Wednesday, 31 October 2007
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Tuesday, 30 October 2007
also, Mr Whiskers has handed in his Tunnel of Love drawing competition entry.
there are now only one hundred cats left to write stories about, so please quickly send your submissions to chriskillen [at] gmail.com
also (this is a bit dull) does anyone know what is going on here (see, like, the last 100 comments on that post) and other places on my blog. i am being bombarded with spam posts. i am not sure what to do. does anyone else who writes a blog get this? is there maybe a special fine-toothed comb i can buy or a shampoo or something to get rid of all these comments?
here is Duncan's story:
The Story of God
Book 1: the beginning
In the beginning there was a fat tabby cat called Martha.
Martha gave birth to a litter of kittens.
One of these kittens was adopted by the vicar’s family who lived next door.
The vicar had two children, a boy and a girl, who, in their contrary and quixotic way, named the mewling kitten ‘God’.
The vicar, an indulgent man, indulged his children.
Secretly, he did not approve, and always referred to God as ‘cat’, both in his thoughts and in public.
This arrangement was fine, and continued for several years.
The vicar’s children found other ways to get under his skin and draw his attention from more practical matters.
God developed the habit of using the vicar’s study chair as a scratching post and weeing in his shoes when the fancy took him.
One day, the vicar confused God the cat with God the religious abstraction in his weekly sermon.
References to ‘cat’s good nature’ and ‘by the grace of cat’, did not go down well with the staid parishioners.
This continued for several weeks.
The parishioners whispered about the vicar, questioning his sanity and faith.
The vicar, aware of what was going on but unable to stop it, became irritable and began to snap at his wife and children and God (both the cat and the religious abstraction).
The children teased their father about taking God’s name in vain.
The vicar’s temper exploded and he kicked God six feet across the room.
The children cried, the vicar’s wife cried, and the vicar was shocked.
God’s backside was bruised and required extra washing to soothe the pain.
The parishioners were unforgiving, and the whispers became gossip and snide comments.
Soon afterwards, God walked out of the vicar’s house on a moonlit night and did not return.
The vicar and his family left the parish.
God watched the vicar leave and felt justified.
Book 2: the journey
God wandered the hedgerows and lanes living off the songbirds of the land.
One evening, God was eating roadkill from the middle of a lane when a car rounded the bend and swerved to avoid him, crashing through a hedge.
God licked his chops and felt blessed.
Book 3: the sea
God’s travels took him to a town by the sea.
God slunk around the docks for six days, fighting the seagulls for scraps.
On the seventh day, God won a sailing ship from a Malaysian merchantman in a game of high-stakes canasta.
Walking on his hind legs, God stalked up the gangplank of the ship, inspected the sails and the rigging and the compartments and decided it was a good thing.
God celebrated by buying a neckerchief and a Christmas pudding.
Tying the neckerchief around his neck, God promenaded through the docks, carrying the Christmas pudding on a silver platter.
The seagulls took this as an invitation to dinner and dive-bombed God and his Christmas pudding until he was forced to abandon it and seek cover in a nearby tavern.
God nursed his scratches with a half-pint of porter and considered his next move.
On the door of the tavern was a sign: “Help wanted”.
God began a leafleting campaign, inundating the bars and shops and meeting places of the town with advertisements for a crew.
The leaflets read: “Help wanted. Must be able-bodied and enjoy the sea. Pudding carrying ability essential. Cats only. No dogs or Benefits.”
God gathered a crew of 23 cats of various sizes, shapes and furriness.
He brought them all together on the deck of the ship and demonstrated the neckerchief and mimed carrying the Christmas Pudding.
The shrieking of the seagulls sent God running for cover.
One of the cats, calling himself the Boss, said he had something that would keep the seagulls away.
The Boss produced a 12” vinyl LP and played it on the ship’s record player.
It was the Tunnel of Love.
God enjoyed the Tunnel of Love, and noticed that the seagulls did stay away, and he decreed (from the safety of his compartment) that it should be played as often as possible.
The 23 cats nodded and made the ‘rock-on’ sign with their front paws.
