Ever Start a Story You Didn’t Finish?

That’s me. (I mean start writing without finishing it).  Bad habit. Do it all the time. Just came across this in my papers:   The author is a cat.

MOTHER

My adoptive parents took me in when I was only two weeks old.  My dear mother was struck by a car that didn’t stop, and she left me and my sister all alone in an abandoned barn. No one knew we were there, since Mom was a free spirit and didn’t put much trust in people.  Of course she was proved right, given what one did to her. My sister and I cried and cried. At two weeks old we couldn’t do much more, but finally I set out for the open door where what turned out to be birdsong lured me. You’ll have trouble believing what happened next: a big old tom cat heard me and picked me up in his mouth. I thought I was sure a goner, but he was just carrying me to his adoptive parents, who responded with a dropper full of warm milk.  Though temporarily safe, I couldn’t abandon my sister, so I tried to return to the almost empty barn. My attempts and cries resulted in the humans becoming curious and, exploring from whence I came,  with the tom cat’s help, they found my little sister, lonely and feeling twice abandoned, I guess.  Anyway, she got her share of warm milk and we were so exhausted and traumatized that we snoozed right off, without even looking over the family that we hoped would adopt us. There was discussion whether a 3-feline house made sense.  Two young humans begged for us to be adopted, and when we dozed off for several hours the matter had not been resolved. My reference to my sister as little is because, although I forget which order we were born in, she is literally littler than me.  Although I have affection for her, I was afraid they would adopt her and toss me out. As it turned out, it seemed the two young humans each wanted one of us, so I was spared the difficult choice of surviving versus being a loving big brother. You may wonder why my little sister doesn’t know English. She’s only a cat and always has been, pure cat down the line, whereas I have a tad of Old Joe in my genes.

 

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in A mixed bag, Fiction, short story and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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