The Colchester Cats

History according to The Colchester Cats:

“In the beginning, there was no cat food. We had to hunt for our supper. It was a lot of work for us.

Then the humans came along, and we trained them to feed us. We saw what we did, and it was good. Purrrfect even …”

*

Bibbit

Like Bastet, his ancient Egyptian feline Goddess ancestor, the jet-black-furred Bibbit ruled his domain with not one but four iron paws.

He sniffed contemptuously at the latest fresh fish offering, much like you or I might recoil from the stench of a rotten egg or the distinctive whiff of sour milk having long passed its use-by date.

Though waited on paw and foot by his two humans, Steve and Pauline, Bibbit was born for so much more than a simple life of idle luxury, not that he didn’t enjoy such luxury when it suited him. Still, despite it taking but the merest swish of the tail or twitch of his long white whiskers to see his every need attended to, there could be no denying Bibbit’s inherent hunting instincts. Neither rapidly passing years nor several millennia of apparent ancestral domestication could ever really tame or quench his or any other cat’s thirst for blood. But for the tell-tale signs of an ornamental pond, high stone walls, and a few other garden-specific adornments, anyone watching the unfolding drama might have been forgiven for thinking they were watching an African wildlife documentary.

With his prey in sight, Bibbit crouched low among the garden marigolds for cover. It was an age-old enemy that dated back to when the ancient Egyptians had first brought in cats to protect their grain silos from being beset by rodent raiders.

Stealthily edging ever closer, Bibbit was soon within striking range. With as sharp and keen an eye as would put any human sniper to shame, Bibbit’s gaze fixed upon the unsuspecting prey, watching it feast on some fallen grain from an over-hanging bird feeder.

Though now tightly coiled to spring upon his victim, Bibbit held back, allowing the unsuspecting creature a few more moments, probably its last, to sip from the garden pond. Still Bibbit waited for just the right moment …

A younger version of Bibbit might well have already struck, either putting an end to the uneven contest or resulting in the prey’s narrow escape, but the older version knew better. Oh yes, Bibbit was a crafty old cat for sure; he knew his speed and agility weren’t what they once were, but nor would his prey’s be after having had its fill from the garden, his garden. Bibbit had no taste for birdseed, but it was still an intrusion that couldn’t and wouldn’t be tolerated.

Bibbit’s super-sensitive whiskers detected a momentary change in the direction of the gently blowing breeze across the garden. Had the direction changed towards the unsuspecting prey, Bibbit knew his would-be victim’s acute sense of smell would have alerted it to his presence – but no, Bibbit was in luck; the prey’s unique scent was being carried towards him. Now was the moment to pounce before the unpredictable breeze changed again and perhaps robbed Bibbit of another magnificent and well-deserved kill.

With an almost imperceptible lick of his lips in anticipation of the glorious victory, Bibbit leapt from among the marigold stalks he had been hiding, hurling the entire length of his body mid-air.

Like a dark shadow swooping across the finely manicured grass, Bibbit fell upon his prey.

The garden intruder never had a chance! With all the lightning speed and deadly intent of a lizard-like tongue snatching a tasty snack in mid-flight, a solitary swipe from one of Bibbit’s paws immediately despatched the little furry creature’s soul to mouse heaven or whatever rodent afterlife might exist. Even so, Bibbit revelled in the aftermath, claws still protracted to ensure maximum and bloody carnage.

Satisfied with his efforts, Bibbit snatched up the victim’s carcass between his jaws before strolling back into the house to present the latest ‘gift’ to his human. Bibbit meowed in triumph, sure that the offering would be a sufficiently impressive ‘thank you’ for his human’s service.

Like most cats, Bibbit had little faith in his humans’ hunting skills, sure too that they would starve but for such ‘gifts,’ despite the seemingly inexhaustible and self-replenishing supply of food from the big cold white box and the kitchen cupboards.

*

Steve often chuckled at the ageing cat’s comical antics, though not so much at the latest example, this time the mauled remains of yet another victim of Bibbit’s predatory instincts. Any momentary pride Steve might have felt in knowing that the ageing cat still ‘had what it takes’ was instantly diminished by the gruesome sight before him, a tiny field mouse that had caught Bibbit’s attention.

Steve crouched to retrieve the little field mouse’s now near-shredded corpse, albeit a tad hesitantly given the slowly growing puddle of blood Bibbit’s efforts had left it in. Between finger and thumb and at arm’s length, Steve carried the mauled mouse back out to bury it in a far corner of the garden. Before returning to the house, Steve remembered to place a hefty stone atop afterwards to deter any other garden creature from digging it up again in search of a still relatively fresh meal.

The corner patch of ground served as the unofficial graveyard for all the garden victims of Steve’s past cats, everything from rats and mice to sparrows, squirrels, and even a hedgehog being dragged through the cat flap on one occasion. Steve had long since lost track.

It was a tally of victims Bibbit had gone to immeasurable efforts to add to, at least ten-fold by Steve’s current estimates if you included Bibbit’s joint hunting ventures with Chunk, another of Steve’s previous cats.

Still, Steve couldn’t help but feel secretly relieved that his beloved cat was more his old self again after some recent ill health. At nearly twenty-years-old, Steve knew the ageing cat was already well into his twilight years. Nonetheless, he was determined Bibbit should live out his days as pain-free as possible, hence the recent surgery to remove a cancerous growth from one of his paws. The surgery wasn’t so much to prolong his life, just to make it more comfortable for however long he might have left.

As it happened, the surgery had been successful beyond Steve’s most optimistic expectations; not only was Bibbit seemingly pain-free now, but his mobility had returned alongside a vitality he hadn’t seen in the ageing cat for several years. Indeed, the resurrection of his hunting instincts was like a trip down memory lane as he thought back to the day Bibbit entered his life …

The sudden appearance of the handsome black cat making itself at home in Steve’s garden one Sunday afternoon was a welcome sight. He’d first been alerted to the cat’s presence by a succession of unfamiliar meows from outside. A quick glance through his kitchen window confirmed the new visitor. Steve stepped out to introduce himself. He was always well prepared with a bag of tasty, freeze-dried seafood cat treats to greet any abandoned or stray feline visitors to his garden.

