Author, baker, candlestick maker

 Don’t Feed the Strays

First published in Troublemaker Firestarter Volume 10 Fairweather 18/01/26

 

                Big yellow eyes stared at me from the end of the garden, from within the gloom of the bougainvillea.  Or was it the hydrangea?  I didn’t know; John had planted them, and he loved those plants more than me.  What I did know was that the eyes were bigger than they should be, I think, or was that just my tiredness playing tricks?

“Don’t feed the strays.”

                That’s what John had told me when he left at the crack of dawn.  Before he set off to abandon me for a week.  He said it was work.  Ha.  He was probably fucking some rotted twink in a sleazy hotel.

                “If you feed them again George, they’ll just keep coming back,” he said.  “They’ll mess up my plants.”

                I didn’t care about his plants.

                Did he speak like this to that floozie of his too?

I waited at the window, staring into the dark of the back garden.  Trying not to think about John and his whore.  The stray cats never came in the day, and I spent the morning pacing, this afternoon arguing with her from number six about leaving her bins out, and then this evening I pigged out on snacks and stared out of the back window almost non-stop.  I sat in the dark, my lights switched off.  Waiting.  Watching.  I didn’t have anything else in my life.  Not with John abandoning me.

The yellow eyes had come to keep me company.

                Just one cat tonight; there were usually more.

                I slipped from my perch, grabbed the pack of ham I kept at the ready, and slithered to the back door as soundlessly as I could; I didn’t want to scare away a new friend.  I eased open the door, not trusting the oil I’d applied to the hinges a couple of hours ago.  A cold evening breeze tickled the bare skin on my arms.

                I blinked against the dark gloom.  The night wasn’t as quiet as it should have been; amongst the windy whispers of the bushes, the distant traffic of the motorway, and the wheeze of my asthmatic lungs, interrupted the blare of late-night gameshows from the open windows of her from number six.

                “Sandra,” I shouted, “turn that bloody shit down!”

                Damn it, what had I done?  The yellow eyes had gone.

                I ignored the “fuck off” I heard in response to my exclamation, dropped some ham on the patio just in case the stray returned, and headed back inside.

 #

                I was woken the next morning by a phone call from John.  I didn’t tell him about the stray.  I didn’t ask him about his rotted twink.  I complained about her from number six; he complained about work, though I didn’t believe him.  I knew what he was doing, who he was doing, and it wasn’t work that took his attention from me.  This was all our relationship had become.

                “Don’t feed the strays,” he reminded me again.  And I thought that was exactly what he was doing with the guys he was cheating on me with, feeding his strays.  I hated him, I think.

                The ham had gone when I checked, but anything could’ve taken it.  I forced myself to believe it was the stray cat from last night, though maybe it’d been her from number six; I wouldn’t put it past her to scavenge meat from the floor.

                I returned to bed after that, slept the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, making up for the lateness last night and the lateness to come.

                I returned to my position at the window that evening, sitting and snacking in the dark once more, staring out into my dingy back garden, scouring the bushes for any glint of a yellow eye, any shadow in the gloom.

                It was almost 3am when I caught sight of something moving at the end of the garden.  A dark shape slinking along the grass.  Large.  Maybe.  It was hard to tell its size in the pitch night.

                I was sure it was my stray cat.

                I hurried to the door with the ham and slipped out into the cold evening.

                “Pss, pss, pss,” I whispered.  I tiptoed along the patio and onto the grass.  The shadow had moved into the deep shade of the hydrangea/bougainvillea.  It was there.  I knew it was there.  “Pss, pss, pss.”  I tried to make my eyes adjust to the darkness, to see it.  To see the cat.  I could only see shadows.  “Pss, pss, pss.”  I waved the slimy slice like a maiden’s handkerchief and crouched lower.  I still couldn’t see it.  There was just a… shape.  “Pss, pss, pss.”  I threw the ham into the bushes, and it fell through the leaves and flowers as if there was nothing hiding beneath them.  No concealed cat.  But it had to be there.  Had to be.

                “Pss, pss, pss,” I repeated, louder this time, and threw another piece of ham into the flora.  “Pss, pss, pss.”

