Cats (2003)

They came, as a group. Slowly, silently, slinking along in the dark shadows of the dusk. Letting out barely audible “meows” of apprehension, they continued in a writhing Indian file down the length of the garden wall, until they finally reached their destination for the night.

One by one, three bodies, covered in fur, slid down from their temporary perch at the corner of the hedge. Motions fluid, eyes bright and alert, the graceful felines dropped paws-first onto the ground, now earthbound. Upon landing, they darted almost immediately into the foreboding depths below the hedge, like experienced war veterans of times long past.

Once their safety from prying eyes, human or otherwise, was assured, each of them settled down, grooming themselves, licking their paws, or digging in earnest at the damp dirt to unearth possible tidbits that had been overlooked by the other inhabitants of the area. However, this was not enough to bide the time till dawn, and they paced restlessly, wearing shallow little furrows into the soil beneath their feet. Silence stretched over them, thick and serene, in contrast to their agitated little movements of disquiet.

Soon, their waiting was rewarded. Over the soundlessness of the night, they heard a series of scuffling and squeaks. Though soft, they were like rolls of thunder to the experienced ears of predators. Pointed ears perked up collectively, the felines bounded to the source of the noise, an unlucky rodent with its pink snout stuck in a rusting drainpipe.

The rat was a masterpiece of its kind. Its ears were large in diameter, fur unusually fine and silver for the species, whiskers long and white, gleaming in the moonlight. But cats do not care much for the appearance of their prey, and this case was no exception. The tabby, striped like a tiger and possessing the ferocity of one, was the first to make a move. It pounced, hind legs uncoiling like a wound-up spring, and struck a lethal blow to the rat’s neck. The game was dead, and the hunt over. The members of the pack came together, greedily snapping juicy red meat off the bones of their prey.

Once more they trooped back to the hedge, curling up into tight balls of fur upon reaching their nest. The feast had been good, the portions satisfactory, and their stomachs were filled to the brim. Snuggling closer for warmth, the three of them gradually succumbed to the fatigue brought on by the excitement of their kill, purring contentedly in the aftermath of the meal.

By the time the first awoke, dawn had broken and the sun had just begun its journey to the edge of the sky, peeking timidly over the rooftops and bathing the entire neighbourhood in its all-encompassing yellow glow. Not even the dense bush above the threesome could stop some fraction of the rays from reaching through to below. Shaking its body free of dust and dirt, the early riser stood and stretched, savouring the feeling of warmth on its spotted pelt. The sudden movement jolted the other two awake, and they too rose up for a mild morning exercise to shake away stiff joints and soothe aching muscles.

The start of a new day brought on many new sensations. Once awake and refreshed, the cats began to feel the first gnawing of renewed hunger in their stomachs. Hopping lightly to their feet, they scouted the garden for miscellaneous scraps of food, scouring the entire area with the practiced ease of born scavengers. However, their search proved fruitless, and though they investigated every inch of the ground they could find no sustenance. Eventually they assembled below the family van that lay parked so imperiously in the driveway, wearing apparent looks of disgust on their delicate features.

“Forget it, nothing edible here,” their expressions seemed to say. Defeated and bored, they paced around under their new hiding place, pawing and sniffing at the ground with idle curiosity.

Eventually the sun climbed higher into the sky, and the sound of a door creaking open could be heard over the cacophony of chirping caused by the birds. Footsteps, sharp and accented, wove a trail towards the cats, followed by a click of a car door. They turned as one, just in time to see a stiletto clad foot soaring overhead, stepping into the car’s interior. Soon enough the engine sputtered to life in a terrifying roar, shaking the entire surface of the vehicle above their heads. Utterly aghast at the sudden turn of events, the three felines fled in panic, scattering in a haphazard line towards the front of the van and over the red brick walls of their enclosure.

The driver, sitting within the confines of her vehicle, was startled for a second, then leaned back into the seat and shrugged to herself.

“Cats.”

Dream Chronicles (2009)

Sometimes, one dreams dreams that defy all explanation. Of course, one might argue that most dreams exist to impede one’s sense of coherence. But what I mean to describe is the kind of dream that transcends all boundaries of normalcy to reach new heights of inanity, steadfastly refusing to conform to any trends in traditional psychological theory. Smorgasbords of fairy dust, disjointed fragments of reality (or surreality), and a healthy dose of Freudian primitivism – these little chimeras spun from the depths of your disloyal grey matter only serve to confuse you further when you think back and try to make sense of them the morning after. One such vagary made itself known in my subconscious awhile back, leaving me thoroughly disoriented, mildly horrified, yet rather amused in its aftermath.

So let me relate to you the tale of the amiable organ-eater.

She talked to me, and I answered. Her friend had the most charming little snout, and was adorned with yellow fur echoing the softness of dandelion fields. A clean, vertical slice was made, from the top of his cranium to the middle of his sun-coloured belly. An unexpectedly human-like brain, only lacking its silver-grey poncho; the tinge mimetic of its container's surface, slightly jaundiced and free of blood. I assume that's where she started her meal, because I was occupied with other things. Multiple perspectives converged into one, and all at once everything was visible. Large intestine, spleen, smooth and bright in the lamplight. Stop, I said. She paused in mid-chew and, imagine my surprise when she deferred to my request. Alright, alright. He was mean to you though. Now she steps into the carcass she so recently vacated, and sews the single seam back up. Silken words flow forth from the furry face she so skillfully stole: Are you happy now?

So much for stream-of-consciousness writing.

The Victim (2006)

Lips quivered, as a weathered visage bearing the quality of sandpaper crumpled up into a ball of wretched self-pity. Doleful almond eyes beamed accusations at the offender as her larynx scratched to life.

“Why didn’t you…

“You’re supposed to…

“Didn’t you listen to a word of what I said?”

An album of songs dedicated solely to the accused. What then, if her melodies were to go unheard? Would she rewind and repeat? Or, in an incredible show of forgiveness and goodwill, press the stop button and end with a sigh?

“Show the sinner some kindness,” a voice whispered in the dank recesses of her mind.

“Show him you’re better than that. Show him you’re better than he is. Reveal to him the never-ending reaches of your love and compassion, so that he may grovel in shame and guilt like he deserves to. He will realise how he has wronged you, and he will come running back to you with his tail between his legs; the way he always has.

“Show him… love him… kill him. The bastard.

“Kill him with your love.”