God surveyed the cats and the sailing ship and felt munificent.
Monday, 29 October 2007
here is Sam's story:
“Shit Diamond, what happened to you?” said
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz’s fur was slick with sump-oil and his tongue leaked blood from licking glass shards.
“Yeah man, you look like shit,” agreed Goodmorning Midnight.
“Fucking bitches man,” slurred A Diamond as Big as the Ritz and licked his arsehole. Then he turned around and heaved up a viscous grey slick of puke.
They took A Diamond as Big as the Ritz back to their dustbin in the alley behind the strip club. They left him passed out on a pile of pages torn out of Razzle and went out into the alley.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Fuck you,” the rats replied.
Goodmorning Midnight licked his arsehole.
“Fucking mayo man,” said
“Shit man, you’re skinny. When was the last time you ate?”
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz continued pacing out his mobius strip, thin as a wire.
“Yeah man, you’re thin,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“I dunno man. A week maybe?” A Diamond as Big as the Ritz stopped pacing and licked his arsehole.
“So what happened man? Last I heard you were tapping that Jackie O,” said
“Bitch ditched me for some pansy-ass rich cat,” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“Shit man, she wasn’t nothing but a prissy-pants stuck-up bitch anyhows,” said
They lay about and watched a daddy rat tear chunks out of a dead pigeon for his rat babies.
“Yeah dude, that’s not the A Diamond as Big as the Ritz we know,” said Goodmorning Midnight. “Beating hisself up over some prissy-pants stuck-up bitch? Gotta man up, man. Grow a pair.” Then he fetched A Diamond as Big as the Ritz the back half of a mouse he’d been saving for later, because A Diamond as Big as the Ritz was sad, and Goodmorning Midnight was his friend.
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz guzzled down the half a mouse until there was just the tip of a mouse tail sticking out of his mouth.
“Shit look like Clint Eastwood man.” Said
Sometimes when it was a cold night the manager of the strip club let them come into the back room of the strip club. That was good. The strippers made a fuss of them and fed them pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Tonight was cold.
“Bitch got a fine-ass rack,” said Goodmorning Midnight as one of the strippers tickled him under the chin.
They watched Top Cat on an old black and white TV.
“That Top Cat’s one ice-cold motherfucker,” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“Yeah man,” said
“Shit’s like Don Corleone,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
If Tom and Jerry or Sylvester and Tweety came on they’d howl until one of the strippers changed the channel or the manager kicked them out.
“That Tom’s a sissy-ass motherfucker,” would say
“Yeah man,” Goodmorning Midnight would say and lick his arsehole.
They walked over to the parking lot behind the Blockbuster and the Burger King and combed the wheelie bins.
“Shit man, check this out,” said
“Shit stinks of piss man,” he said.
“Nah man, shit’s fly,” said
“Yeah man, if Bogie was a fucking cat you’d be a dead ringer,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“Fuck you man,” said
“Nah fuck you,” said Goodmorning Midnight. They fought.
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz looked out across the parking lot, anaemic tufts of grass pushing through the cracked concrete. He licked his arsehole. Goodmorning Midnight and
“Kicked your ass man,” said
“Did you fuck. I kicked your ass,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz looked up. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Yeah man,” said
One night they found a dead hooker in a wheelie bin behind the hotel. Her throat had been cut and one of her stiletto heels was missing.
“Maybe we could eat her,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“Shit’s fucked up,” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“Yeah man,” said
They howled outside the hotel windows until the lights came on and a window opened, then fled into the shadows at the far end of the alley. They watched the police come and put up crime scene tape and take photographs and lift the dead hooker out of the bin and zip her up in a black plastic bag.
“Should we tell em we found her? They might wanna take our statements,” said
“What you gonna tell em man? ‘Hi my name’s Mister Coco and meow fucking meow?’” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“I say we shoulda eaten her man. I’m fucking starving,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“Shit’s fucked up,” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“We should have a name man,” said
“What, like a gang and shit? Like the Bloods?” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“Yeah man,” said
A Diamond as Big as the Ritz stopped licking his arsehole and looked up. “What about The Hepcats?” he said. They thought about it.