                The cat was silent, but a cranky human voice replied instead.  “Piss off George!”  Her from number six.  She screamed at me from her window.

                I returned a volley of insults and swears, some I’m not proud of, some I’m very proud of, but it was no less than she deserved.  She gave as much as she got.

                I chucked the rest of the ham into the bushes and headed to bed.

 #

                John woke me again the next morning.  Early.  He called to break up with me, to tell me it was over.  That things weren’t working out between us.  I’d known they weren’t.  We both knew.  I told him I loved him, and he said nothing back.  John told me we’d talk more when he came back from his work trip.  Work.  Ha!  Sort out the divorce.  I didn’t mention his rotted twink.  I didn’t mention the stray.  I didn’t even mention her from number six.

                I hung up on him.

                I cried myself back into a restless and broken nightmare-ridden sleep.

                When I woke again, when I dragged myself out of bed, eyes red and swollen, it was already evening.  I couldn’t cry anymore.

                I slinked out to the shop, bought more ham for the stray cat, along with a bottle of wine for myself.  Two bottles.  It was already dark by the time I reached my street.

                Her from number six had her television turned up again, louder than usual, and I banged and screamed on her door for five minutes telling her to show some respect, but she ignored me.  I think.  I couldn’t hear anything inside over her idiotic gameshows, and she had good reason not to reply.  I was enraged.  Furious.  I hated her, I think.

                I hurried home, embarrassed at my outburst.

                As I returned to my kitchen to spy for strays, I realised something wasn’t right.  There was a coppery smell in the air.  Metallic.  Fresh.  Shivers ran up my arms like static.  I placed my shopping on the counter and sought the source, checking the cooker and fridge, the lights, making sure… I don’t know… making sure the electrics hadn’t blown, but no, they were all working.

                The smell was strongest by the back door.

                I didn’t look out the window, though I probably should have; I swung open the door and let the cold and dark night rush inside.

                And there on the patio was a gift.

                A mauled and bloodied gift.

                I knew about cats.  I often fed the strays, much to John’s displeasure.  Not that he mattered now.  But something I knew about cats, something I guess most people understand, is that sometimes cats like to bring presents, as if they know you’ve forgotten the prehistoric hunt of your ancestors, as if you’re a useless giant kitten who can’t feed themselves.  Or was the real reason that the cat understands tit for tat.  You feed them and they feed you.  No.  This felt like more than that, like the stray cat had stalked the neurons of my brain, pounced on my anger and fury and seen me.

                There, sprawled on my patio, laid out on display either for my banquet or for my revenge, was her from number six.  Dead.  Cleary dead.  Her belly had been slashed open.  Her viscera exposed, partially eaten.  There were two big, bloodied punctures on her neck.  A deadly bite.

                It was no ordinary stray cat that’d done this.

                I couldn’t stop staring at her.  I felt sick.

                A deep and short growl broke my focus from the corpse, and I looked up.  Me and her weren’t alone.  Sat at the end of the garden near the bougainvillea or hydrangea, nonchalant but arrogant like all cats, was the stray.  It was huge, a big black cat, taller than me, built of shadowy sinews and muscle.  A massive bulky shape in the dark.  It was almost invisible against the night, but its size was clear, its presence obvious.  I knew it could kill me with one swipe.  I could see its fangs, its curious neon eyes.  It was watching me.

                “Don’t feed the strays,” that’s what John had told me.  He’d broken up with me for that rotted twink, abandoned me from afar.  Left me alone.

                “Don’t feed the strays.”

                He wanted me to be lonely.

                It was almost funny.

                I looked back down at her from number six, at her corpse, and then stared back into those yellow orbs by the bushes, and I knew why the big cat was here.  I knew.  I knew why it’d picked me.  Why it had appeased with this gory gift at my feet.

                “Don’t feed the strays.”

                I knew why.

                I knew.

The End.

 

Coined

(Random 2-word prompt- change, queue)

 

                Flower counted the coins on his palm, shifting them around with his finger, counting them over and over, despite the meagre value.  He’d scrounged together just enough change to get what he needed, what he wanted.  Biscuits.