Though no longer a kitten, this was a young cat, he surmised, but maybe just old enough to have formed a slight wariness of humans judging from the momentary sense of reluctance when Steve picked him up. Steve immediately had his suspicions the young cat might not have had the best start in life; the absence of a collar and the presence of some dried mud in the cat’s slightly matted hair suggested someone had decided that disposing of him in the local river would be more convenient than simply dropping him off at the local cat shelter.

Steve felt his ire rising as he gently stroked the new arrival under and about his neck. He wondered just what sort of monster could ever think to hurt such a lovely and defenceless creature? At over 200 lbs. and possessing a physique that would have given him half a chance against Hulk Hogan in a WWE ring, Steve preferred not to think what he would do should he ever catch such a monster …

Steve had already been planning a visit to his local cat shelter for a potential young playmate for one of his other cats. Though he may have already found one in the form of his ‘visitor,’ he’d still need to stop by the shelter for them to check the little black cat was in good health and not already microchipped. Later that day, both proved to be true, much to Steve’s relief, having already set his heart on the abandoned cat becoming the latest in a long succession of cats he’d shared his house with.

All that remained was to give the new cat a name. For the most part, Steve liked to give his cats names that somehow reflected their character or appearance.

So, what would suit this little fella, Steve wondered? Though jet-black in colour, calling him Blackie would have been too obvious, even more so than ‘Chunk’ was for the enormous Maine Coon he’d also recently adopted. Just as he was pondering other potential names, the young cat was a little sick, perhaps from the tasty tit-bits Steve had been feeding him.

Not to worry though, he was perfectly fine after a second or two, but goodness did he look a sight as a ‘bit’ of ‘sick’ dribbled down under his chin; the little fella really could have done with a bib at that moment – and in that exact moment, that was how ‘Bibbit’ got his name.

He just hoped the newly named Bibbit would readily take to his other three cats, Tish-Tock, Harry, and last but certainly not least, Chunk, not that he had any worries about the latter taking to Bibbit …

*

He was still very young and looking somewhat bedraggled after struggling up the riverbank near where some deranged monster had tried to drown him. What did it matter though? The fact that he’d survived meant Bibbit was probably already well on the way to becoming as magnificent a specimen of feline awesomeness as ever lived. Then again, such status would hold little meaning without a kingdom to rule over and devoted human attendees to worship at his paws. Though many thousands of miles from his ancestral Egyptian homeland, Colchester’s green, leafy suburbs would suit him quite nicely.

After several days scouting the area for somewhere to settle, the grand stone house he’d spotted his potential human entering would, Bibbit decided, make for a warm and comfortable home while the accompanying luscious garden would provide a rich hunting ground. All that remained was to secure the unconditional devotion of the human who currently tended his soon-to-be new kingdom, not that that would be a problem – like all canny wee cats, Bibbit had an instinct for ‘cat’ people, that particular breed of human whose temperament and kindness made them suitable devotees for their feline owners.

Despite doing his best to clean and groom himself, Bibbit knew he wasn’t looking his most pristine when he presented himself in the garden. He wasn’t worried though. Even at his tender wee years, Bibbit knew his worth; he was as magnificent a cat as any human could ever hope to serve, not that the latter didn’t sometimes need a little ‘coaxing’ into such servitude.

A succession of meows was all it took to summon the human to his presence. The overwhelming scent of other cats about the garden and the human himself suggested he was already well-trained in cat servitude.

Despite the human picking him up without any sign of an invitation, Bibbit immediately knew he had been right about the human, that he was absolutely a ‘cat’ person, one that would provide a lifetime of care and devoted service. Bibbit attributed the uninvited ‘pick-up’ probably to over-enthusiasm; after all, humans did have a tendency to irrational displays of affection, so it didn’t do to overly encourage them – all the same, Bibbit was enjoying being stroked about the neck, and the tasty treats the human immediately gave him made up for any momentary surprise.

Bibbit had to admit, this human knew all the tricks to win a cat’s favour – he was a very well-trained human indeed, and Bibbit knew he was going to like it here! All that remained was to meet his fellow cats …

*

Chunk

Chunk was so friendly and laid back he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid had Steve just added a rabid Rottweiler into their growing family, but he took to Bibbit the way you or might to a long-lost old friend. It was for Chunk that Steve had primarily wanted the younger playmate and company for, not that Steve hadn’t immediately fallen in love with little Bibbit himself. Nonetheless, Steve was relieved Bibbit had also taken to Chunk.

Though vastly different in size, Bibbit and Chunk could easily have been ‘little and large’ mirror images of one another. The other thing they had in common was that Chunk hadn’t had the best start in life either …

Though he’d enjoyed an almost unbelievable and amazing life since, it hadn’t always been so. How or why the massive cat should have come to be abandoned on the streets of the Turkish capital, Ankara, would always remain a mystery …

To call Chunk a ‘rescue’ cat was somewhat of an understatement. It was the year before, back in 2002, while on assignment in Turkey for the BBC’s World Service, Steve first spotted him, probably scavenging for discarded food from the tourists or maybe meowing for treats. The huge and handsome creature might have gone unnoticed if it had been any other cat breed. However, the sight of an obviously under-nourished but still 3ft long Maine Coon cat with a magnificent lion-like mane of brilliant black hair was hard to miss. Then again, had the cat been fully nourished, Steve might easily have mistaken him for a young black panther or some other huge native wild cat breed and retreated into the café he’d been sitting at outside.

With a bit of diplomatic string-pulling and navigating a mountain of paperwork, Steve got him safely back to the UK about a week after his overseas assignment was finished, albeit followed by a three-month stay for Chunk at a government animal quarantine facility.

Within a few weeks of being fed endless bowls of fresh fish, chicken, and other cat-friendly delicacies he could only previously have dreamed of, Chunk doubled in weight to more than 20lbs to become the humungous-sized cat he was meant to be.

