The Beating...

The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings.
Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?

THE PLAN for Labels

CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.

Labels

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Reckless Abandon

I just dropped an abandoned cat off at the Humane Society. It was a long drive; the cat cried the whole way. I had to drive around back, away from the visitors' lot. In retrospect, it brings to mind a clinic where pro-choice mothers-not-to-be can sneak in and out the back.

Two pages of paperwork and 20 minutes later, I was seen. The couple ahead of me had to have their one-year-old dog put down due to extreme seizures. They were pretty torn up. I felt whacked out of place by their raw emotion contrasted by my cool detachment.

Upon entering the check-in room, I plowed into a conversation regarding "kill-free" shelters. The employee argued that they simply were not feasible considering the population explosion of unwanted pets, especially cats.

Despite my explanation on the paperwork, I was questioned by a very young girl who looked strikingly like my sister. I explained that this cat had been snooping about outside in the freezing weather for roughly two weeks. That he was friendly, but despised being picked up. That apparantly I wasn't the only person looking after him, considering how good he looked. That one of the complex's tenants had moved out about the same time this cat appeared.

One of the four employees gathered around me posed the apt question: "Who could do such a thing? Abandon such a beautiful cat?" I agreed; but I know the answer.

I am a cut-throat survivor. I can leave a friend behind. This is why I figured I'd be better off as a mercenary, rather than in the Army where no man is left behind. The cat was my cat. I decided to pop his cork after he began breaking rules important to me. Namely, don't steal my foil-wrapped beer bread off the counter at night; I feed you to damn well for that.

How's my wife feel about it? She hates him; he destroyed her furniture set, despite the hundreds--literally, hundreds--of dollars we've spent on varying styles of scratching utensils to cater to his needs.

So, I'm home now; the deed is done. No tears from me. Just the satisfaction that must come over a shrewd business man after a decision well-made.

As I was taking my meds, I thought I saw my cat walk under the kitchen table. I looked, no. Our other cat? the pleasing one? He was still fast asleep on the couch. Perhaps dreaming of survival. Of friends abandoned.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

I seem to recall...

When I was quite young, I recall being overwhelmingly impressed that my step-dad could recite all the days of the week--in order!

And, too, I seem to recall inventing the number three. It probably went down like this:

I wanted some cookies, three actually. My mother offered me cookies: "Two cookies? Or four?" "Three," I replied. "Three?" she inquired, seemingly quite confused. Thus, I let her in on the secret: "It's one more than two, one less than four."

She still seemed quite perplexed, so I reached into the package of Oreo's and counted out: "One, two... three!" There you have it. You can thank me later. But, know this: had I been born sooner, perhaps woman would have three legs to caress and three breasts to ogle!