“The Hepcats. Shit sounds cool,” said
“Yeah man,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
They walked down to the docks. Goodmorning Midnight had seen an episode of Sylvester and Tweety where Sylvester had found a baby kangaroo in a crate in a dockside warehouse.
“Kangaroo knocked shit out of Sylvester, but I reckon the three of us could take one,” explained Goodmorning Midnight.
“Sylvester’s a pansy-ass motherfucker anyhow,” said
“Shit’s like the biggest mouse you ever saw,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
In the harbour there was a boat. Cats paced around on the deck. On the side of the ship the words “The Cat Boat” were freshly painted. A fat, rich-looking cat called out to them from the top of the gang plank: “Good morning gentlemen. Coming aboard?”
The Hepcats exchanged glances.
“That’s some crazy-ass shit right there,” said Goodmorning Midnight. The others nodded in agreement.
“Where are you going?” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“Why, the wide-open seas fellahs,” said the rich-looking cat.
“What’s the wide-open seas?” said
The rich-looking cat pondered this a moment. “Say, you fellahs know what a swimming pool is?” he asked.
The Hepcats conferred. They turned back to the rich-looking cat and shook their heads. The rich-looking cat pondered it some more.
“Well, you know what a puddle is right?”
They nodded. They knew all about puddles.
“Well, it’s kind of like a very big puddle.”
The Hepcats conferred again.
“Sounds like some jive-ass shit to me,” said Goodmorning Midnight.
“Shit sounds jive,” agreed
“Well fellas, what you say? Coming aboard?” said the rich-looking cat.
The Hepcats looked around them.
“Well. I guess anywhere’s gotta be better than this dump,” said A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.
“Yeah man,” agreed
The Hepcats ascended the gangplank.
the morning after the morning after the morning after the night before (*emo*)
"oh, what a night" (late December back in '63 (what a very special night for me))
Saturday, 27 October 2007
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
It is four fifty nine on The Cat Boat. The Pacific Ocean looks like a two-day-old bowl of drinking water. The cats are all in different areas and compartments of the boat. Independently, they all stop what they are doing - eating, drawing, checking emails, having a wash - and move towards the rigging.
Each one of the one hundred and fourteen cats on The Cat Boat independently has the same idea.
Each one of the one hundred and fourteen cats on The Cat Boat thinks to itself, 'I am going to man that rigging.'
The cats move towards the rigging.
The cats begin to man the rigging.
The first cat to man the rigging is Trixabelle.
Then about twenty eight other cats.
Then the rest of the cats.
All one hundred and fourteen cats man the rigging. They look at each other. They feel embarassed.
'This rigging sure is manned,' says The Old Curiosity Shop.
'This is probably the most manned this rigging has ever been,' says Cloud Atlas.
'Thhhhhhhh,' says Lisping John Murphies.
Some of the cats go red beneath their fur.
Some of the cats wee themselves in embarassment.
Eventually the cats de-man the rigging and then stand about awkwardly, not looking at each other.
'Sorry,' someone says.
'Yeah, me too,' says someone else.
The cats go back to their seperate areas and compartments of the boat.
what happened to the other 110 cats that entered the Tunnel of Love drawing competition, though?
Chris Killen has gone home for a week to visit his parents. but between the Kenilworth public library and an internet cafe at the top of town that looks like the cafe in Neighbours, he will try and keep this updated. if you are reading this, though, and there has been nothing new posted for a couple of days, that's the reason why.
here is Gina's story:
It's always Maude who bloody does it: changing the kitty litter; getting fresh loo roll from the stores below (fucking spiders); wiping clean the coffee table when Rob Kinmouth, Coco and Scritti fucking Politti have one of their 'intellectual nights' in the back of the Cat-tain's cabin. No one ever thinks about how important that stuff is though, do they? They take it for granted like everything else: who refills the milk saucer so they can have a freeflowing supply of milk all day? Who re-lays the scratching post? Who tidies up after the weekly squeeky mouse frenzy? And who hoovers around the ship's wheel?