Were they living out in the wilds and not the leafy suburbs of Colchester, Chunk might well have been the source of many of the stories about wild black panthers secretly roaming the British countryside.

Though Chunk may have resembled a black panther, he proved to be the friendliest and most affectionate cat in the world, always happy to be stroked, belly rubbed, and picked up, with as huge a personality that quite dwarfed his immense physical size. Indeed, Chunk’s enormity and friendly nature were more that of a big, soppy dog; were such a thing possible, Steve would have sworn Chunk was a dog trapped in a cat’s body. However, what an animal psychologist would have made of that was anybody’s guess.

*

Despite the look of being huge, the Maine Coon cat was still several pounds underweight, its illusionary size almost entirely due to its thick coat of shiny black fur, the only other clue to his potential size being his nearly 3ft length. Apart from a vague memory of some siblings, Chunk’s first real memory and experience of the world he’d been born into were the strewn contents of an over-turned trashcan among the back alleys of the adjacent street market.

Shortly after their mother had given them birth, the sight and sound of flashing lights and sirens, and moments later, several enormous two-legged creatures rushing past had sent her and her kittens scattering in all directions as they ran for cover.

Amid the confusion, Chunk had been lost and left behind as he hurled headlong into the now over-turned trashcan, practically knocking himself out. Alone and afraid, Chunk took cover behind it, out of sight from any passing two-legged creatures. Once the excitement had died down, Chunk relaxed, but he also became aware of being hungry. At least those same strewn trashcan contents were a source of food for the hungry kitten, just as similar trashcans and other discarded waste from the humans would be in the coming months.

Being a Maine Coon, Chunk grew rapidly during the coming months, which was both a blessing and a curse. Even at just a few months old, he was already so much bigger than most other cats that he rarely had to fight off rivals regarding food or territory. Unfortunately, Chunk’s size also gave him the most voracious appetite, one that wasn’t always and healthily provided for by the bins and scraps of the Ankara street markets. Thankfully, there was rarely any shortage of rats to prey on.

Still, Chunk was no ordinary cat. His personality wasn’t suited to the feral existence he seemed destined for. Despite living on the streets, Chunk was a social and friendly cat, qualities that, while desirable for a family home, were also qualities that might get him killed on the streets. Thankfully, fate was about to step in …

Steve was sat at a streetside café table, about to tuck into the coffee and kofta meatballs he’d ordered.

Chunk eyed Steve from a distance. Not all humans were kind or willing to share some food with a stray cat, but some were. As hard as living on the streets was, it had honed Chunk’s instincts way beyond most domestic cats’ similar instincts as to which humans could be approached and those to avoid. The man sitting at the table had a look and something about him that put Chunk at ease … Chunk hesitantly crept towards him just to be sure.

Whether he was creeping or not, Chunk was already a full 3ft long, and Steve was quick to spot him. Steve beckoned the cat towards him, taking hold of a handful of his Kofta meatballs.

Realising he was right about the human, Chunk broke into a trot towards him, purring and meowing in anticipation of the tasty treats being offered … Chunk had found his forever human.

*

The long months in the quarantine centre were quite upsetting for Chunk. It wasn’t that it wasn’t a nice place; he was well-fed and comfortable there, more so than Chunk had ever been back on the streets. However, it was like the human he’d adopted had simply abandoned him.

Chunk had never had a human of his own, and it seemed as soon as he got one, he disappeared into thin air. Would it always be like that, Chunk wondered?

The answer was a big happy no, he realised – the day Steve turned up at the centre to collect him! Chunk was all over him like a humungous plate of chicken, purring and meowing like that first day in Ankara.

Steve had expected Chunk to be a bit skittish at first, given the long separation – just like dogs, cats could also suffer from separation anxiety when their humans were away for more than a few days, and this had been a full three months. But no, Chunk was licking at his hand like it was covered in chocolate. Even when Steve had to place Chunk in the cat-carrier for the hour’s drive home, which was quite a squeeze for a cat his great size, Chunk couldn’t have been happier … he was going home.

*

Tish-Tock & Harry

Tish-Tock and Harry were both too settled to take umbrage with a new and younger arrival. At first, they were a bit ‘offish’ with Bibbit, but it wasn’t long before they just accepted him as the family’s most recent and youngest member. Either way, little changed in how they went about their lives, happily lazing and napping about the house or in the garden when the weather was nice. That wasn’t always the case though. In their younger years, they would often fight like cat and, oops, I almost said it, cat and dog, but no, they were both cats, through and through.

Holding the young Bibbit in his arms reminded Steve of Tish-Tock and Harry in their own youthful primes. Individually, they were two of the sweetest cats that ever lived, though not without a characteristic feline curiosity and mischief about them.

Steve chuckled as he remembered the equally mischievous antics they got up to, not that he always smiled at the time; Tish-Tock and Harry possessed an uncanny knack for knocking over or breaking anything and everything they came near. If the world had been flat, as some people still actually believe, there was no doubt Tish-Tock and Harry would have made it their life’s work to systematically knock everything over the sides.

Whether it be cups on a table, ornaments on a shelf, or simply pulling down books from Steve’s library, nothing was safe, and don’t even mention the time Tish-Tock randomly strolled across Steve’s Laptop. Whilst finishing off a piece he had been writing for the BBC, Tish-Tock had decided to take a shortcut to wherever he was off to via Steve’s laptop keyboard – some random combination of depressed keystrokes beneath Tish-Tock’s paws, and woosh, an hour’s typing disappeared quicker than the chicken and tuna in one of Chunk’ dinner bowls at feeding time. Steve took a deep breath and just sighed – it was either that or get angry, an emotion that was simply beyond him when it came to his cats.

Since their adoption, Tish-Tock and Harry had shared many outdoor adventures together, practically joining Steve everywhere he went, particularly on his outdoor hiking and walking trips, either in their cat-carrier or Steve’s rucksack – unlike most cats that absolutely hated any sort of restrictive confinement, be it a cat-carrier, rucksack or whatever, Tish-Tock and Harry had no issue at all if it meant accompanying Steve.

