Apr 24, 2014
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Aunt Mildred was... eccentric. And even by that standard, something of an oddity. Long removed from family functions, she had withdrawn into her own little world. A world of whiskers, and tin cans, and "don't sit on the cushions dear, Mr. Tiddles won't approve." But more than that, she was rich.
Noël Coleman, Ailurophile Submission
read the full story here. excerpt:
They had a point. I mean, originally it had been one cat. The cat before Tommy, I think? Or, maybe it was two cats before Tommy?
Her name was Casey. Scratch that. His name was Casey. Well. Okay. The cat of an indeterminate gender whom we referred to as Casey was how it began.
Even Phillip had liked Casey. Everyone did. She - He - It - Casey was contagious.
Casey would lounge in the sun, with her white fur dyed whatever color the kool-aid on sale had been. Casey was perfect because she was Jenni’s.
Jenni.
Jenni was where it started.
Ailurophile
n. a cat fancier, a lover of cats.
Feeling creative? Submit writing, art, or whatever your beautiful brain can come up with by Friday, April 18th.
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Joelle Saveliev, Blatherskite Submission
I don’t remember all the details, Just the fuzzy shape, Of a world, Soft, And warm, And dancing with the liberation, Of the golden elixir of the gods.
And I don’t remember who it was, Or how we got there, Or how we met, But we talked, Like blatherskites, Laughing and basking, In each other’s company, Till we sat, Silent, Resting in each other’s arms.
I don’t know when they left, They were gone when I awoke,
Not a goodbye, Not a number, Not a name, Just a phrase as mysterious,
As the person who wrote it, In ink upon my arm.
“Love and be loved.”
I don’t know how to get back to that world, Where the company of a stranger, Was so warm, And inviting, Nor how I will ever again, Find a person, Who brought me the joy, They did that night. The liquid courage, That once coursed through my veins, Is nothing more than a dull ache, Yearning to return to those arms, And the bench we shared.
We don’t remember all the details, Just the fuzzy shape, Of a world, Sometimes soft, And warm, And the company we find, When we reach out from ourselves, And love another. I’m still search for that someone. We’re all searching for that someone. To love. And be loved. Strangers hiding, Behind a single hello.
“Hello.”
Noël Coleman, Blatherskite Submission
It was a bright day in April, there was a bunny working its way across my front lawn, a cat slinking somewhere behind it and I was wondering how painful it would be to stab myself with a spoon.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. A spoon? Wouldn’t a knife be easier for stabbing? Or, like, a pen?
The answer is Yes. A deep and resounding Yes. A Yes that could burst eardrums and possibly drown out the prattling blatherskite sitting (uninvited) on my front step.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cat crouching low near the rabbit, tail curled and muscles twitching out against its thin frame.
On second thought, maybe I should stab him with the spoon. Jerry the batherskite. Not the cat.
“So what do you think?”
“What?” Oh god. What do I think? I think I was just thinking about stabbing you with a spoon. Oh god, what do I say? “Yeah, sounds cool.”
Smooth, perfect, yes. He was probably just going on about his conspiracy theories again. I wonder if he has one about spoons. I should ask. Why am I stuck on spoons today?
“Awesome! I’ll pick you up around seven then?” What? No. No no no. Opposite of smooth. You were supposed to be conspiring about spoons, man!
“Uhh, seven?” It’s cool, I can get out of this. I didn’t make a blood pact, I said it sounded cool.
“Yeah, the charity dinner starts around nine-ish? Should give us time to hang out before then. Is… Is that okay?” Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him or you won’t be able to say no. Don’t do it. Don’t. Look. Aww, come on. Blue eyes should be illegal. Downright illegal. No one with the inability to shut their mouth for five seconds should ever be allowed to have blue eyes. Eye replacement charities is what we need, for people like me stuck on the delivering end of whoever thought it was a good idea to give Jerry blue puppy dog eyes.
“What was the, uhh, charity for again?” I lost sight of the cat. Maybe it got bored with the bunny and left it alone.
It’s like, I see his mouth moving but the sound is on mute. I should be listening. I should be listening.
I could probably listen better if I looked at him.
Nope. Abort mission. Eye charities, I’m pretending the charity is for eye charities, and… wait, where did the bunny go?
“Alright,” Jerry said, lifting himself off my porch step and dusting off his jeans. He flashed a grin with too sharp teeth, “I’ll see you at seven. It’s a date!”
He left before my brain caught up from MISSING RABBIT to IT’S NOT A DATE, WHAT?
“It’s not a…” I muttered to the empty street.
I wonder if the rabbit had better luck than me.
Noël Coleman, Perpetuity Submission
The perpetuity of the picture is in the death of the moment
it’s an action of freezing and pressing and capturing
there’s a way of making the now become the always
that kills faster than a sharp knife against thin skin
and it’s something like becoming aware
like when you look too long in the mirror
realizing you are more than the body reflected
and suddenly, the body is desensitized.
the perpetuity of all things is what kills them
“hey, remember that time when…”
and suddenly the moment is back, frozen.
I remember when my bathroom sink exploded
and water went everywhere even as
my hands turned red from holding the cold flow back
my eyes turned black from feeling the pressure fight
it was a moment, an experience uncaptured
and that meant it could change.
every recall can be from a different angle,
a new fact, whether actual or misremembered, can be introduced
in 5 years, I might forget that it was my left eye
I might forget that it was 25 minutes
before we found the shutoff
I might forget how I used all the towels sopping up the floor
not to saving one for myself, standing drenched and cold
or I might have
before I wrote this down, capturing it
each click of the keyboard \a reflection \against the snap of the picture
killing it slowly, freezing it and keeping it
never to change
slowly; but killing it all the same.
Joelle Saveliev, Perpetuity Submission
Oh let me ponder, In perpetuity, The ways in which, To dispose, Of a corpse. Cement, Or sandbags, Such incongruity, To dig a deep ditch, Or use knives, and forks.