But if Maude says something to anyone all she'll get is 'I did the brasso last week' from James H (three weeks James H, three weeks) or Mr 'If it wasn't for me this ship would be infested with rats' Pickles – he wouldn't know a mouse if he shat one through his left nostril.
Oh she's moaning again and then she feels bad again. Most of them are all right actually, Purrlock Holmes is nothing but utterly charming to her. He always stops to help her when the pasta machine jams. But then Holmes has never thought to make the pasta in the first place has he? At least Cloud Atlas has finally learned not to piss into the gas rings.
But why does it always end up the same way for Maude? When she saw the advert for this trip (What to change your life? Want to escape from the cat race? Want to see the world and discover yourself?) she thought things would change, she really did. It was time to move on, time to be the cat she knew she could be deep down. Oh who was she kidding?Perhaps Rob Kinmouth, Coco and Scritti Politti are right after all when they concluded last night's conversation with a poignant Chinese proverb: Do not remove a fly from your friend's forehead with a hatchet.
Monday, 22 October 2007
There was never a dark corner to be found on the boat, never a quiet space or a lonely hole. Papercut had crept through every crevice and crack he could find. He had forced his bony frame through holes that would prove challenging for even the most gelatinous of rats. And always, always, he found another cat there, another of the 114 already making use of the dark spot. He was going mad, sea crazy; he needed to get off so badly. It had been seven weeks. Seven weeks at sea and not one chance to rub up against himself, to masturbate with a fury to match the waves that pounded the ship. Pound, pound, pound, beat, beat, beat – big, foamy, white splashes of salt. All around him nature was masturbating and here he was, with balls so swollen his genitals looked like they had an underbite, desperately seeking a dark corner.
The old creaking boat wasn’t made for this many cats, actually judging by the height of the door handles and light switches, it wasn’t made for cats at all. He scanned the deck, casting his Egyptian eyes over the eighty or so fur-lined bodies writhing and jiggling to Spare Parts. Their upright posture was supposed to make them seem superior, evolved. They weren’t savages like their land lubbing counterparts. No, these nautical masters were sophisticats who ate with their elbows off the table. They had killed their primal urges and natural instincts – blood lust was passé and the dance floor was the new scratching post. Papercut played along, he was smart enough to ape his shipmates’ actions but he wasn’t like them. All he saw as he scanned the deck of dancing cats was exposed genitals – sex organs bopping in time to the Boss’s beats. Spare parts and broken hearts, keep the world turning around.
Papercut turned away from the dance floor in disgust, both at his own inability to subdue his inner-savage and because Jackie O had just tripped over mid-boogie and the scenario was too embarrassing to endure. The smell of fresh squid wafted up to his moist nostrils and he scanned the deck for the kill. A group of ten or so were sitting at the dining table, set with cutlery and china plates. He watched as they ate with their mouths shut tight, chewing twenty times before swallowing each morsel of squid from the carcass that was laid out funerary style on the table. To every other cat at the table it was a civil meal, a nice spread of fresh squid. To Papercut it was a giant penis being pawed at, drooled over, and devoured. He felt a rush of heat to his head, which he shook in shame at his own depravity.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
here is Brandon Scott Gorrell's Brandon Scott Gorrell story:
brandon wakes up
brandon has a feeling it's 3:30 AM
brandon looks at his cell phone
brandon lies on his back and tries to see the ceiling
brandon turns his space heater off
brandon wonders if he's tired
brandon thinks he's not tired anymore
brandon wants to be tired
brandon turns on his side
brandon closes his eyes and tries to think 'zero' repeatedly
brandon can't decide on whether to think 'zero' or '0' repeatedly and keeps alternating between the two
brandon tries to visualize '0' but can only slightly visualize 'zero' and starts seeing exploding things on the back of his eyelids
brandon thinks 'z bottle'
brandon thinks 'gigantic cosmonaut awry in zombie cage'
brandon thinks 'massive planet rotation and earth people'
brandon keeps thinking in non sequiturs
brandon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think 'zero' repeatedly
brandon immediately becomes distracted by the question 'why can't i think zero repeatedly?
