Out of the Woods

this was more fun! The assignment: you will be presented with the opening sentence of a famous (or not so famous) book. You are to write a story using the same first sentence; 

Dodie Smith’s “I Capture the Castle” whose opening sentence is:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink because it’s the only place that’s safe. I don’t know what the little bastards are, but they're mean and there’s a lot of them.

They came from the woods. I suppose it’s my own fault, sort of. Something was getting into the trash cans, so I put out live traps. Figured I’d catch ‘coons or 'possums raiding the garbage. Boy, was I wrong!

I went out the next morning and there was one of those little buggers in the trap. Snarling and glaring with pure hate. It was only about eight or nine inches tall, slick gray hide mottled with ugly purple. And teeth, it had nasty, yellow, pointy teeth. Lots of ‘em. Along with nasty, black claws. I may have screamed.

So I got a shovel out of the shed, prepared to beat the shit out of it. Of course, I couldn’t do that with the cage closed, and I wasn't about to open it. So I got the garden hose, prepared to drown the critter.

It didn’t drown. I hit it with the water and it screeched an awful snarly screech. Then it shriveled up like a raisin and fell into pieces. I may have screamed again.

But at least it was gone and my garbage was safe.

Hah!

I was fixing my supper when I heard the trash can lid hit the ground. “Damn,” I thought, “ there can’t be another one.”

But oh yeah, there was another one, or twelve or twenty. And they were pissed. It wasn’t just the trash they were after this time.

I went out yelling, intending to grab the hose and “raisin” the whole bunch of ‘em. It’s my belief that’s what they were waiting for. I wasn’t two steps out the door before they were after me. I know I screamed then.

I hightailed it back inside, but them sonuvabitches is quick. They got inside with me.

I couldn’t get to the bathroom, so I ended up here in the sink. I’ve got the dish sprayer, and I “raisined” a couple. I managed to reach a grill fork and stabbed another two or three, they bleed foul smelling, yellow yuck, but that doesn’t seem to kill ‘em. Just slows ‘em down a bit.

The water is what gets ‘em. They’ve backed off for a while. I’m not sure where they went, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting out of the sink.

Shit, I think I hear ‘em coming back. They sound kinda gleeful…

Three Textures

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.




Cat; Herself; Mistress of All She Surveys, at 14, the eldest of the three.  Steps into my lap with feather lightness.  She settles in before I know she's there. 
Black fur with bits of white now, smooth, sleek, and silky under my fingers.  As I move along her back, I feel the bones that have begun to protrude at her hips, showing her age. 
She rolls to her back in the crook of my arm for a belly rub.  Her purrs vibrate with pleasure, warm dampness against my arm where she's has drooled a bit.

Sir, my pretty boy, long haired silver tabby. Fifteen pounds of muscle and fur.  Fur so soft my work worn hands can hardly feel it.  I use my face to feel the cottony texture, he sniffs at my mouth, perhaps to make sure of who I am. 
His step is not light, he rocks the chair we share.  He revels in the scratching of my fingers.  Bites ever so gently with saber fangs when I rub his belly. 
Then he drops onto my lap.  He hides his head under his paws and heaves a sigh.  Soon he sleeps, his deep rumble of purrs dissolve into snores.  His weight puts my legs to sleep as well.  The warmth of his body transfers to my thighs as he gets heavier in sleep.

Wee, youngest, smallest, and most wary of the three.  Also black, but a deeper shade.  Fur that is full and coarser than the others. I bury my fingers in it, feeling the coolness of the fur against the heat of her small body.
She climbs full clawed to my lap.  Or leaps from somewhere, her speed and gravity making up for her lack of weight.  Insistent that her presence be known.  With needled feet she kneads my lap to her specifications. 
She sits tense, a bundle of action, looking for the next target.  She purrs and mews, stands to tap my face. Soft paws punctuated with claws.  Her nose to my nose, her sandpaper tongue scrapes my skin. 
As sudden and violently as she appears, so does she depart.  A parting mew, a loud thump as she uses speed and gravity once again.

The three takes their turns.  When one leaves, another soon takes their place.  I know each one with my eyes closed.  Their presence brings comfort, warmth, and the unconditional love that pets have in abundance. 




My cats grace both of my blogs.  Cat is on the button for Random Rants.  Sir and Wee share space on the button of this blog, Elsetime & Otherwhen.