Cat

"Maybe it’s an ocicat?" suggested the girl, crouching down to peer into the underbrush.
"A what?" a boy, about 15 dropped down beside her.
"You know, the half ocelot half domestic cats they’ve banned from importing? Maybe it’s one of them that got loose."
"Don’t be stupid. You watch too much TV. It’s probably just a normal feral. That’s why it’s so big and angry."
"It’s probably hungry. Cat’s like fish right? We’ve got some of that tuna with fancy stuff in it, you know what CJ has on her crackers for lunch when she’s dieting again."
"That stuff stinks. You reckon it’d eat it?"

The cat in question continued to stare balefully at the two teenagers. It was hungry and it wasn’t an ocicat and it had never been a pet. But it wasn’t a feral either.
Fish sounded good though, especially fish with ‘fancy stuff’ in it.

"Have to see. Can't let it starve, no matter what it is. I don't think it's just an ordinary cat though."

The boy snorted his disbelief. "It's just a freaking cat. You're being dumb again. I'm going home." He got up, brushing dirt off his knees, deliberately showering his sister with debris. She scrunched up her face as bits of twig and dirt came her way. But she didn't get up to join him.

"I'm staying. I want to figure out its name." she said to her brother's retreating back.

"Whatever. See you at home, don't forget we've got that stupid dinner with Aunty Steph. Mum'll kill you if you're late."

The cat reassessed the girl. She was small and wiry with dirty blonde shoulder length hair. She could be suitable, if she was really as perceptive and compassionate as she appeared. The cat stretched its neck forward, sniffing the girl's scent; grass, dirt, sweat, over laundry detergent, soap and shampoo over human girl. There was curiosity, but not the acrid tang of fear. She was cautious but prepared to believe in the best.

She would do.

The Dancing Palace. Part 1

From ground level the movement isn't visible. From the 10th floor, it's barely perceptible. At the upper levels it's a palpable force. Frightening swaying, metres each time left to right depending on the wind's direction. I fear the building will one day swing too far and tip, leaving me grabbing at walls as I obediently follow the laws of gravity. They won't though. They are built like this intentionally. Swaying, ship like, they will withstand time itself and survive, unlike their occupants.

Why did they design these towers? Our predecessors will never tell their secrets. Their knowledge of building such structures is gone. We only perform the most minor repairs to the outer shell of the towers now. We can't read their language, there is nothing inscribed on the walls. Nothing left in the libraries to decipher. We can't even look on the faces of the former occupants with wonder. They left nothing to record their passing. We found the towers, standing, dancing sedately, fully furnished and preserved but unoccupied. Like Goldilocks entering the three bears' cottage, we found the chairs, the tables set, but no inhabitants. It was as though one morning they all made their beds, ate breakfast, cleared the dishes and left. An entire city.

We are here now.

We were lost, hungry, bleeding, dying. We saw the spires, gleaming soft grey and pearly white in the morning light. Our leaders went forward to them and sought entry. They were not greeted. They were not repelled. The smooth doors simply opened outwards and let them in. This disconcerted them, so they sent scouts through the pale entrance. Our scouts came back, days later, reporting the empty corridors, unused living quarters and silent communal spaces. Our leaders debated, then declared this our new home. We cautiously celebrated. That was 20 years ago. I was a child with childish fears, but I am now a woman and my fears have only increased.

There is something wrong with us living here. I do not know what. I do not know how I know. Lately I dream of blood in the corridors. Red so dark it pools black on the pale stone of the floors. It seeps under doors and seeks to drown me. I haven't slept a full night in a week. The dreams were silent like the tower at first. Now there are half heard sounds. Sounds that could be laughter or crying, but too low for me to determine. In my dreams I am the last person alive in the tower. The blood is my fault.

Feeding time

Flourescent light and juvenile artwork made from patty cake cases give way to darkness and a threat of rain. The cold blast of night air as the automatic doors slide open makes me shiver momentarily.

As I walk to my car, magic-button key in hand, I misstep, twisting my ankle slightly. I grimace, massaging the painful spot. Not for the first time I wonder why I wear high heels.

