Late afternoon, early winter
Shadows lie heavy
Across this old wooden floor
In sleep, my cat’s ear twitches
Pulling in his paws a little
Feeling his fierce softness
Sunlight between the shadows
Seems to brighten
Then it’s just this old familiar ringing
That always comes
when I am still
Matthew lives in Maine in the fall, winter, and spring. He wishes more of his family lived nearby, and his cat, Mephistopheles, who is a great hunter and a compassionate comforter, and inspires simply by doing nothing.
Warren staggered out onto the porch, coffee in hand. As he lifted the mug to his lips, their eyes locked together. She examined him stoically from across the street.
Then, like a yogic guru, she lifted her leg—and licked her butt. Hot coffee spewed from his nostrils.
Kurt is a screenwriter based in Toronto, Canada.
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
They say women use 20,000 words per day. I believe it.
Since we got the kitten, my wife’s vocabulary has been reduced to “cutie pootie”, “diddy thing”, “kittiness”.
Never thought I’d say this, but I miss the old days. There were too many words, but at least there was variety.
Mary Steer finds herself mildly addicted to 50-word stories.
My cat stirred from her nap, stretching herself awake. She walked over and jumped onto the couch beside me. She gazed at me, her eyes apathetic, as she sat there. Judging me.
Frowning, I glared back at her, judging her for judging me.
I quickly gave up. I’m a loser.
C.S. Johnson wrote this story.
Queenie, fifteen, had two teeth, no claws, and had never been outside. Yet daily, on the table by the window, she patiently watched the birds.
One Christmas a startled bird flew in when the door opened, straight at Queenie who was ready and expecting. Christmas dinner and life dream manifested!
Kevin McManus is a wannabe writer and successful daydreamer who doesn’t believe in coincidences but does believe that we create our own reality, just as his old cat Queenie did.
Emil Catt yowled piteously at the door for an hour this morning.
“Enough!” And I let him out.
He came back when I called, and as I picked him up to ruffle his head, I looked into the eyes of the owl sitting in the tallest pine, feigning distinterest.
rJo Herman dreams of writing the perfect story her grandchildren will always remember. She lives with her grey striped companion, Emil Catt, I, on the Colorado high desert.
Wind blowing through my ears. Finally, I’m free!
“Get back here!”
I can eat real food and be away from the horrid lady.
“Let me dress you up and make you beautiful for all to see again!”
Oh crap, she’s so crazy! Wait, no!
Ah rats, caught again.
From Cerritos, CA, Julio Rosales is a high school student in creative writing. Quick, simple, and to the point, he’ll delighte any willing candidate. Writing outside of his comfort zone, he continues to improve with each piece of work.
Stretched at a fire with crackling log
Brimful saucers of creamy eggnog
Treats under the table
Perhaps a catnip mouse
Joy and laughter fill up the house
Coloured ribbons for me to chase
Beaming smiles on every face
From hands old and new
Yes, cats love Christmas too
Mia Yow is a writer, artist and animal lover (especially cats). Her present cat was a stray which arrived at her door on Boxing Day (The Feast of St Stephen) many years ago.
Through the hole in the baseboard Mac Mouse could see the cheese rind lying tantalizingly near, a mere scamper away.
“No!” cried Ma, grasping his tail. “It ain’t worth it!”
Mac fumed. “You can’t hold me forever, Ma.”
Caractacus Cat grinned silently. Mac’s patience was what he was counting on.