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?