The car is cold. When I turn the key the display on the dash shows it's 15° outside. I push the gear stick in to reverse and exit the car park. I have an errand to perform before I can go home. Before I even get to the first set of traffic lights—less than a block away—I can feel the increase in my heart rate, the tightness in my chest and the sickening tingle in my fingers on the steering wheel.

My breathing is shallow, the lights turn green and I have to suck air in like a landed fish just to kick the car in to gear to go. Two blocks on and the cars either side of me are apparently driven by people with no spatial awareness. Already on the verge of panic, I hit the brakes unnecessarily. The discs bite the wheels hard, causing me to lurch forward in my seat as the car bunny hops like I'm a learner driver.

"It's ok. He'll be glad to see you. He's lonely. Just breathe." I repeat this mantra-like until I turn in to the street I'm looking for. I can never remember exactly where the drive way is to the house I'm visiting. It's almost at the top of the street but I always slow down the block before. I guess once you learn a routine it's hard to break the habit, even when it's wrong.

There, the disintegrating white '87 Nissan Pintara in the front yard is my marker. I pull in to the drive way, it's long and there's another white car ahead of me. A Mazda 626. The curve of the boot and spoiler in stark contrast to the rectangular lines of the earlier model Pintara out the front. Its aerial is bent, giving it an eccentric air.

I've barely turned the ignition off when the headlights of yet another vehicle spotlight me. The back up is here.

"Good timing." I call as I get out, forcing myself to be calm. I breathe the chilling air deeply, fishing in my hand bag for keys to the front door.

"Very good timing. How was your day?" He asks, coming to stand close to me. I shrug, "It was a day."

We walk up the cracked concrete to the porch. Up two steps, I squint in the glare of the porch light as I wriggle the key in the lock. It opens and I swing it wide to enter the house. I have learned to bear the assault on my nostrils, but tonight I mistime the breath I usually take before entering. I get a nose full of old pot, animals, rising damp and a hint of general decay. The smell is better than it used to be I remind myself. At least it no longer feels quite like a third tenant, with a full physical presence slapping visitors in the face on arrival.

The note is still on the table. I drop my hand bag next to it and make for the back door, keys in hand. On the way past the bench I grab a dog treat from an open packet. My body guard follows close behind in to the laundry, where he collects the bag. The light is on outside. I don't remember leaving it on last time. I have to use the key to unlock the back door, it's an old house.

At first I can't see it. Then he slinks out of the darkness, head down, tail wagging. He looks so forlorn I don't recall why I was so frightened. I command him to sit, he does then gently takes the dog treat. This is progress. Previously he's grabbed it, sharp teeth coming too close to my fingers for comfort. My companion fills the bowl with food and replenishes the water while I keep the beast from harassing him. Unusually, the dog obeys, lying down away from the bowl until we go back in to the house.

I lock the door behind us and begin to breathe more easily. I feel bad that I was fearful, he looks so lonely in the dark. I know though, that complacency could kill me. Just like the fear.

Awkward teenage poetry

I haven't posted for a very long time. I found these when I was cleaning up to move house. I was 17 when I wrote them so they're pretty bad, but I sort of like them.

AWOL for 8 hours
I was just going to talk
I had no higher purpose
My day was spiraling
And you picked me up

And it wasn't even summertime
But somehow it was right
To do the wrong thing with a best friend
Somehow it was right

So we talked for an hour
And I really should have left
But the afternoon was golden
And I couldn't be alone

And it wasn't even summertime
But somehow it was right
To do the wrong thing with a best friend
Somehow it was right

You held me as a friend
I felt secure with you
Knowing each other like that
Your fingers on my spine

And it wasn't even summertime
But somehow it was right
To do the wrong thing with a best friend
Somehow it was right

So right.


Angel
I am not a Christian
So I don't believe in angels
But I believe in you
And if you're not an angel...
Angel mine
Guide my feet wherever they're going
Give me a purpose
And if you're not an angel...
I'll believe it anyway


Unnamed
It's a long way, but I'm almost there;
My journey's nearly over.
I don't expect you to understand.
Just don't follow where I walked.
It's my own road.
This path of blood and tears.
Milestones of personal pain.
I've nearly hit the part that's easy;
It's saying goodbye that's hard.
Because I know you're going to feel...
Something.
Then you'll make me feel...
Everything.
All I want is for the pain to go away.
Even when I'm smiling,
I'm still bleeding.


