And I would love some SRSter traffic.
I also submitted this on reddit. Hope that’s all okay with you lovely ladies and gents (and everyone between).
Where does the stray cat bring her dead mice and pigeons when she has forever lost sight and memory of her owner’s home? She carries the unfortunate creatures to her shrine, perhaps, sacrificing them to the only one she now follows, herself. This cat worships her own survival.
The dirt from where she sleeps for maybe one night or one week has become as much a part of her as flinching away from human-sounds, cars, voices, laughter is. Her tongue sweeps away the stains of city and prey, but presses the browns against herself, into stiff armor. White is soft and frail.
Browns, dirtied white, and chestnut flow atop stone walls - the stray cat’s movements at first look effortless. But as she moves forward, she lifts her left foot slightly. It twists to the side. It shies away from the ground, although there is nothing in the air to hold her either. She prowls with slight imbalance, both haughty and uncertain.
She stares. Her eyes speak to no one. Only she is welcome within this moss-tinted grey. The world is deflected from the stray cat, whose old home does not even live as a memory behind her gaze.
“What do you mean all my socks have been confiscated?” I ask my landlord, following at her heels as she walks briskly down the side of the house.
“I think I was quite clear, don’t you?” She says over her shoulder, and I just know she’s smirking as she says it.
I exhale, exasperated. I continue to follow her as she enters the garden and picks up her pruning shears.
“It’s stealing, you know! You can’t just take your tenants’ socks away!” I protest.
She ignores me and snips away at a lavender plant.
“Why would you do that, anyway?” I ask. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t allow socks!” She says, emphasizing each word.
“Why! Why don’t you allow socks?”
“Because!” She snaps, while gesturing angrily with her shears.
She gets flustered and stutters over her explanation before finally hissing:
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m not pretending, I actually have no idea how socks could kill.”
“Oh please, as if you’ve never seen someone slip on a sock laid out in the middle of a hardwood floor. You could hit your head and die! I’m not insured for death by sock!”
I hold in a laugh, and make up an excuse to leave.
Later that day, I return to my apartment with a pack of new socks. I walk down the hall towards my bedroom, and then suddenly my foot slips out from under me and I fall backwards, sending my new socks flying into the air. The back of my head bounces off the hardwood floor as I hit the ground and I watch, helplessly, as the packs of brand new socks fall to my face.
I lay there contemplating what just happened, and when I finally sit up to see what caused the fall I realize there was a rogue sock in the middle of the hallway. I must have slipped on it.
Later that night, I donate all my socks to a charity shop.
Yes, it’s true! SRSAuthors now has a tumblr where SRSters can post their work and we can all enjoy it.