Back in the day, Tish-Tock had been a formidable hunter, terrorising the garden and local wildlife beyond. On the other hand, Harry possessed all the hunting skills of a stuffed cuddly toy, his only success being to once swipe a goldfish from the garden pond. Still, Tish-Tock more than made up for Harry’s lack of hunting success; barely a day went by when Tish-Tock didn’t present Steve with a ‘gift,’ mostly deceased mice and sparrows. On the plus side, Steve would never have gone short of a daily meal in the event of a worldwide famine.

That was all a long time ago though, Tish-Tock and Harry having long since settled into a lazier lifestyle now, or so Steve had thought. Though the two mischievous cats had initially been indifferent to Chunk and Bibbit’s arrival, the two younger cats’ hunting and other playful behaviour had awakened something in them. Seeing how Chunk and Bibbit took turns chasing each other around the garden and indulging their hunting instincts reminded them just how much fun it was to be a cat.

*

Though not siblings, Tish-Tock and Harry were near inseparable, though not without all the usual tussles of typical sibling rivalry in their play fights and the endless naughty mischief they got up to. With their mainly black and white colouring, Tish-Tock and Harry had the look of two impish little devils, albeit lovely and playful ones. Quite what it was between them was a mystery. Tish-Tock was quite the handsome long-haired devil, while Harry was simply the most adorable and gorgeous little bundle of furry joy you ever saw, with a mix of black and white colouring giving him the look of a tiny panda.

Tish-Tock and Harry had been born in the Colchester cat shelter just a few weeks before and were now looking forward to all that life had to offer. Their human staff were kind and attentive, and the shelter was one of the best in the country. Still, something didn’t feel quite right – too many cats were sharing too few humans, and they wanted one of their own.

Of course, it never occurred to Tish-Tock and Harry they might soon be separated, but that’s how it was looking; it was clear to the shelter staff they shared a connection, some equivalent of feline brotherly soul-mates if you like. This, of course, raised issues with their potential adoptions. Being the young and adorable kittens they were, individually, they could probably take their pick of any visiting humans, but as a pair, that might prove more difficult; not all prospective humans were likely to be up for taking on the care and training of two young and lively kittens, which was proving to be the case as time rolled on …

Both kittens had had several individual offers of adoption, but none so far for the two of them together. At barely five weeks old, they would still be staying with their mum at the shelter for maybe another month or so, so it wasn’t as if there was any immediate rush to get them homed. Still, the weeks were passing quickly, and whenever a potential human would pick one of them up and go to move any distance from the other, they would both switch from being sweet and adorable to quite skittish and whiny. It was the same when the staff tried separating them; Tish-Tock and Harry would become sullen and ill-tempered almost within minutes of losing sight of each other, staying that way till they were reunited.

Adorable little kittens were usually the easiest of their residents to get homes, but as patient as the shelter staff were, they were at the wits’ end as to what would become of Tish-Tock and Harry. They were even considering relaxing their stringent rules for adopters, like having a garden and not living immediately adjacent to a busy main road, for example, anything that would mean Tish-Tock and Harry could stay together …

Like all their other potential humans, Steve had only one cat in mind, more likely an older cat that wouldn’t need much house training. Steve had explained this when he spoke on the phone to Sheila at the Colchester Cat Rescue Sanctuary.

Though about to walk straight past them, the sight of Tish-Tock and Harry playfully chasing each other’s tails instantly melted Steve’s heart, and he crouched to take a closer look …

Tish-Tock and Harry immediately sensed something special in Steve, so much so that they abandoned their games and sauntered towards him. In perfect sync and on their best behaviour, Tish-Tock brushed alongside Steve’s crouching knee while Harry offered his neck and back for stroking. How could he possibly resist? Steve was absolutely captivated by them.

Though Steve didn’t know it, Tish-Tock and Harry had already selected him to be their human …

Knowing from his telephone enquiry that it was Steve’s intention to adopt just one cat, Sheila thought it best to explain about Tish-Tock and Harry, both for Steve’s sake and to avoid disappointment for Tish-Tock and Harry, who had clearly taken a liking to him …

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid these two only come as a pair. We’ve tried separating them, but it was too distressing, particularly for Harry,” Sheila explained.

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to take them both then,” Steve replied without hesitation.

*

The Big White Cat

Just as Bibbit had seemingly appeared from nowhere some twenty years before, it was much the same with the big white cat, as near big a cat as Steve had ever seen. Steve had first seen him on his nighttime garden security cameras, feeding from the same bowls of cold meats Pauline, Steve’s mum, put out of a night to feed the local fox population. Now, most foxes weigh in somewhere around 6kgs and are usually more than a match for the average domestic cat – not so with the big white cat; he boldly fed from the fox bowls alongside them, neither the foxes nor the big white cat the least bit bothered by the other’s presence.

Only Chunk had ever been brave enough to venture out at night to feed among them, though he was near twice their size in his case. Still, though a big cat in his own right, it was still brave of this new cat to ignore the presence of three or four nearly equally sized rivals – Chunk would definitely have gotten on well with this one, Steve thought.

Since he was being so well fed at night in Steve’s garden, it was no surprise to see the big white cat appear during daylight the following day …

Unlike Steve’s current cat, Bibbit, and his three predecessors, which had all been wholly or predominantly black, this new visitor was quite the opposite. He also possessed an all-over brilliant fluffy white mane of fur and scattered patches of black about it, giving him the look of one of those spotty dogs from the 101 Dalmatians film.

He didn’t quite compare to Chunk’s size, but goodness, he was a smasher! And while he didn’t quite match Chunk’s sheer physicality, his friendly, trusting, and affectionate nature was every bit the equal of Chunk’s. Were it not for the obvious difference in appearance, Steve would have sworn this was Chunk come back in another life. And just like Chunk, the big white cat possessed the most enormous appetite if the nighttime security camera footage was owt to go by – well, he would have to if he was willing to risk taking on an urban skulk of foxes. Steve liked this new cat though and welcomed his visitations, day or night.