Blame or Questions for Sam
I take responsibility for everything
All I've done, all I've said
And everything I haven't.
You tell me not to blame myself,
It was out of my control.
So who's control was it in?
You say it's not my fault
That they treated me like that
But I say it must have been
Otherwise why the repeats?
And why did you leave,
If it wasn't my fault?

Boy

He is mostly curled in a cheap desk chair in front of a small, unwatched television. Like a half naked scarecrow, he looks older and sparer in the dancing cold light, one leg stretched out bracing against the lopsided coffee table. Narrow limbs, long, flat muscles and visible ribs might trick the uneducated watcher into thinking him weak. Educated, she knows better. She knows him better than he'd admit. He has that look on his face again—eyes seeing something years ago, or five minutes from now—not watching the late night drivel but thinking something he'll never tell her. As usual, she knows it's pointless asking, but she does anyway.

"Where's your head at?"

Alighting on the arm of a generic armchair, she slips her arms around his shoulders from behind him. He just smiles and leans back into her arms awkwardly because the swivel chair he's in is flimsy and about ten centimetres too far from the arm of the chair she's perched on. Then he surprises her by speaking softly. Her delight at the progress of an answer obscures his words and she curses herself for missing the insight. She kisses his neck, breathing in his scent, puzzling at what he might have said. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back.

"I don't want to go back, but I don't want to stay. It's too hard. Everything's just fucked." he murmurs.

"Life's like that. So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

He turns the chair to face her. The lost boy is gone, replaced by the impish half smile she loves to hate. He reaches out and cups her face in his hands, a searching, falsely innocent expression in his eyes. Long fingers, she notes looking downwards, faking coyness, with unusual nail beds, equally long and an exagerrated convex profile. Predictably, he kisses her then, attempting to divert her. She's not fooled but she lets it drop. They're just friends with benefits, nothing more. She's not supposed to be getting under his skin the way she does.

She dissembles, allowing him to lead her to his tiny room. She delights in staying away from the bed for as long as she can, leaning agains the cupboard door, making him wait. She lets him undo his tie from around her neck, stolen from him at the night club earlier in the evening. Laughter as her t-shirt goes to the floor after an altercation with her necklace. Eventually they move to the bed, where she's in control. He wears another distant face now, but she knows full well what this one means.

When morning comes, she watches the muscles in his back until the alarm goes off and he stirs. A sleepy smile is the last she sees of the real him as he pulls himself out of bed and into the shower. She makes no attempt to touch him, last night was last night. Now is now.

He readies himself for work, she gloats from under the covers that she has the day off. She eventually slides out from under the quilt and finds her bag on the floor underneath his boxers. He farewells her from the bathroom door as she unselfconsciously dries herself with his spare towel. This is the first time he's seen her without make up.

She doesn't hurry her leaving, even taking the time to make the bed and hang out the towel before slipping out the door. On the way to the bus she wonders just what she means to him. He's made a habit of one night stands, but they were just that, one night. This is the fourth time he's pretended not to care in the morning. When the bus arrives, she decides he's just lonely and scared. He's just a boy after all.

"Quit your bitching and have a cup of tea." Kelly smiled at her guest, handing over a slightly battered green mug.

The sun attempted vainly to illuminate the tiny kitchen. It eked through the bent aluminium blinds above the sink, stretching over the cracked formica counter and landing with effort on a copy of yesterday's newspaper recovered from next door's recycling.

"Fine, I'll have a bloody cup of tea. I don't really like tea, I normally drink coffee, you know." Her guest mumbled through candy pink lipgloss. "Do you mind if we sit outside? I want a smoke." Without waiting for an answer, she fished a pack of Peter Stuyvesant's from her pink Prada knock off. A matte pink metal lighter sporting a diamante followed a moment later. She pushed her chair back, flipping bleached hair over her shoulder she got up and lit the cigarette quite before reaching the door to the narrow excuse for a balcony.

"So what am I s'posed to do? He's a bloody pig. Flirting like that with her, right fucking in front of me. She's a little skank anyway, what the hell does he want to screw her for?" She called back into the room where Kelly still sat at the little plastic topped table. Acrylic nail tips drummed on the metal railing. Waiting for someone else to validate her feelings again.