                The queue shuffled forward.  He moved with it.

                It was the Silver Jubilee and today, and today only, the little shop on the hill was selling its famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Flower was determined to get one pack, though he cared little for the monarchy; there was little in his life that brought him joy and he felt entitled to a treat.  The shop itself was still several metres away, and the long line of people stretched back from its doorway and all the way down the street.  Flower had been here since 5am, and it had been a long queue then.  It was now 11am, and even longer.  But at least he’d finally reached the shop’s window; he could see the queue snaking around the aisles inside, exhausted people shedding their fatigue to reveal fresh excitement beneath.

                Flower yawned, then checked again that he had enough money in his hand.  Yep.

                Someone tutted behind him.  “There’ll be nothing left by the time we get there,” scowled the woman.  She was obviously waiting for a response from him, and when he didn’t reply, she nudged him with her purse and cleared her throat.  “They’ll be sold out soon.”

                Flower turned to look at the woman for the first time since she’d joined the queue; he’d been tired and focused on what was ahead so hadn’t looked around when she’d appeared shortly after him this morning.  She was tall and bulky.  Haughty.  Her white blouse and pencil skirt were neat and unadorned.  Only a single brooch added decoration to her plain, neat clothing.

                “I said: ‘they’ll be sold out,’” she repeated.  Her strained and frowning face was counterbalanced by a tight bun of hair on her head, each pulling against one another.

                “I’m sure they won’t,” he said as he flashed her a curt smile.  He returned to facing forward; he wasn’t in the mood to engage with her complaints.

                The woman harrumphed.

                The queue inched along, then stopped.

                “At least we’re moving,” sighed the woman.  “You’d think they’d bring in extra staff to handle things on a day like today.”

                Flower ignored her.

                “It’s truly ridiculous.”

                He didn’t reply, but she continued complaining anyway, possessed by some strange energy she’d lacked all morning.  Perhaps the proximity to their shared goal had inspired her, now that she could see inside the store.  Or maybe she was lonely.  Flower didn’t care.  He let her buzz on, blocked out her voice, while he checked the money on his palm once more.

                He slid the coins over the lines on his hand, shifting them over his life line, across his heart line, then down the fate line, letting his money read his fortune.  He counted as he circled them along his skin.

                Something bumped his shoulder.  An aggressive action that startled him into focus.  It was the woman’s purse again.  She was saying something about the queue, and as he turned to face her, the purse swung at him again.  The sudden jolt knocked every coin, every scavenged penny, the last of his change, everything he had, out of his hand and all over the paved ground.

                It clattered and clinked as Flower swore blue curses into the cold morning air.

                “Serves you right for not paying attention,” snooted the tall woman.

                The coins came to a rest in a pattern like splattered blood; most of the coins were close together, but some had scattered outward.

                Flower glared at the woman.

                “The queue’s moved,” she said, as she looked down her nose at him.  And it had, the queue had edge forward.  There was a small gap in front between him and the next person.  “Move along.”

                He didn’t deign to offer her a response.  He didn’t even shuffle forward with the queue.  She could wait.  Instead, he moved slow as he crouched down to collect every single coin he’d dropped, she’d caused him to drop.  One by one.  Slowly.  Oh, she could wait.  The woman tutted at every coin he placed in his palm; she was red faced and angry, arms crossed, and glowering.  Good.  She deserved it.

                It felt like an age had passed before he’d collected every coin, every coin except one.

                One coin had fallen precariously out of reach.  Flower stretched for it, extending his arm as far he could.

                But it was no good.

                The woman scoffed.

                Flower had started the day with just enough money to buy one pack of the famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Now, he was one coin short.  He considered for a moment maybe abandoning the lone coin, sacrificing it for the sake of appeasing the horrid woman behind him in the queue, and then somehow maybe blagging his way into buying a pack of the biscuits while short on cash.  Maybe he could offer to bring the rest another day; the shop keeper knew who he was, where he lived.  Maybe he would pay them back.  Maybe.

                Too many maybes.

                He didn’t have any choice but to rescue the lost coin, but he couldn’t leave the queue; the woman would take his place in an instant.