Still, while Steve was more than happy for the big white cat to visit as often as he liked and welcomed him, he worried that Bibbit might regard the younger, furry white visitor as a rival. Steve wouldn’t have been the least concerned ten years prior, knowing that a prime Bibbit could easily hold his own with even the biggest and most determined of rivals with little more than a spitting hiss. But that was quite some years ago, and Steve knew the ageing Bibbit would be no match for a younger rival, especially such a big one – beneath all that fur was still a pretty big cat, almost one to rival Chunk in fact.

Steve needn’t have worried. Bibbit had also quite taken to the new arrival. The visiting cat might have been barely a fraction of Bibbit’s age and more than twice his size, but Bibbit held no fear of the seeming newcomer. To Bibbit, the big white cat wasn’t just another visitor or some newcomer looking for cat treats – just like Steve, Bibbit recognised so much of his dear-departed old friend in the big white cat. It was just like having Chunk back.

*

Bibbit & Dotty

All was good in Bibbit’s world. Another feathered invader had been despatched from his garden kingdom earlier in the morning, and with the arrival of the big white cat, Dotty, as his two humans had taken to calling him, it was almost like having his soppy big brother back. Albeit this was a much younger version, slightly reduced in size, and a completely different colour – Bibbit still had a lot to get used to on that front!

Fully sated from the massive bowl of roast chicken and other cold meats his two humans had served him, not forgetting the saucer of chilled fresh milk, life didn’t get much better. All that was needed was a long and leisurely nap to round off a lovely day.

Oh yes, this is the life Bibbit mused while sprawling out across the expensive woollen hearth rug, basking in the warmth of a raging open log fire. So content was he that, in a rare show of affection, Bibbit even allowed Steve and Pauline to give him a gentle belly rub, but only for as long as it suited him. And yet, for now, Bibbit was happy to be generous with his affections. Maybe he was going a bit soft in his old age, but Steve and Pauline were deserving of them. He really was secretly quite fond of them … well, in a cat sort of way of course; after all, it just wasn’t the done thing to spoil or indulge them.

*

One year later … Although still doing exceptionally well following his life-saving surgery, Bibbit knew his time with Steve and Pauline was moving towards its end. Even before the surgery, Bibbit had already been considering moving on. Given the choice, they’d all have gone on living together and forever, but sadly, that wasn’t the way of things. Bibbit wasn’t regretful though; with so many happy memories, he knew this had already been a life well lived, the very best and happiest of all his lives in fact, even if it was tinged with a little sadness.

Now, in the dimming twilight of his years, Bibbit thought more and more back to those early years with Chunk, Tish-Tock, and Harry. That was back when they were all so much younger, and though he and Tish-Tock had had many a scrap in their time, Bibbit wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Well, maybe there was one thing he would have changed. Harry had left them far too soon and not by his own choosing, something to do with his heart. Bibbit hoped he was enjoying a longer and equally happy resurrection or maybe looking down on them from cat heaven.

Just as Tish-Tock and Harry had long since passed, Chunk has passed too in the past few years.

Chunk and Bibbit had taken to one another from the very first day, Chunk being like the huge, protective big brother every little cat should have – Bibbit greatly missed the daft old thing most of all, even if he was more like a big soppy dog than a cat.

Still, despite a few sad memories, Bibbit was enjoying a new-found lease of life and energy, even more so since the arrival of the big white cat, Dotty, so he wasn’t quite ready to go yet.

And then there was Steve and Pauline to consider. Though spending more and more time with them, until Dotty decided whether to adopt them as his forever humans, Bibbit couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Steve and Pauline alone. The two humans simply weren’t equipped for life without a cat to look after them, so there could be no question of his passing until he could be sure they would be cared for …

Unbeknown to Bibbit, the big white cat, Dotty, was every bit as wily and crafty as he was. Indeed, Dotty had already decided to adopt Steve and Pauline as his humans; they were two of the loveliest cat people who ever lived. But there was Bibbit to consider too – as attached as he was to Steve and Pauline, Dotty was just as attached to Bibbit.

Oh yes, there was so much more of Chunk in Dotty than any of them realised. Dotty knew Bibbit couldn’t bear to leave his humans alone and had him marked down as Steve and Pauline’s new adopter following Bibbit’s eventual passing. That was fine, but Dotty wanted to enjoy Bibbit’s companionship too for as long as he could, so, for now, he was content just to let Bibbit think of him as a frequent visitor, even if those visits were to last many years …

*

Epilogue

Unlike the other Colchester cats, Bibbit, Chunk, Tish-Tock, and Harry, the big white cat, Dotty, had no history or backstory. He really had appeared from nowhere, or at least nowhere here on Earth. You see, there was so much more to cats than the humans could ever know, even less than they could hope to understand.

Bibbit was very old now, so much older than Steve and Pauline realised, simply thinking of him in human and cat years as they did. Bibbit would soon be joining the Feline Deities of the afterlife, that final and eternal reward all cats had to look forward to after the last of their nine lives. Still, the two humans, Steve and Pauline, were exceptional among their kind, having provided so many years of devoted service and, no doubt, would do so for many more. Oh yes, there would be many more Colchester Cats throughout their lives, and they deserved some small reward …

The Feline Deities knew the two humans loved Bibbit, just as they had Chunk and all the other Colchester cats before them. But Bibbit was special, just as Chunk, Tish-Tock and Harry had also held a special place in their hearts. No cat lived forever of course, and as has already been said, Bibbit was now very old and nearing his time. Though the Feline Deities couldn’t prolong life indefinitely, not even for one of their own, it was within their power to give them all a little more time together, a few more years at least … for now, they would have some extra time with Bibbit. That was why they had sent them Dotty – he might not have been an actual resurrection of Chunk, but a small part of Chunk’s soul resided in him; the Feline Deities had made sure of that.

Steve’s thoughts about how so much alike Dotty was to his beloved Chunk were closer to the truth than he knew, more than any human was ever meant to even suspect. But that wasn’t all. In the years to come, Steve would be equally astounded by the uncanny ‘similarities’ between their next two cats and those of Tish-Tock and Harry.

