Janet Flash: Hair Of The Cat

by Michael Seese

To assuage the bruised feeling of her cat -- Her Grace, the Duchess of Yowl -- who realized She'd not had a flash fiction contest in Her honor, Janet asked us to do the honors. 

We were to craft a story of 100 words, using:

yowl
fur
purr
sneer
whisker
 
Caterwaul was suggested as an optional word. I tried to come up with some variation of sneer, like I can tell... 's neer, which sounded like words being slurred, and came up with the idea of a cat returning after a night on the town. I give you “Hair Of The Cat.”

Whiskers weighed down by the morning dew, I struggled to leo-locate my backyard. I could have sworn I left it here somewhere. Perhaps I did have a little too much catnip.

Her caterwaul guided me home.

“Hi, person,” I slur-purred, my temporary affection met with foot-tapping insouciance.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Yow! Lay off the decibels, lady. And don't get your fur in a bunch.

I made preparations to wipe that smug sneer from her face vis-à-vis a “gift" in her intimates drawer, until a tactical scratch to my ears wilted my will.

Did I mention the catnip?

 
Though I probably shouldn't admit this, in hindsight I wish I had said "situational affection" instead of "temporary affection."

As always, I welcome your thoughts. Or cat on the town stories.

Janet Flash: Ascetic

by Michael Seese

Yes, I know it's been a while since I posted. So I would like to thank y'all for sticking with me. 

Reminding us that she represents JD Horn, the author of the Witching Savannah series and now a new series starting with The King of Bones and Ashes, Janet sponsored a contest. We were to use the words

king
ash
bone
horn
kirby

in a 100-word story.

I wanted to do something cool with "kirby." So I tried to think of a word that ended in "kir" to combine with "by." Somehow, from the recesses of my mind I pulled a line from the Opera Cats.

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare

And from there arose my story "Ascetic."

A fakir by trade, faithfully I rise with the sun and settle into my ritual.

Staking my claim, a crowded stretch of urban Purgatory, I brave the slings and arrows and taxi horns and weekday warriors and dog poop, touting the tenets of Allah and Buddha, with a zest of Lennon & MarxCartney added for flavor. Pity prompts some to press a token of cash into my skin and bones.

We all follow the sun home. They to manicured McMansions. Me to my cozy loft, where I count my blessings, green and otherwise.

Did I say fakir? I meant faker.
 


As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.