                Flower wasn’t the nimblest of people, nor was he the supplest.  Flower was short and inflexible.  He dropped from a crouch to his knees.

                “What are you doing?”  The woman folded her arms over her neat white blouse.  “You’re holding up the queue.”

                Flower placed his hands on the ground, then used them to walk his upper body across the paving slabs, keeping his feet firmly planted in the queue.  It wasn’t easy and it hurt.  His palms grazed the rough ground, his weak muscles strained under his own bodyweight, his spine ached, and his toes cramped in his shoes as he stretched his body as far as he could.

                “You look a fool,” condescended his aggressor.  He knew she was staring at him, probably half the queue was, but he couldn’t care, wouldn’t let himself care; these biscuits were worth his dignity, and he needed all his change to get them.

                With a swift one-handed press-up, he grabbed the coin with his momentarily free hand.

                Success!

                Flower fell over.  His balance had been betrayed by his meagre strength; he hadn’t been able to keep himself propped up on one arm and seize his prey at the same time.  His body collapsed against the floor.  Ow.

                He could hear the woman laughing as he lay there.  It was a luxuriant cackle, filled with privilege and arrogance.  And there he was, pathetically prostrate, poor enough to scrabble along the dirty street to pinch every penny he could muster together.

                Flower wasn’t going to let her win.

                He rolled onto his back, careful to keep his feet in the queue (which had moved forward again, though the woman hadn’t noticed yet), then sat up.

                She was still laughing, a taller figure from this perspective, and he could see right up her nostrils.  Ew.

                He scooted across the floor on his bum and made his way back into his position.  He stood, facing the woman.  He waited until she’d stopped screeching, her expression changing to a disappointed and disapproving gaze, and then poked his tongue out at her before turning away and marching into place behind the next person ahead of him.

                Flower grinned as she gasped in shock at his rudeness.  He suppressed a giggle.

                Her imposing stature was soon right behind him again in the queue.  She didn’t say anything.  Neither did he.  But he could feel the hot waves of antagonism emanating from the tall woman, and he got the feeling she was waiting for any misstep, any slight error, before she pounced on his frail little body and delivered an onslaught of snooty insults and frivolous attacks on his character.

The queue moved.

Flower counted his coins again, checked he definitely had the correct amount, and ignored the condescending snort from over his shoulder.

The queue kept moving, and they entered the shop, following the snaking line that slithered around the aisles.  It wouldn’t be long, and he’d have his famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  He gripped his money tight in his fist.

The woman had remained quiet and seething.  She should be excited about the treats ahead, like Flower was, like everyone else in the queue was.  Instead, she was wholly focused on her internal drama about Flower and his mere presence seemed to incense her.  He almost felt sorry for her.

The line shuffled along, getting closer and closer.

The clock struck noon when Flower finally made it to the counter.

“Yes?” said the young lady at the till.  She looked tired and exhausted.

“One pack of the coronation biscuits, please,” said Flower.  He handed over his collection of scrounged coins.  He ignored the imposing woman behind him; she was standing just a little too close and he could feel her looking down her nose and over his shoulder.

The server counted the money.  “You’re a little short,” she said.

“What?”  Flower knew his foe was grinning.  “I… er…”

“Oh,” continued the lady, “hang on, there was a penny hiding underneath this one.”  She held up the coin with a smile.  “You’re lucky on two counts.”  She rung up the sale and retrieved a paper bag from the shelf behind her.  “You’ve got the last pack of famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.”  The server handed them to Flower.  “Thank you!  Enjoy!”

For a moment, his mouth hung open in shock, and as the atmosphere thickened so thick you could cut it with a knife, he felt a smirk creeping up at the edges of his lips and spreading up his cheeks; he suspected his enemy’s lips were heading in the opposite direction to his.

“Next please,” called the young server.

Flower turned on the spot, poked out his tongue once more at the haughty, tall woman, then flounced through the aisles of the shop and out the door, ignoring the unfounded protestations buzzing from behind him.

Flower was going to enjoy these biscuits far more than he’d expected.              

The End.

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