And what of Bibbit, you might ask? He’ll be around for a while yet. Still, when he finally ascends to the Feline Deities of the afterlife, there’s no doubt some small part of him will live on in some handsome young black cat that stops by to visit one Sunday afternoon …

***

IF you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like it, please consider taking a look as Feline Tales, the 3rd and latest instalment of The Creature Tales:

 … click link below:

books2read.com/CreatureTalesBk3

Basket Case – A bit of midweek Flash Fiction silliness

Basket Case

What a glorious day, I thought. Already I had seen performing acrobats, listened to the sweet melodies of musicians, and taken in the salivating aromas of tradesmen selling the most delicious smelling pies and pastries. Many had brought their children to enjoy the numerous entertainments accompanying my own starring role.

It couldn’t have been far, no more than a few feet, but I remember hurtling downwards, swaying and spinning as I went. The pain was indescribable, admittedly for just a moment, so no need to dwell on that bit, at least not for now.

I had tried to keep my eyes closed at the start to avoid being blinded by the glare of the sun directly overhead. But curiosity compelled me to witness the event in its entirety. And why not? I was, after all, the star of the show.

The previously baying crowd were united in a rapturous thunder of applause. Many were in attendance, everyone from wealthy merchants, farmers, and the soldiers, of course, to the most wretched peasant.

People were enjoying what some might call a carnival atmosphere, encouraged by the warm weather and grandness of the occasion.

It did anger me that despite being at the centre of the celebrations, I was somewhat restricted in my ability to enjoy the occasion to the full. Still, I guess I shouldn’t be too disappointed, I’d had the best view of all during my brief attendance. Had those in charge had their way, my last sight of the world would have been the insides of the cushioned wicker basket in which I, or rather my head to be precise, was meant to land – and stay.

The force of my landing, or rather my head’s landing, had sent the flimsy basket tumbling over on its side and me, my head that is, rolling two, maybe three feet, leaving it in a sideways position, skewing my view of the surroundings. I was just thankful for not having additionally suffered the indignity of my head rolling a little farther and bouncing down the wooden steps leading up to the platform. Given the mood of the crowd, I’m sure they would have taken the opportunity for an impromptu game of football with it.

I had a perfect if oddly angled view across the town square. Unfortunately, I could also see the thick puddle of red, viscous liquid forming about me, no doubt the waterfall of blood flowing from the neck of my decapitated body. I was quite worried it might reach me and that I, my head that is, would roll over into it face-first.

I needn’t have worried. The Judicial Executioner reached down to retrieve it, grabbing and lifting me up by the hair. I would guess this was an easy task now that that part, the bit that was still me, probably weighed no more than two or three kilos rather than my previous eighty.

I was suddenly aware of the panoramic view of my audience while the executioner turned 360 degrees to give everyone a good look at me. Once more, the crowds cheered their approval. 

Without warning, the executioner suddenly thrust me – my head that is – down over the top of a sharpened pike, the business end slicing through the underside of what was little was left of my neck, rising straight up through the brain and out the top of my skull. Oddly enough, that hardly hurt a bit, something to do with the brain not actually having any pain receptors of its own, just the ability to process pain signals from elsewhere about the body … well, that was hardly an issue for me now.

I was further enjoying my birds-eye view of the world as the executioner hoisted the pike aloft and vertically into the air. I was afraid I, my head, might slide down, but several protruding ridges along its length held me in position.

Shortly after, one of the soldiers carried the pike (with ‘me’ still on it like some piece of skewered kebab meat) all the way back to the Bastille.

To this day, the pike and my now embalmed head remain there, embedded at a 45-degree angle from the prison walls for the public to come and gawp at like some cheap tourist attraction.

It’s not so bad now, well, except for the pigeons and other pests that use me as a landing perch (and other unmentionable things), but I do feel a little aggrieved. Admittedly I made my victims suffer quite horribly, but at least they all died … eventually.

I had expected a quick and relatively painless death. It was anything but … time had slowed to an incredible degree, much like all those stories you hear of your life flashing before your eyes immediately prior to death. I was sure that was what was happening with me, and as such, I was also experiencing a lifetime of pain in that same moment.

Perhaps this endless persistence of awareness in my decapitated head is to be my eternal punishment for ending the lives of so many others in my own butchering activities … I guess there’s a certain perverse karma in that.

*

Arguments had raged for years about how long the victim retained consciousness after decapitation. The notorious Parisian serial killer, Henri Boucher, otherwise known as The Butcher, had been the clearest indication to date supporting the idea that life lingered on for somewhat longer than the few seconds advocates of the guillotine claimed. The Judicial Executioner and many in the immediate crowd swore on the lives of their nearest and dearest to observing Boucher’s eyes rolling from side to side in response to those watching, and movement of the mouth and lips in the manner of a scream when the head was forcefully thrust onto the pike.

Perhaps La Guillotine wasn’t the quick and painless death they imagined it to be?

No one could imagine the real truth of the matter … except perhaps, Henri Boucher.

***

 

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read many more like it, check out my latest collection of short stories on my Amazon author page links below:

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The Punchbag – Flash fiction short story

The Punchbag

Frankie Watkins was good with his fists, so good in fact he might even have been a champion. But getting a title shot would have meant hard-work and fighting guys who were also good with their fists; that wouldn’t have suited Frankie at all. You see, Frankie was a coward, and a lazy one too. The thought of someone hitting him back terrified him even more than hard work.

Knowing that he had let his chance of stardom pass him by, Frankie took out his frustration on all the young lads that attended his gym, particularly the ones willing to put in the work … and take the knocks too.

He encouraged the bigger lads to bully and go in hard on the little ones. And when he didn’t have some younger version of himself to do his dirty work, Frankie insisted on giving extra ‘coaching’ to the weakest and smallest boys. Few left without a fair few bruises or a cut lip – “just a bit of character building,” as he told them, “and don’t be such little cry-babies,” he would often add, delighted when he saw some frightened kid was trying to hide the pain he was in or holding back a tear.