brandon wonders what is wrong with him
brandon wonders why he can't concentrate on a thought for more than 10 - 15 seconds
brandon wonders if this is normal
brandon wonders how people meditate
brandon wonders if meditation is like thinking 'zero' repeatedly for a very long time
brandon wonders if that is only ignoring your problems
brandon wonders what meditation is
brandon turns on his side
brandon takes deep breaths
brandon lies on his back
brandon sits up
brandon's cell phone vibrates and beeps
brandon looks at his cell phone
a new picture message
brandon stares at it
brandon looks at some old picture messages
brandon looks at his computer
the computer is on the floor, closed and silent
the computer is there
brandon's looking at the computer
brandon doesn't know what to do
the computer is there
brandon looks at the computer
brandon lies down on his back
brandon closes his eyes
brandon thinks about work
brandon tries to see things on the back of his eyelids
brandon sees slightly holographic colored dots and lines on the back of his eyelids but nothing very interesting
sometimes brandon can see anything he wants on the back of his eyelids
brandon turns to his side
brandon looks at his wall
brandon thinks about zero
brandon wonders if repeating 'nothing' would help him make his mind blank, as opposed to 'zero' or '0'
brandon wonders if thinking 'zero' or '0' is superficially distracting because when he thinks those repeatedly, he often visualizes the word 'zero' or the number 'o'
if brandon is visualizing something then he is still thinking something
brandon wants to not think anything for just 10 seconds
just 2 seconds even
brandon fantasizes about a blank mind
brandon sits up
his laptop is on the ground
there are 4 hours until he has to go to work
what will brandon do for 4 hours
brandon thinks about editing the novel
brandon hates the novel and doesn't want to edit it
brandon thinks about the online literary world
brandon reaches for the laptop and takes it with his hands
brandon opens the laptop
the light from the screen hurts his eyes and he looks away
brandon has a little headache
brandon wonders why he's awake
brandon connects to the wireless network
brandon checks gmail
brandon considers signing in to gchat
brandon feels anxious
brandon feels embarrassed about not being able to sleep
brandon signs into gmail chat and no one is online and he immediately signs out of gmail chat
brandon checks myspace
there are no new comments or messages or friend requests
there is a new event invitation
brandon hates new event invitations, he wish they didn't exist
brandon has never once checked an event invitation
brandon looks at his bulletin board
brandon feels angry at the people that post at least one bulletin a day
brandon has been considering taking those people off his friend list for about a month now
brandon thinks this is logical because in real life he generally only feels comfortable around quiet, reserved, non-blathering people
not hyper people that feel the need to scream their names at 200 online contacts multiple times a day
brandon checks facebook
nothing ever really happens on facebook
somone body slammed brandon on facebook
brandon looks at statcounter
five people have checked his blog
they are all return visitors
he knows who they are
brandon thinks about them
brandon stares at the computer screen
brandon looks at his cell phone
brandon has checked all his websites and thinks that it's 4:12 AM and his day is already over
brandon looks at his bookmarks
brandon looks at titles of the blogs in his bookmarks
brandon feels anxiety
brandon feels bad for feeling uninterested in other people's blogs and stops looking at his bookmarks
brandon goes to gmail
brandon reads a poem he sent to juked
brandon reads it too fast
brandon tries to read it slower
brandon can't read it slower
the poem is ruined for him and now it is shit
brandon reads two other poems he sent to juked
brandon wonders why he sent those poems to juked
brandon opens a word document
it's a story
brandon feels compassion when he reads this story
brandon begins reading the story and thinks the language is awkward and verbose
brandon continues reading the story and he's reading it too fast
brandon keeps skipping sentences
brandon wonders if the story is good or bad
brandon reads the part of the story he likes very slowly
brandon reads that part four times
brandon looks at the words in that part
brandon likes those words
brandon thinks the story is good
brandon wonders if the only reason he thinks the story is good is because he only likes the one part of the story so much
brandon goes to pindeldyboz
brandon looks at their submission guidelines
brandon opens gmail
brandon clicks compose
brandon copy and pastes an email address from the pindeldyboz submission guideline page
brandon types in the subject line
brandon feels anxious about a third person bio
brandon types a third person bio as fast as possible
brandon copy and pastes the story into the email
brandon looks at the email
brandon sends the story to pindeldyboz
that was the first time brandon ever sent something to them and ever even looked at their website
brandon thinks submission guidelines are usually pretentious and make the editors sound like a bunch of uptight assholes who he wouldn't want to be friends with
brandon often feels like a little child begging for candy when he reads submission guidelines
this is not true for all submission guidelines
brandon has lost any hope he had for getting back to sleep
brandon is wide awake now
brandon minimizes and maximizes mozilla firefox repeatedly
brandon considers going for a walk or something
brandon has never gone for a walk when he couldn't sleep
brandon has never done anything except look at a computer screen when he couldn't sleep
here is Charlene's story:
‘Is she all right?’ asked A Diamond As Big As The Ritz.
