Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Have you ever put cat food in bowls for your cats, and then bent down to put something away, and ended up with your face close to their bowls of food, and think about tasting it?
Yeah, me, neither.
Two A.M. He was hungry. He needed to hunt.
A cat’s silent grace was employed as he rose, dressed in the dark, and collected his gun and pocketed it. Lights off, he poured and drank water. Hood up, he slipped out of his place, down the steps and into the city night.
The city was never completely quiet, but on nights like this, pockets of sounds and silence drifted through the streets. He enjoyed these sounds. They were his compass. He didn’t want silence; he wanted sound. So he walked, his long legs carrying him silently forward, following the pockets of sounds with his head down, avoiding the cones of light buildings and streetlights threw down.
After he’d walked long enough, a period announced as acceptable by an internal clock, he stopped in the middle of a sidewalk a short distance from a corner. This would do. Hands in pockets, he slipped back until his back gently leaned against the building behind him, and waited.
It didn’t take long. A man came by. He didn’t where the man was going, nor anything else. Still until the other was almost upon him, he said, “Hey,” as he slipped the gun out of the pocket. The man looked at him, but the gun didn’t registered until he’d fired three shots. He was experienced – it was his third time – and the man was unprepared. His prey want down, mortally wounded. A fourth shot into the other’s head finished the deal.
Returning the weapon to his pocket, he put his hood down and walked off. As he found orientation and direction, he pulled a wet towel package out of a pocket and cleaned his hands. He was hungry. Now that he’d hunted, he needed to eat.
“We’re not living here any longer,” my wife announced. “We’re moving. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”
I was bewildered. It was a dream, of course. I didn’t recognize our home, which didn’t matter. We were outside, on a busy street. So were our belongings. Cars were passing. It looked like San Francisco.
My wife was packing fast. A friend was helping. “But we don’t have anywhere else to live, honey buns,” I said, even as I began picking things up to pack.
That small matter didn’t slow my wife. She was like the a cartoon packer, collecting and putting our stuff into boxes with amazing speed. I was hesitant. A tray on a table still had my hot food. She wanted me to pack it. Instead, I furtively grabbed a handful of baby carrots in butter sauce and crammed them into my mouth.
“But hon,” I said. “Stop a minute and think. Shouldn’t we have another place to go before we pack up and go?”
No. My wife was emphatic, that this didn’t matter. We were moving. Let’s pack! So, like a dutiful spouse, I packed, eating my dinner on the side while I did. My friend, helping, saw this, and laughed.
Warning? Hope? Meaningless?
I woke up thinking, ah, we’re moving into the unknown. She’s pushing us forward, but I’m less sure, a reversal of our usual perspectives. It’ll be fun seeing what happens next.
Shoefloof (catfinition): A shoefloof is not like a shoehorn. Oh, no. A shoefloof is a cat who enjoys footwear. These are cats who like to sleep on them, felines who walk over to sniff shoes when they’re taken off. Oftentimes, the shoefloof will drool with pleasure over the wondrous smells of a just worn shoe, and sometimes wrestle with the shoes.
Shoefloofs also like helping people put shoes on, often coming over to assist with managing the laces.
Thinking about how things change and stay the same, even while changing. Details change, but the broad sweeps of progress often take so long, we fail to see them. Perhaps, for some, it’s because we’re buried so deeply into the way things are that we can’t see the change from our vantage. Foremost among all of this, I was thinking about how the Democratic and Republican parties have changed. Once upon a time, the Republicans fought against the expansion of slavery. Now, they embrace white supremacists. It’s the same as it ever was, because political parties hunt the winds of change to develop a political advantage.
“Same as it ever was,” right? Here are the Talking Heads with “Once In A Lifetime,” from nineteen eighty.
Michael Seidel, writer 