"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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Friday, October 03, 2008
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.
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.
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