"Maybe you should just leave him. He obviously doesn't deserve you. If he's not smart enough to see what a good catch you are, then he's not good enough for you."

"Whatever. He's still a dickhead. Where's the ashtray?"

"Next to the flowerpot, looks like a frog, I thought it would make you smile." Kelly sighed as she watched her daughter through the sliding door. This wasn't how it was meant to be. The little girl was gone and a hard, shrill, plastic doll had replaced her daughter. She wondered what she'd done wrong. Maybe she'd emphasised the importance of looks too much, or the need for a man. She'd tried to raise a good girl, but somewhere along the way she'd messed up.

Looking from the photo of a little girl in a pink floral dress to the mini-skirted, stiletto wearing harpie on her balcony, she wondered if it was wrong to hate your own child.

Dust, Part 1

Behameht the Beautiful One, Fifth of Five Behamehts, the One thousand and Twenty Third of the Royal House of Jema’hmei, fumed in her apartments. She paced, silk slippers whispering furiously over cool tiles and plush carpets. A crimson floor cushion with intricate beading was sent flying by a well placed kick. Small explosions of light refracted crazily around the room until it came to a stop at the feet of Prime Adviser Mahet. He dropped his head to gaze at the offending soft furnishing, his movement causing the ruby on his finger to catch fire with afternoon sunlight.

"To be given only a cryptic warning and then expected to act, what could I do?" She demanded, not actually of him, but he chose to think she had directed not just the cushion towards his person.

"I understand, Your Magnificence, that it was a difficult choice. You could not be expected to make such a decision easily." Here he paused, knobby fingers raking through a steely beard, "You can not however, be denied your wish."

She spun angrily, one hand close to the dagger she wore openly, another near her elaborate coiffure.

"My wish?" She hissed. Dark eyes flashing dangerously, she moved her hands to a less obvious pose."You call it my wish that he went unpunished? What choice did I have? You keep talking about it as though I had any other option but to set him free. Not a single person would come forth to implicate the bastard."

"Your Grace!" Irritated, Empress Behameht the Fifth twitched a hand towards her blades.

"Shush Mahet! You have no cause to rebuke me." She flopped in to a low chair, glaring about, hands momentarily sidetracked with a loose thread on her gown. "I ask you again—what could I do?"

Acknowledging the warning, her adviser backed away prudently. Bowing low, the Prime Adviser acknowledged her difficult position. He scraped a silk clad foot backward over the tiles.

"Beautiful One, he has neither enemies nor lovers." Mahet soothed.

Behameht seemed to muse on this for a moment. She noted the way the dust particles caught in the shaft of light behind her advisor, giving him a beatific air. She was not fooled. The golden glow simply reflected from the yellow blocks of stone used to build her centuries old palace. The window framed a perfect patch of blue. It had been a beautiful but poor winter.

"Mahet, I want some wine, get me some good wine." Behameht stood, moved to the window and gazed on the capital city of her land. Prime Adviser Mahet—First Adviser In The Land at the side of the Beautiful One, Empress Behameht the Fifth—bowed again, lower this time.

"Of course My Supreme Deity"

"Oh get out, get my wine, stop currying my favour!" Behahmeht snarled, but without any true malice.

Mahet fled.

Alone, Behameht sagged under the weight of her titles. The view from her chambers no longer pleased her. The platitudes of her advisors no longer bolstered her when she faltered. Not one loved her. They loved her title and the wealth its proximity could bestow. Behameht the Beautiful One, Fifth of Five Behamehts, the One thousand and Twenty Third of the Royal House of Jema’hmei, lowered her face to her arm and began to cry.

"You should be happy my Beautiful Shining Bountiful Star of Jema’hmei."

Behameht twisted her neck to look behind her. A wry smile washed over her face.

"Ka’hm, you have no idea how much I need you." She paused, "And how much I hate you calling me by those names."

An impish grin met her eyes.

"I know Behm. I always know." Her eyes were a challenge. Behameht dropped her painted eyes. Ka’hm had always known, since before the before. Kham had known what Behm had wanted, before she had known herself. Ka’hamheMakhem S’inaha, Priestess of the Highest and Most Glorious stepped towards her friend.

