Orig!Fic: Cat Night (Now, with Bonus Rant!)
Here is a story from The Odious Fiction Class of Excessive Bull-Shittery, since it was quoted in the 20 First Sentences Meme (#13) and Vivi liked it. Not flocked because where the fuck am I going to publish this? It's far too close to the short story I was assigned to imitate. Seriously. Basically the same plot and style, except in the original, the interloper was a baby. This is just one of several stories I produced last semester which are actually kind of intriguing but which BORDER ON PLAGIARISM.
I really fucking hated that class. Best C+ I ever got. Fuck you, Svoboda. You want someone to pay you to fluff through two classes a week and spend the rest of the time in a nice office writing your next novel? That's fine. But not at my college. At my college the professors are expected to teach. You couldn't even be assed to run proper workshops-you demanded that every single story we wrote be an imitation of published story so that you could ask, "How is this story like the one being imitated?" and zone out for twenty minutes while the class scrounged around for something to say.
It might have been more bearable if the stories assigned weren't so incoherent and pretentious. Despite your little speech about "the poetry of language," plot and character are kind of important in fiction. I might even have let you slide with that one-I'm a big fan of poetic prose-but then I went to your reading. That novel you wrote? Not poetic in the slightest. Not even that funny, either. It wasn't even original. Is this why you assign imitations? Because that's how you get all of your ideas? I bought a book of your poetry, and it wasn't poetic, either. Cutting a paragraph into lines does not automatically infuse it with rhythm. And you know what else? Writing in stilted prose does not automatically make a story profound, or artistic. Too bad no-one mentioned that to EVERY SINGLE AUTHOR YOU MADE US IMITATE.
Anyway. Here's the story, internet. Enjoy.
It's about a creepy cat.
Cat Night
The cat was nursing at her neck. She woke up because the cat was nursing. She knew the cat had been nursing at her neck and the cat could not pretend it wasn't. The cat slithered from her pillow like a fallen piece of silk and did not attempt denial. She pulled the blanket further up and settled back to sleep.
- - -
She woke up the next night because the cat was sitting on her belly. Her belly felt the warmth and quiver of the cat's belly, felt the press of paws curled tightly underneath. The cat's eyes were slitted closed in pleasure. She knew this because they were edged with stark-white fur. When the eyes were closed, the fur looked like reverse calligraphy: floating strokes of white paint on black paper. Open-eyed, white limning became teacup rims and the tea inside was clear-deep yellow, slightly minty. Tint of green. The cat's long tail was pointing straightly up. She shoved the cat and it glided from her body and the bed. The tail sunk like a mast beneath the quilt horizon without waves or wrinkles left behind. She had to rub her palm against the quilt to assure herself of texture before going back to sleep.
- - -
The cat was just a cat in daylight. It curled around her ankles when she cooked and she could feel the tender flutter of its ribs. The cat liked salmon but not beef. When it walked or sat its tail would swish and twine. She skritched its chin and kissed its teacup face. The cat, for its part, purred.
- - -
That night the cat lay stretched across her wrists.
Her wrists were splayed out on the mattress and the black cat lay across them, ribs and belly heavy. She could not move her wrists. She pulled and tried to lift them but the cat was like a leather strap. A leather strap that breathed and had white dashes placed as eyes. Dashes connect one word to another. Tea should be soothing and delicious.
Let me go, she said, and scuttled as far back as she could go. I cannot sleep if you are lying there.
The cat did not deny that but did not accept it as a given either.
Move, cat.
The cat did not.
She shrieked and thumped her fists, her wrists still trapped. The cat flicked its ear. Its tail moved back and forth across the mattress like an arrow.
She squirmed, crying out with imprecations but the cat did not leave or become lighter. Its white dash eye connected the pillow to the window. She could not interpret the image-word and slumped helpless, breathless.
If I try to sleep and can't, will you please move?
The cat inclined its head. It's straight-stiff tail rose slightly from the bed and wavered.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
It was difficult at first because her mind spun round. Her blood pulsed like static in her ears. The entrapping belly was hot, still softly furred despite its strength. Her wrists began to sweat. Rolling her shoulders did little to chase away discomfort but her hips and legs stretched out well, discovered cool cocoons beneath the quilt. It seemed as if the weight atop her wrists was spreading, pressing on her back and face, but feeling more familiar. Her last thought was not remembered but it was also quite familiar. On the verge of sleep she always thought of melting spoons.
The window pulsed in oranges and in blues. A silver saucer filtered through the glass. It hovered on the sill then glided on, blinking lights against the carpet and the walls. Woothip, woothip was the sound it made. The cat looked up. The saucer played blue light against its mint-tea eyes, white rims, soft fur. The cat was not impressed. It yawned wide, ever stretching, teeth sharp jags against pink mouth and arching tongue. A sultry upward gulp and the saucer went down, swallowed whole.
She woke up. Sunlight nuzzled at the curtains.
The cat was still lying on her wrists but when it saw she was awake, it popped up and shoved its nose into her face, purring. She turned away from the ticklish whiskers but clasped her hands around its body. Fingers sinking into fur, light stroking, the purring got louder and the cat nudged its cold small nose into her cheek.
She got up and fried an egg. She did not look at the wisps of red-shined wrinkles pressed into her skin. The cat wound catly round her ankles and didn't startle.
- - -
Another shared the bed one night and she did not wake up. The cat did not come, feeling aversion to the stranger's scent and lump-like presumption, the inhabitation of the quilt's other half. She was glad at this and kept the company another night. She was more inviting and alluring than she would have otherwise been. In daylight, the cat sat stiffly on the tile and thrashed its tail. Its eyes slit angry dashes at the unfamiliar shoes.
Offer it a bit of bacon, she suggested, and the cat accepted it with a wary bite.
- - -
After a few weeks the cat became accustomed to the lover. It began to wake her up again.
It was watching from the dresser the first night. The cat was black in a black room but the window let in star-film, gauze-light. It sat before the mirror and made a double shape of itself: two still heads, four sharp ears. Ramrod tails pushed off each other at the tips.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She hoped the lover wouldn't wake.
- - -
The lover did wake up the next time. She had been watching for some minutes before the covers bulged beside her.
The cat was round-loafed at the bed-foot. The tail was pointed at the window.
That is really weird, the lover said.
She made a noncommital noise.
I mean it. It's creepy.
Go back to sleep.
What is wrong with your cat?
I think it likes you.
The lover's voice was clotted with exhaustion and soon it tapered off.
What is wrong with you, she whispered.
The teacup rims fuzzed gently in the darkness, maybe spun. She thought of melting spoons and then she slept.
- - -
She woke up with the cat pressing four hard paws into her hips. She tried to push the cat away but it would not move. Her eyes were stickered shut and hard to open but when she did the cat was not black and white or gray. The cat was streaked with orange and yellow from the open bedroom door. Its teacup eyes were filtered pink. Smoke stung.
She screeched and shook the lover, scrambled out of bed. The cat went limp and pliant in her squeezing arms, its tail a hanging tassel.
From the street, the house was gorgeous. Dust and paint flecks crackled in the tall, up-wooshing wave. She saw spots of bush and ground that were always shadow in the sun or streetlamp, but now they wavered goldly. The fire engine lights sent white slaps across the lawn.
That cat, the lover said. I love that goddamn cat.
She held it up and they both kissed its teacup face.
I really fucking hated that class. Best C+ I ever got. Fuck you, Svoboda. You want someone to pay you to fluff through two classes a week and spend the rest of the time in a nice office writing your next novel? That's fine. But not at my college. At my college the professors are expected to teach. You couldn't even be assed to run proper workshops-you demanded that every single story we wrote be an imitation of published story so that you could ask, "How is this story like the one being imitated?" and zone out for twenty minutes while the class scrounged around for something to say.
It might have been more bearable if the stories assigned weren't so incoherent and pretentious. Despite your little speech about "the poetry of language," plot and character are kind of important in fiction. I might even have let you slide with that one-I'm a big fan of poetic prose-but then I went to your reading. That novel you wrote? Not poetic in the slightest. Not even that funny, either. It wasn't even original. Is this why you assign imitations? Because that's how you get all of your ideas? I bought a book of your poetry, and it wasn't poetic, either. Cutting a paragraph into lines does not automatically infuse it with rhythm. And you know what else? Writing in stilted prose does not automatically make a story profound, or artistic. Too bad no-one mentioned that to EVERY SINGLE AUTHOR YOU MADE US IMITATE.
Anyway. Here's the story, internet. Enjoy.
It's about a creepy cat.
Cat Night
The cat was nursing at her neck. She woke up because the cat was nursing. She knew the cat had been nursing at her neck and the cat could not pretend it wasn't. The cat slithered from her pillow like a fallen piece of silk and did not attempt denial. She pulled the blanket further up and settled back to sleep.
- - -
She woke up the next night because the cat was sitting on her belly. Her belly felt the warmth and quiver of the cat's belly, felt the press of paws curled tightly underneath. The cat's eyes were slitted closed in pleasure. She knew this because they were edged with stark-white fur. When the eyes were closed, the fur looked like reverse calligraphy: floating strokes of white paint on black paper. Open-eyed, white limning became teacup rims and the tea inside was clear-deep yellow, slightly minty. Tint of green. The cat's long tail was pointing straightly up. She shoved the cat and it glided from her body and the bed. The tail sunk like a mast beneath the quilt horizon without waves or wrinkles left behind. She had to rub her palm against the quilt to assure herself of texture before going back to sleep.
- - -
The cat was just a cat in daylight. It curled around her ankles when she cooked and she could feel the tender flutter of its ribs. The cat liked salmon but not beef. When it walked or sat its tail would swish and twine. She skritched its chin and kissed its teacup face. The cat, for its part, purred.
- - -
That night the cat lay stretched across her wrists.
Her wrists were splayed out on the mattress and the black cat lay across them, ribs and belly heavy. She could not move her wrists. She pulled and tried to lift them but the cat was like a leather strap. A leather strap that breathed and had white dashes placed as eyes. Dashes connect one word to another. Tea should be soothing and delicious.
Let me go, she said, and scuttled as far back as she could go. I cannot sleep if you are lying there.
The cat did not deny that but did not accept it as a given either.
Move, cat.
The cat did not.
She shrieked and thumped her fists, her wrists still trapped. The cat flicked its ear. Its tail moved back and forth across the mattress like an arrow.
She squirmed, crying out with imprecations but the cat did not leave or become lighter. Its white dash eye connected the pillow to the window. She could not interpret the image-word and slumped helpless, breathless.
If I try to sleep and can't, will you please move?
The cat inclined its head. It's straight-stiff tail rose slightly from the bed and wavered.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
It was difficult at first because her mind spun round. Her blood pulsed like static in her ears. The entrapping belly was hot, still softly furred despite its strength. Her wrists began to sweat. Rolling her shoulders did little to chase away discomfort but her hips and legs stretched out well, discovered cool cocoons beneath the quilt. It seemed as if the weight atop her wrists was spreading, pressing on her back and face, but feeling more familiar. Her last thought was not remembered but it was also quite familiar. On the verge of sleep she always thought of melting spoons.
The window pulsed in oranges and in blues. A silver saucer filtered through the glass. It hovered on the sill then glided on, blinking lights against the carpet and the walls. Woothip, woothip was the sound it made. The cat looked up. The saucer played blue light against its mint-tea eyes, white rims, soft fur. The cat was not impressed. It yawned wide, ever stretching, teeth sharp jags against pink mouth and arching tongue. A sultry upward gulp and the saucer went down, swallowed whole.
She woke up. Sunlight nuzzled at the curtains.
The cat was still lying on her wrists but when it saw she was awake, it popped up and shoved its nose into her face, purring. She turned away from the ticklish whiskers but clasped her hands around its body. Fingers sinking into fur, light stroking, the purring got louder and the cat nudged its cold small nose into her cheek.
She got up and fried an egg. She did not look at the wisps of red-shined wrinkles pressed into her skin. The cat wound catly round her ankles and didn't startle.
- - -
Another shared the bed one night and she did not wake up. The cat did not come, feeling aversion to the stranger's scent and lump-like presumption, the inhabitation of the quilt's other half. She was glad at this and kept the company another night. She was more inviting and alluring than she would have otherwise been. In daylight, the cat sat stiffly on the tile and thrashed its tail. Its eyes slit angry dashes at the unfamiliar shoes.
Offer it a bit of bacon, she suggested, and the cat accepted it with a wary bite.
- - -
After a few weeks the cat became accustomed to the lover. It began to wake her up again.
It was watching from the dresser the first night. The cat was black in a black room but the window let in star-film, gauze-light. It sat before the mirror and made a double shape of itself: two still heads, four sharp ears. Ramrod tails pushed off each other at the tips.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She hoped the lover wouldn't wake.
- - -
The lover did wake up the next time. She had been watching for some minutes before the covers bulged beside her.
The cat was round-loafed at the bed-foot. The tail was pointed at the window.
That is really weird, the lover said.
She made a noncommital noise.
I mean it. It's creepy.
Go back to sleep.
What is wrong with your cat?
I think it likes you.
The lover's voice was clotted with exhaustion and soon it tapered off.
What is wrong with you, she whispered.
The teacup rims fuzzed gently in the darkness, maybe spun. She thought of melting spoons and then she slept.
- - -
She woke up with the cat pressing four hard paws into her hips. She tried to push the cat away but it would not move. Her eyes were stickered shut and hard to open but when she did the cat was not black and white or gray. The cat was streaked with orange and yellow from the open bedroom door. Its teacup eyes were filtered pink. Smoke stung.
She screeched and shook the lover, scrambled out of bed. The cat went limp and pliant in her squeezing arms, its tail a hanging tassel.
From the street, the house was gorgeous. Dust and paint flecks crackled in the tall, up-wooshing wave. She saw spots of bush and ground that were always shadow in the sun or streetlamp, but now they wavered goldly. The fire engine lights sent white slaps across the lawn.
That cat, the lover said. I love that goddamn cat.
She held it up and they both kissed its teacup face.