others’: that it’ll always be your best
Mr. Whiskers (218 words)ReplyDelete
By Sara Codair (@shatteredsmooth)
"I think I preferred your old hobby," said Mr. Whiskers, the ancient gray cat.
His human rubbed his head and scratched under his chin until he purred.
“You’re such a handsome boy,” said the human.
“I appreciate the massage and compliments, but I do not think you understood me. I said I think I preferred your old hobby.”
“You’re a talkative little guy today,” said the human, intensifying the rub.
Mr. Whiskers meowed in frustration. The human never understood him.
“What’s wrong?” cooed the human.
“You,” hissed Mr. Whiskers. He swatted the human, with the claws out, because he was truly offended.
“Ouch!” The human jerked his hand away and sucked on his bleeding finger.
“Serves you right,” muttered Mr. Whiskers as he stalked away.
He hissed at the litter of fluffy kittens as he walked by, letting them know that if they dared swat his tale, he would scratch and bite them. They cowered behind the couch cushion.
Pleased with himself, Mr. Whiskers leapt on top of the mini bar and took a bath. Rescuing kittens was a noble hobby, but one that he would prefer not to happen in his own territory. He really wished the human had just stuck to knitting. Those balls of yarn had been so much fun to bat around the house.
This comment has been removed by the author.ReplyDelete
“I think I preferred your old hobby, Shadow,” I prattled to the coal-black cat just above my head, crouched on the windowsill, up-chucking what was likely a witches brew of dead mosquitoes, live mosquitoes and her latest kibble snack. “You know, cute behaviour, nudging my book, trying to get my attention by nuzzling…”
She looked down at me, licked her lips being the fastidiously clean cat that she is, and tried to outstare me.
“I know that look…that “who, me, I didn’t do anything?” unknowing gaze,” I scolded.
I wasn’t buying her patented veneer of lovable virtuousness for a minute.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be puking my guts up if you fed me healthier food, oh great animal lover…”
This caught me off guard.
Our conversations up to then had been normal, one-way, human nattering at the cat, talk.
“Cat got your tongue, eh?”
Given the goop that had just vomited out of her puss, the image was stomach-churning.
“This can’t be happening,” I babbled, mortified by what was clearly a fevered hallucination.
“Right, buster. I didn’t just hurl my cookies, or whatever that garbage is that you buy from the Dollar Cat Food store!”
Now she was getting under my skin. I needed to defend myself. ”Get your facts right, you fabricating grimalkin. I buy only the best for you…”
“Grimalkin! Aren’t you the fancy pants refugee from Macbeth?” The distain in her tone was pungent.
“Listen up, MacDuff,” she added, “Your kibbles are older than Shakespeare’s socks. Your stinginess is killing me.”
I was dumbfounded. It was bad enough that there was an entire sub-genre of talking cat literature. The last thing I needed was it replicated in my real life.
“Fine, I’ll talk to the Vet.”
“That would be appreciated,” she said, and pounced on my paunch.
300 moments that I wish I could take back
Passing the Time
“I think I preferred your old hobby,” Gerhardt called over his shoulder as he signed for yet another package addressed to Mrs Hilda Faustus.
He tried to read the label as he turned and closed the front door with his foot. But Hilda was already rushing towards him, clapping her hands with glee at the newest addition to her collection.
“What is it this time?”
“More candles?” He looked around the crowded living room. Pillar candles of all sizes stood on every flat surface not covered by trinkets bought off late night shopping shows.
Hilda tore into the black cardboard box like it was a Christmas present and showed him a grimy black candle.
“See? Pre-dribbled, even,” she grinned. “Doesn’t it look just beautiful?”
“Very,” Gerhardt sighed. “I still prefer the scrapbooking.”
“You always went on about the glitter that got everywhere.”
“I prefer glitter to random summoned demons.”
“It just takes practice to get the spells right.”
“The neighbours are talking. Jeff found me in the front yard the other day and -”
“O! Look at that! They now have monthly surprise boxes! O darling, can I sign up for those?”
Gerhardt shrugged. He should have known this would happen. It always did in his family. One moment everyone is happy to scrapbook,crochet, or even make a bit of liquor in the backyard. The next moment they find a grimoire and it’s all blood and souls and getting dragged off to hell.
“Of course darling,” he sighed. “Just read the fine print first, alright?”
She bustled off to her workroom and he stared at the pile of scrapbooking supplies forgotten in the corner of the room.
“Whatever makes you happy, darling,” he whispered.
Great story! I especially like the line: "next moment they find a grimoire and it's all blood and souls and getting dragged off to hell."Delete
Very nice! I can picture the scene so well...and just what he looked like in the garden, and I can relate to her thrill as she embraces a new hobby...it's like hobbies are her hobby.ReplyDelete