"Ah Behm, you wanted him for yourself." She sighed, "You know the Parliament of the Sa’amin would never let you have what you really want. It’s not their way." She placed a tiny hand on Behameht’s shoulder.

Behameht wanted to turn into her FaithSister’s arms, pretend that the last three hours had never happened and she could love and kill as though her real wishes did dictate her decisions. Not since she had been elevated to the rulership of the Empire at sixteen ("So young" whispered with many shaken heads and false smiles), had she been happy. The day of her ascension she had thought herself happy. Fulfilling her duty, her birthright. How could she feel anything but joy from that moment on?

"You heard it all I suppose."

"Of course I did." She grinned again, then with feigned solemnity she said. "You know me. I hear what I should not, I know what others wish I did not. It’s my curse."

The laughter hidden in her friend’s dark eyes caused Behm to give in to a genuine smile. Taking her FaithSister’s hand, Ka’hm led them to a low couch. As Behm sat, Ka’hm produced a tiny box full of brightly coloured and fancifully shaped sweets, setting them on a small table by their knees.

Shaking her head, Behm took one of the confectionary marvels and popped it in her mouth. Ka’hm sat down next to her, feet tucked neatly under the couch. She cast a glance to the door as Mahet reentered ahead of a serving boy carrying a tray with a silver bottle and two goblets.

The advisor blushed before the priestess, bowed deeply to both young women and left in considerable haste. Ka’hm curled her lip at his retreating back. She toyed with a lock of Behameht’s hair, appearing absorbed in the strands for a moment before taking the empress’ face in her hands and turning it towards her.

"I know a large number of things dearest one, but I can’t for all the stars understand your choice today. Tell me."

Behameht briefly considered an excuse, then decided against it. Twisting her head away from Ka’hm’s hands, she ate another sweet before answering.

"Honestly Sister? I don’t believe you don’t know. I couldn’t ever—not ever—kill someone who made me feel the way he did." She slumped back against the couch, sighing "He made me feel Ka’hm. Gods All, he made me feel!"

Her listener quickly withdrew her hands, pride momentarily deflated at the admission and the implication. As she turned her head away slightly, a jeweled pin slipped from her hair. Behameht caught it before it hit the floor and refastened it in the mass of dark curls. Her hands rested on her friend’s shoulders.

"Ka’hamheMakhem S’inaha, loved one, don’t take offence. Please. I mean he made life new. Since you left me for the gods, I’ve been in the dark. I can’t be a good empress for my people if I don’t have something sparking inside me." She hesitated, afraid for a moment at the anger and pain in Ka’hm’s face. "We could never be, you know that, not for what they would think. It’s not unheard of. It’s, you. You don’t want a mortal lover. You haven’t since I became empress and you became priestess. You—"

"I don’t want to hear it Behm, don’t accuse me of turning away!" Ka’hm pushed at the hands on her shoulders, standing to look down at Behm.

"—would not be satisfied." Behm finished quietly.

Ka’hm sat down abruptly, fingers working at her eyes. Black and gold paint smeared on her knuckles. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You are becoming as perceptive as I. Have you listened to the temple’s teaching then?" The smile was back, shakily. Behm sighed in relief then reached out to enfold the little priestess.

"No, but I have listened to you. I have watched you. I have seen and heard as much of you as you have of others that they wish you had not. Now, do you want to know why I did what I did today or shall we just get drunk?"

"Tell. We’ll get drunk too. No hiding, you know I’ll figure it out anyway."

Behameht took a breath and let go of her friend to pour their wine. Handing the goblet to Ka'hm, she stared levelly at the priestess before beginning.

"I did want him for myself. Although not for the reasons you think." At the raised eyebrow of her friend she laughed, "Oh yes, he’s handsome! Seductive and strong, easy to think of in my bed. Those eyes are worth more than my treasury. Sadly, he is not so inclined. He has your Gift."

Ka’hm was truly startled by this, she had not seen it herself. Wine sloshed over the edge of her cup as she shifted to face Behameht.

"I thought all the Gifted entered the temple. Why did he not?"

Behm shook her head and shrugged. Sipping slowly she thought about her answer.

"I truly do not know. He would be more than a match for you if he were trained. He would be a match for Yohlm the First and Last." Ka’hm’s eyebrows lifted again, disbelieving. "Yes, he would. If he were interested in developing the talent. He seems intent on politics though. I can’t figure out why."