*

Eleven-year-old Ricardo was the latest addition to Frankie Watkins’ stable of stardom-dreaming young boxing hopefuls. Even at such an early age, Ricardo had a natural boxer’s physique and determination—and Frankie Watkins took an immediate dislike to him for it, seeing in the boy the potential champion he could never be.

Ricardo’s dad, Samuel, knew how much his son wanted to be a boxer when he grew up, ever since the wee lad had marvelled at seeing Muhammed Ali knock out Sonny Liston on the television. It wasn’t a sport Samuel had much interest in himself, but since the death of his wife, Amelia, during the last hurricane back in Haiti and then the move to the US, he was determined to do whatever he could to fulfil Ricardo’s dreams.

 

Samuel looked down and took hold of the ruby amulet he wore around his neck, the one Amelia had so treasured. It contained her soul, just as she had wanted. They had agreed that whichever one of them died first, the other would house their soul in the precious jewel in preparation for them to both take that last step to the afterlife. It was their wish to embrace Dambala together, their guiding spirit god or Ioa as it was called in the old language.

It had not been an easy ritual to perform, the transference of the soul from the body to an inanimate object, but Samuel and Amelia were both powerful voodooists, skilled practitioners of the old magic.

*

Samuel peered in through the small window, watching how Frankie Watkins ‘trained’ his young would-be boxers. He was no boxing enthusiast, but he’d attended just such a gym when he was a boy too, and as tough as they were, the coaching staff there would never have hit young boys as hard as Frankie did.

Like his own son, none of the lads complained, believing Frankie’s spiel about how he needed to be extra hard on them if they wanted to make ‘the big time’ someday. For many of the boys, they knew it was the only way they were likely to escape the poverty and squalor of the neighbourhood, and so they just accepted it as normal. But Samuel had noticed the changes in his son, his gradual lack of enthusiasm for the sport he loved, and then there were the bruises; he even suspected a possible hairline rib fracture judging by how the boy sometimes winced when he coughed or made a sudden movement.

This wasn’t training, Samuel thought, but plain and sadistic bullying masquerading as ‘coaching and character-building’, the very words he had prised out of his son.

*

He might not have possessed Frankie’s boxing skills or indeed, his son’s love of the sport, but since buying the gym following Frankie Watkins’ mysterious disappearance, everyone agreed Samuel was a much better coach and mentor.

A mischievous smile curled around his lips while answering young Eric Ruiz, the latest addition to the now Samuel’s stable of stardom-dreaming young boxing hopefuls …

“I know, everyone reacts like you do, but it’s just the leather and years of soaked in sweat that causes it to make that sound.”

“An … and the blood?” ten year-old-Eric hesitantly asked.

“That’s no mystery to that either. It’s just a trick of the light, and the red dye in the leather seeping out and getting mixed in with the sweat on your gloves and the perspiration in the air.”

 

Eric gave the punchbag another whack, and then another and another, chuckling at the gasp-like sounds the punchbag seemed to wheeze when he hit it.

That corner bag was a good one. It had a good feel to it when you gave it a solid whack. And the apparent squealing sound it made when you hit it made the lads laugh, imagining they had winded and blooded some imaginary opponent. Yes, the lads loved whacking that bag for all they were worth. They weren’t to know that Frankie Watkins felt every punch they landed, and as they got bigger and stronger, Frankie felt the blows even more. Had those that had previously suffered at the ends of Frankie’s fists known, no doubt they would have given it a few kicks too.

Samuel figured with regular re-stitching, the lads’ favourite punchbag would last another ten or twenty years before someone punched the last painful squeal and drop of blood out of Frankie Watkins’ trapped soul.

*

It had not been an easy ritual to perform, particularly transferring a soul into the battered old punchbag. Samuel doubted he could have completed it successfully anywhere else in the US other than the Creole quarter of Louisiana’s New Orleans. But Louisiana voodoo was almost as powerful as back in Haiti and West Africa.

*** 

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read many more like it, check out my latest collection of short stories on my Amazon author page links below:

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Vivid Imagination – Flash Fiction short story from ‘Flashbulb Moments’

Vivid Imagination

It was reasonable to assume Melina Jackson was her name given that was the only female name on the list of doorbells.

The flat-capped, raincoat wearing man liked to stalk his victims first. He deliberately cultivated an unassuming, almost invisible appearance for the initial stages of his work for obvious reasons, ensuring that any possible description of him would be as nondescript as that of the nearest lamppost. The knife-wielding sociopath was most meticulous in his planning, proud indeed of his attention to detail. But then, of course, he had to be otherwise his career would most likely have been a short one …

*

The mere presence of Bartholomew Brown was enough to make the skin crawl – if he wanted. Mostly though, he was the most affable and charming man you could ever hope to meet.

He preferred to be called Mr Brown rather than Bartholomew – Bartholomew sounded too Bohemian, too pretentious, he thought. Mr had more of a cold and enigmatic feel to it, for, beneath his superficial charm, Mr Brown possessed the most twisted imagination ever; perhaps that was what compelled him to do what he did?

If you were foolish enough to ask Mr Brown about his interests, just five minutes into the reply would be enough to have the strongest of stomachs heaving and ready to expel their contents in a fit of projectile vomiting. You see, Bartholomew Brown was no ordinary man.

Over the past twenty-five years, he’d been responsible for the bodies in the canal murders, the butchering of seventeen prostitutes, and the cold-blooded murder of six unfortunate serial killer hunting detectives. And those were just what he considered his most notable successes; there had been many others, but they had been when he first started out, so he forgave himself for those initial somewhat sloppy and amateurish efforts. He’d long since perfected his craft though and was again looking forward to satisfying his darkest fantasies.

The next one was to be a woman by the name of Melina Jackson. Oh yes, she would make a fine victim, he thought, what with her sun-kissed red hair, those ‘come to bed and ravage me’ eyes, and the short, slutty skirt and high-heels that just screamed whore from head to toe. This one deserved a slow death, as painful and bloody as any to date. Mr Brown was determined to excel himself this time.