‘She’s fine.’ The Old Curiosity Shop hissed, waving a paw at A Diamond As Big As The Ritz, to indicate that he was meowing too loud. ‘She’s just thinking.’
‘Maybe I should talk to her.’ The Diamond As Big As The Ritz said, even louder. ‘She’s been thinking for an awfully long time.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
They were talking about
The Old Curiosity Shop knew A Diamond As Big As The Ritz was asking about Manila because A Diamond had a thing for black cats (The Old Curiosity Shop also knew that A Diamond As Big As The Ritz meowed a bit too loud, not because he was deaf, but because he’d gone a little mad and scruffy at the edges since Jackie O had dumped him for Cloud Atlas. Since then, A Diamond As Big As The Ritz got into the habit of striking up conversations with the other cats during inconvenient moments—like when Lisping John Murphies was on the verge of catching the mouse scuttling out of a hole in the galley walls, or that time he’d interrupted a stare-off between Ethan Hawke and rare nude celebrities, making the latter blink— Ethan Hawke had purred, eyes shut with mirth, as rare nude celebrities miaowed, green eyes and pink mouth wide open in frustration. The other cats grumbmewled among themselves because A Diamond As Big As The Ritz had lately taken to calling everyone by a nickname—he called Childleg ‘baldy’ and 1994 had hissed at being called ’94.’
Frankie Sparo told Papercut that it was a shame Mr. Whiskers, Mr. Pickles, Gardenforce and Ben had stopped A Diamond As Big As The Ritz from jumping overboard the day he’d discovered Jackie O with Cloud Atlas stretched out under her parasol on the poop deck. But The Old Curiosity Shop, the eldest of a litter of seven and a very patient cat, told everyone that they shouldn’t be cruel).
But back to Manila: it was true that she spent quite a bit of time on the mast—sitting by herself for hours, staring out at the sea, even during the full moon parties when everyone got together to caterwaul. Everyone wondered what she was thinking, but cats being cats, they respected her privacy and didn’t ask questions.
Purrlock Holmes said that
‘How do you know?’ asked Catson.
Purrlock Holmes took the smoked salmon out of his mouth and said, ‘Elementary, my dear Catson. The way she pricks up her ears, like she is listening for a mouse.’
Purrlock said that he’d heard
Blackbird overheard this conversation. That night he climbed up the mast bit with a bit of herring in his mouth for
She thanked him and started munching on the herring. Blackbird sidled closer and pawed her behind.
She bristled and hissed, and a few moments later Blackbird skulked back on deck with claw marks on his ear. The other cats pretended not to notice and listened to the record, but A Diamond As Big As The Ritz pointed to his ear and said ‘Mmmmmrrrahaha!’ which resulted in an all-out catfight, all claws and flying tufts of fur.
Up on the mast,
‘Hello my tweet.’ He said.
‘Mwhat took mew so long?’ She said.
it said on statcounter today that someone accidentally found this blog by typing the words 'pudding boat whiskers' into google.
