Rise

Water drips from the ceiling, echoing through the rock chamber. I shift in the dark crevice that contains my body. The smell of an ancient river rushing below the rock reminds me that some forces never die even though they may remain unseen for lifetimes.

There's been no light since the candle burned out last Tuesday. No food since the Saturday before that. It's hard to track the passage of days without sunlight or moon's shine but I think today is Thursday.

I reach for the candle stub, wick long extinguished, and bring it to my mouth. Drops of precious water tip onto my tongue. Teeth tease a tiny bit of wax into my mouth. I swallow. At least it will be something in my stomach.

I'm glad the villagers left me that much before abandoning me to my rocky tomb and consigning me to full dark, a sacrifice for their collective protection.

Footfalls shuffle outside the cave door. Light bursts upon me and I rise, lifted from the cold, hard floor, up, up, above the ground, vision restored and senses clearing, knowing what I will do next.

And fire rains down. 

Misty

 

When I was a child, probably about seven years old, my family  acquired a cat named Misty. She was beautiful, sleek, short haired, gray with white paws, and I loved her with my whole heart.

She came to us as a kitten and over the years, brought several litters of her own into the world. This was during the 70s when cats were allowed to roam at will, and she apparently had several suitors. These tiny babies armed with sharp teeth, needle claws and heart-rending mews had us all wrapped around their tiny little paws. My sisters, brother and I wanted to keep each kitten from each litter and mourned them when they left for other homes.

Misty was a prolific hunter. We’d see her stalk across the yard in pursuit of a rabbit or mole or chipmunk. She’d sometimes surprise us with trophies from her conquests, like a chipmunk head or finch corpse on the back doorstep.

As much as she liked to be outside, when she wanted in, she wanted in immediately. There were times when she climbed the screen on my bedroom window demanding admittance. If I didn’t see her right away, she began yowling, all the while glaring at me.

Eventually Misty exhausted her nine lives and left us for kitty heaven. I like to imagine her there, reunited with all her babies, and hunting to her heart’s content.