"You’re still not telling me why you won’t punish him for his impudence. Especially since it’s more than impudence, it’s treason."

"It is. I am not punishing him, because I am the only one who heard him say he wants the Imperial Task. To the others he is a self seeking young man who has become my current pet. I sometimes regret not meeting with him in public. We had such incredible debates, Ka’hm! I kept him close because I was terrified of what he might suggest at parliament. I believed that if I had him in my retinue he would be satisfied, learn that this way is the way it has been for centuries and needs no change. His ideas, allowing the under class to go as free men, allowing them to read!"

Ka'hm shifted uneasily, putting her wine down carefully on the table. She smoothed her robes over her lap as though it were of utmost importance. Then, hesitantly she said in a small voice Behm had to strain to hear, "I don't disagree with him."

Behahmeht's jaw dropped, then shut with an audible click. She blinked and shook her head.

"Ka'hm, you can't be serious! They don't need to read, they're just, they're… Well, why? What's the point? Do you want them to be distracted from their duties? Soldiers don't need letters, they need strong weapon arms and loyalty. Servants need not read to tend to their masters. I don't understand you."

"No, I don't suppose you do." She sighed sadly. "You haven't been down to the streets lately have you? It has been months since the Festival of Dreams and even then you only saw the gentrified version of your people. The wealthy spice merchants, the nobles. You didn't see the 'underclass'. They're hurting Behameht. They hurt in a way the temple cannot heal." Ka'hm stood up slowly, she placed a hand on the empress' shoulder in farewell. "I should go."

Behahmeht sat stunned for a moment. Then she leapt to her feet, spilling wine as she did. She grabbed the priestess' hands, exclaiming "You can't say such things and walk out of here! Tell me what you mean by 'they're hurting'?"

The shorter of the two, Ka'hm seemed to grow in stature then. Despite the smeared make up, she became Ka’hamheMakhem S’inaha, Priestess of the Highest and Most Glorious advising the Empress Behameht, not a friend pleading with a friend.

"You will have to see for yourself Empress." She disentangled herself from the empress' hands and left.

Glow, Part 1

"How tawdry, how dull." he thought. It was pathetic really, the attempt to invigorate the populace. No one wanted to know how or who or what the hell the new President was. They all knew that tomorrow would still happen. Taxes would still be collected, public transport would still run late and the people would still feel that their elected representatives were out of touch with reality.

Jenani Hurl dodged a taxi, zinging past well above the speed limit. Green eyes flicking from the live feed displaying the election results above a shop window to his destination on the other side of the busy street. "Michaeli’s. Goods bought and sold." proclaimed the hand lettered sign in the window. A dusty collection of out of date electrical goods, a tray of tarnished engagement rings and a couple of replica weapons adorned the display case behind the security grill. As Jenani reached the relative safety of the far pavement, a wedding dress on display caught his eye. It had intricate embroidery down the front, gold thread on white. It looked like the only thing in the window that was less than six months old. Discomforted by the change in window dressing, he cocked his head to the side, shrugging as he did so in a movement that any watcher knowing him would recognise.

A string of bells tinkled, tripped as he pushed through the heavy door. A hacking cough erupted from the back of the shop, hidden in the gloom. Jenani’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness.

"Alek? You open for trade?"

A snuffle accompanied the sounds of a heavy body dragging itself upright. An unpleasant gurgling, wheezing sound Jemani knew to be laughter emanated from behind the counter at the far end of the room.

"Always open, Jem-baby, always open. ’Specially for a star supplier like you." The gritty voice took form: a large, man-shaped being emerged from the shadows. "Got summat pretty for me?"

Jemani consciously dropped his broad shoulders and stepped forward. He hated coming in to drop goods at Alek’s. It stank of desperation to him. It gave him up for a mere thief, needing cash to survive. It denied his years of experience running high level intel missions for rival countries. His presence here made a mockery of the people who had died at his hand or by his side. He hated himself every time he crossed the threshold of Michaeli’s, but he hated his employers more. It was them that forced him to stoop this low. Them, that demanded he give up his integrity and professionalism for mere pay cheques. How he hated them. All of them.