[warning: plot spoiler] there is going to be a mutiny on The Cat Boat.
also, why not try and bid against me in Tao Lin's poetry chapbook sale online literary bidding war?
here is Brian's story:
Misty sat alone at the starboard side of The Cat Boat. She stared blankly out at sea and wondered if the journey would ever end. She tried to block out the sound of Tunnel of Love that had been playing on repeat and of Charles Dickens’ hacking up yet another fur ball. She didn’t belong on this cat boat; she wasn’t like the other cats. Misty had a happy home with loving humans she controlled with an iron fist. Not unlike communist
It all started the day that new cat arrived. Black as night and slick as grease. The new cat was trouble. She weed everywhere until one day the humans couldn’t take it anymore and made the wrong decision to get ride of both her and the new cat. But even being waken from her cat nap and whisked away towards the building with cages, Misty knew she had to do something to escape what was sure to be her undoing.
Known for her vicious attacks, Misty carried out her most deadly of assaults on the human that carried her. With a great thrust she bit into his arm until her sharp teeth were in as far as they could go. As his grip loosened at the shock of it all, Misty sent forth a second round of attacks. This time with her perfectly manicured claws. All those hours of sharpening them up on those humans’ cane table had come in handy. Misty swung out repeatedly in precise motions. Blood spurted out from the gashes. She released her teeth from their death grip and the human swung out in pain and agony. Misty twisted her body into a perfect spin landing on the pavement below. Without a second to loose she ran, never once looking back.
The Boat rocked uncomfortably. Misty broke her stare to see what had caused the unsettling motion. Herds of cats ran haphazardly towards the arts and crafts table on deck. They began creating furiously what looked, from her position at least, to be representations of the Tunnel of Love. Misty almost puked. “Silly pussies,” she said to herself and resumed her stare out at sea.
The minute she arrived at the dock where The Cat Boat was set to sail from she knew she wouldn’t fit in. The other cats noticed it, too. They whispered and pointed at her. Some snickered and some gasped. But Misty was strong. She didn’t let this bother her. And besides, there was nowhere else she could go. When it was time to board the boat, her true disabilities began to show. She had to be helped on board by two other cats: The beautiful ‘Her Majesty’ and Jackie-O. They took pity on her, the odd one, the one that couldn’t make the leap on board the ship, the one without a tail.
But it wasn’t true, Misty was always quick to defend. She did have a tail, it was just very short. She was born with a stump and abandoned by her mother. Her humans took pity on her and loved her despite of her in ability to jump great lengths or balance on the end of furniture. That was long before the day. Long before the cat boat set sail.
Misty caught her reflection in the rolling pacific. She wasn’t an attractive cat at all as she once thought. Something else to be worried about on the cat boat. They were all cute and cuddly. Big balls of fluff full of color and grace, agility and stature. Not Misty. Ugly and grey and fierce. She was the one the other cats watched out for, avoided if they could. The outsider without a proper tail. She didn’t mind, she liked it this way. Misty preferred to be left to herself, quietly watching the ocean. But personal space didn’t come freely on the cat boat and sometimes one of the younger cats would have an accident and wee on the deck instead of the litter filled hull of the boat causing a horrific stench.
Occasionally while she was watching the sea a fish would come by and she would make attempts at catching it, but her lack of balance always caused her to stumble and miss. There were times she feared she would fall overboard and wondered in any of the other cats would save her.
As brave as she was and pretended to be, there were times Misty needed the other cats. She was terrified of thunder. Each roar would send her jumping. She hated it. It was those times she would seek comfort with Jackie-O or ‘Her Majesty’. The only cats she could call friends on the boat. They helped Misty a lot when needed. She had trouble doing her chores and either cat would pitch in despite having to do their own set. She was thankful for this. She was also thankful that they helped her carry the Christmas Pudding when it was her turn. She couldn’t do it alone. She was worse at it than Childleg—if that could be believed.
Still, she survived. As she knew she would. That was her life now. Drifting aimlessly, hoping one day the cat boat would reach its unknown destination and she, Misty, would find a place she could once again call home.
Friday, 19 October 2007
here is the full binary version: