Fic: Cat
Here's a very short story I wrote back in 2007. I felt a sudden urge to read it again today so I looked it up, tidied it up a bit and thought I might as well post it here.
Title: Cat
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: PG
Word count: 900
Summary: Cat looks at him from half a dozen biro lines on the white paper, over and over, page after page.
Two hours in and barely half way down the agenda. He loses interest in the remaining trivia, stops listening, unbearably restless. Stick figures appear on his pad, wonky geometries and the orange-brown cat prowling the roof below.
Afterwards, his boss is irritated. "If you want a transfer to Graphics I can do that." She glares at his pad. Reluctantly, surprised. "The cat doodles are pretty good, actually."
Cat looks at him from half a dozen biro lines on the white paper, over and over, page after page.
For the rest of the afternoon he draws filing cabinets, programmers, pot plants. He can't see where the lines go, how to create depth, what shape things are. He had never been good at drawing. A dozen Cats stalk and play on the borders of his agenda, now pinned to a colleague’s noticeboard.
He leaves late, via Graphics, his bag full of pencils of every conceivable shade of orange brown cat fur, pink for its mouth, green for its eyes, black for the tip of its tail, and a pencil sharpener.
Cat is in the alley, greets him sociably. This is the first time he had held a cat; it is stronger than he imagined and protests the car furiously. Inside his flat it stalks warily as he yanks the paper out of his printer. He finds it a bowl for water, offers it the contents of the fridge. It prowls indignantly, ignoring him.
He smoothes the paper, selects a pencil, starts to draw.
The morning sun reflects off dozens of drawings; orange brown cat sitting on table, rolling on floor, scratching at the door, shouting at the closed window, eating left over pizza, delicately urinating on discarded sketches, patting his cheek, chasing a dropped pencil, complaining at the empty fridge. Cat asleep in the sunlight, Cat asleep under electric light, Cat at dawn and at dusk, and dawn again. Orange brown cat has green eyes, black pads, pink tongue, white teeth- all caught in lines and colour.
They are, he knows, all good. Better than good; they are the essence of Cat. They are his talent, his gift, his true self. Part of him is impatient to show them off, maybe to whoever keeps hammering on his door every few hours, but he knows that the best is yet to come. There is perfection waiting for him and Cat; the rest is dress rehearsal.
But how can he draw Cat more perfectly than he already has?
Cat jumps on his paper, shedding orange and black ticked hairs and he knows. This time he will draw every part of Cat, every visible hair, giving his drawings the luxury of Cat's fur, the softness of Cat's paws, the sharpness of each claw. As soon as the thought is there, so is the need to get started. Cat is complaining, there are noises at his door again but it doesn’t matter; all that matters is the drawing. Everything in his life, in everyone's life, will be all right once the drawing is done.
It is getting dark again. He reaches for the black pencil for the last time. The tip of Cat's tail twitches as it sprawls asleep on the floor. The noise of the lock shattering sends the animal under the cupboard in an instant. He curses, gets up to retrieve it, still holding the pencil. He staggers in discomfort as cramps pierce his legs, reaches out to steady himself on the table.
He eventually grasped that there are now several people in his room; he tries to explain that they must wait, that it is not quite finished, but they are not listening. The blur of their talking confuses him; he doesn't understand what they want with him. Or are they here to take Cat? A pang of guilt goes through him as he notices the empty water bowl. But it won't be long now.
The picture is so nearly done. He waves the black pencil, trying to explain, and they shout at him, louder than he could bear, and one man wrestles it away and throws it to the carpet.
As the pencil snapped underfoot he realises that they are there to ensure that he shall not finish the drawing; that malevolence terrifies him. He starts screaming, high and desperate, as they grab his arms and pulled him across the floor and over the threshold.
The door closes behind him. Under the cupboard Cat still cowers from the noise receding down the stairs.
There are two people left in the room. One opens the window with a sigh of relief; the other, gloved, clears up the soiled papers on the floor. They paused before leaving, looking at the drawing on the table.
"He's got quite a gift", comments one. The other shrugs. "It's a shame."
The door closes again. It is much darker now but the street light outside the open window cast a narrow band of light across the room.
A thud as Cat jumps onto the table. Half a dozen pencils hit the carpeted floor as hind legs scuffle for a grip. There is a rustle of paper. A pause, and then Cat jumps from the table straight into the light and through the window. A second cat follows. In the street light its rich orange brown fur looked monochrome tan, but the tip of its tail flashes paper-white before it vanishes.
Title: Cat
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: PG
Word count: 900
Summary: Cat looks at him from half a dozen biro lines on the white paper, over and over, page after page.
Two hours in and barely half way down the agenda. He loses interest in the remaining trivia, stops listening, unbearably restless. Stick figures appear on his pad, wonky geometries and the orange-brown cat prowling the roof below.
Afterwards, his boss is irritated. "If you want a transfer to Graphics I can do that." She glares at his pad. Reluctantly, surprised. "The cat doodles are pretty good, actually."
Cat looks at him from half a dozen biro lines on the white paper, over and over, page after page.
For the rest of the afternoon he draws filing cabinets, programmers, pot plants. He can't see where the lines go, how to create depth, what shape things are. He had never been good at drawing. A dozen Cats stalk and play on the borders of his agenda, now pinned to a colleague’s noticeboard.
He leaves late, via Graphics, his bag full of pencils of every conceivable shade of orange brown cat fur, pink for its mouth, green for its eyes, black for the tip of its tail, and a pencil sharpener.
Cat is in the alley, greets him sociably. This is the first time he had held a cat; it is stronger than he imagined and protests the car furiously. Inside his flat it stalks warily as he yanks the paper out of his printer. He finds it a bowl for water, offers it the contents of the fridge. It prowls indignantly, ignoring him.
He smoothes the paper, selects a pencil, starts to draw.
The morning sun reflects off dozens of drawings; orange brown cat sitting on table, rolling on floor, scratching at the door, shouting at the closed window, eating left over pizza, delicately urinating on discarded sketches, patting his cheek, chasing a dropped pencil, complaining at the empty fridge. Cat asleep in the sunlight, Cat asleep under electric light, Cat at dawn and at dusk, and dawn again. Orange brown cat has green eyes, black pads, pink tongue, white teeth- all caught in lines and colour.
They are, he knows, all good. Better than good; they are the essence of Cat. They are his talent, his gift, his true self. Part of him is impatient to show them off, maybe to whoever keeps hammering on his door every few hours, but he knows that the best is yet to come. There is perfection waiting for him and Cat; the rest is dress rehearsal.
But how can he draw Cat more perfectly than he already has?
Cat jumps on his paper, shedding orange and black ticked hairs and he knows. This time he will draw every part of Cat, every visible hair, giving his drawings the luxury of Cat's fur, the softness of Cat's paws, the sharpness of each claw. As soon as the thought is there, so is the need to get started. Cat is complaining, there are noises at his door again but it doesn’t matter; all that matters is the drawing. Everything in his life, in everyone's life, will be all right once the drawing is done.
It is getting dark again. He reaches for the black pencil for the last time. The tip of Cat's tail twitches as it sprawls asleep on the floor. The noise of the lock shattering sends the animal under the cupboard in an instant. He curses, gets up to retrieve it, still holding the pencil. He staggers in discomfort as cramps pierce his legs, reaches out to steady himself on the table.
He eventually grasped that there are now several people in his room; he tries to explain that they must wait, that it is not quite finished, but they are not listening. The blur of their talking confuses him; he doesn't understand what they want with him. Or are they here to take Cat? A pang of guilt goes through him as he notices the empty water bowl. But it won't be long now.
The picture is so nearly done. He waves the black pencil, trying to explain, and they shout at him, louder than he could bear, and one man wrestles it away and throws it to the carpet.
As the pencil snapped underfoot he realises that they are there to ensure that he shall not finish the drawing; that malevolence terrifies him. He starts screaming, high and desperate, as they grab his arms and pulled him across the floor and over the threshold.
The door closes behind him. Under the cupboard Cat still cowers from the noise receding down the stairs.
There are two people left in the room. One opens the window with a sigh of relief; the other, gloved, clears up the soiled papers on the floor. They paused before leaving, looking at the drawing on the table.
"He's got quite a gift", comments one. The other shrugs. "It's a shame."
The door closes again. It is much darker now but the street light outside the open window cast a narrow band of light across the room.
A thud as Cat jumps onto the table. Half a dozen pencils hit the carpeted floor as hind legs scuffle for a grip. There is a rustle of paper. A pause, and then Cat jumps from the table straight into the light and through the window. A second cat follows. In the street light its rich orange brown fur looked monochrome tan, but the tip of its tail flashes paper-white before it vanishes.