… Melina Jackson left the upmarket hotel by the back entrance, her business done with her latest trick, her third of the night. With a bra stuffed full of cash, she walked along the dark side-street, intending to call a cab from the nearby taxi rank. It was only a short distance but enough to provide her assailant with sufficient cover to hide in the shadows before stepping out to confront her.

The serrated knife entered her breast at the same moment he looked into her eyes. A hand clasped her mouth before the merest hint of a scream could escape her ruby red lips. Her mutilated body would probably be found by an early morning street cleaner or perhaps even earlier, some late-night reveller turning into the dark street to take a piss …

Oh yes, Mr Brown was happy with his efforts with this one, of creating a scene of bloody carnage to rival that of the very best efforts of Jack the Ripper.

Thank god it was just Mr Brown’s vivid imagination, that the details of Melina Jackson’s death were simply the ones staring back at him from a computer screen, and later, some anonymous reader’s Kindle or while scrolling a Dark Web fiction forum.

 

Finally satisfied with the level of detail he’d achieved in his latest serial killer story, Mr Brown typed … The End.     

*

Finishing a story always gave Mr Brown another craving too, an almost ritual one of making himself a sandwich. He was about to cut himself a couple of slices of bread when he stopped himself … Mr Brown frowned, silently annoyed at himself; there was still blood on the serrated edge of his carving knife … even after twenty-five years, Mr Brown could still be sloppy.

***

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read many more like it, check out my latest collection of short stories on my Amazon author page links below:

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The Man who hated Cats – Flash Fiction short story

The Man who hated Cats

 

Malcolm’s rich old Aunt Matilda had finally died. Being her last surviving relative, Malcolm had high hopes of inheriting everything. The first thing he intended to do when he moved into her old manor house was get rid of all those bloody cats that still had the run of the place. Jeez, how he hated cats.

Malcolm’s hopes were further fuelled when he entered the solicitor’s office. Only he and the old woman’s aging housekeeper, Mrs Grimes, were there for the reading of the Will. He had expected she’d leave something to the woman who had been his aunt’s companion most of her life, but apart from that, there was no one else to claim a share of his inheritance, he thought.

After some brief formalities, the solicitor addressed Malcolm and Mrs Grimes. The latter was delighted to learn she was to be Aunt Matilda’s sole beneficiary. Legally, Aunt Matilda had left everything to the many cats she had always shared her massive house and estate with. Mrs Grimes though had been appointed their carer, and so, really, the house, land, and a high six-figure sum of money too were all hers. The only condition was that Mrs Grimes had to live in the house and continue caring for the deceased’s ever-growing family of cats.

Malcolm’s delight was somewhat less enthusiastic, the hundred pounds bequest his aunt had left him lacking as it did the three or four extra noughts he had been expecting, not to mention not getting the manor house.

When he thought about it, Malcolm should hardly have been surprised by the measly amount. He’d made no effort to ever visit her since he was a boy. In fact, she had always given him the shivers, what with her crazy beliefs in reincarnation, Buddhist mysticism and a whole lot of other mumbo jumbo bollocks. He thought when he was young, she might actually be a witch. But still, leaving the bloody lot to a manky pack of fucking cats was the last straw.

Something in Malcolm snapped. If he wasn’t to live the pampered existence he’d hoped for then neither would a lot of flea-ridden moggies … it even occurred to him with the cats out of the way, he might also have grounds to challenge the Will.

*

Rumours were rife that some cat-killing maniac was on the loose. Nine feline bodies had been found so far in various states of decomposition in and around the rural village. The first couple were assumed to have died from natural causes, despite there being no obvious sign of injury or disease. It wasn’t until a third, and then a fourth was also found, prime specimens of feline awesomeness, it became clear something wasn’t right. Mrs Grimes too was beside herself that several of the deceased Matilda’s own feline family had disappeared. Aunt Matilda and Mrs Grimes had never refused to take in an abandoned litter when asked, and all the local strays knew a tasty meal and saucer of milk would be waiting whenever they visited. But less and less were visiting now …

It had occurred to Malcolm it might arouse suspicion if it was only all his former aunt’s cats that had died when he eventually challenged her Will. With that in mind, he had set about poisoning many others too. Countless dead felines later, Malcolm was ready to start on the ones standing between him and his inheritance.

*

Malcolm awoke to the strangest sensation of not feeling himself. He’d had the most surreal dream, one involving hordes of cats eating his dead body. Most odd though had been seeing his aunt shoo them away and then hovering over him, muttering, and wittering away in some strange language – and that was the last he remembered.

His first sight as he slowly opened his eyes was the skirting board of the nearside wall to his bed. His mind was still in a bit of a daze, though with just enough grasp of consciousness to realise he’d probably tumbled out of bed during the night. For some reason, his nose and face were itchy. Instinctively, Malcolm reached to scratch at his nostrils. Even before his hand, or whatever it was reached his face, he could only imagine he must have knocked himself out for god knows how long judging from the amount of facial hair that had grown in the interim.

It wasn’t just the unexpected appearance of hair about his normally clean-shaven face that was confusing Malcolm. Everything looked so much bigger … including the cat looking down at him. Malcolm went to get up, intending to kick the cat away. Oddly, he hardly rose at all, barely four inches in fact, even on his hind-legs … his hind-legs?

The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning to his tiny, fur-covered body – his dream had been real, he had died, and worse – had been reincarnated as … A Mouse!

That wasn’t the worst of it … there were now three cats circling him like the hunters they were. Any regular mouse with all the normal evolved rodent survival instincts would have scampered away, but Malcolm was anything but.

The cats would usually have rent him limb from limb before making a tasty meal of the tiny mouse after a painful but mercifully quick death. But the cats had no interest in eating the little mouse, at least not yet, not after having fed so well on the creature’s once human body … that part of his dream had been true as well.

Instead, they purred and toyed with him. For three days they teased and tormented him before the end. Malcolm’s death was a painful one, though neither quick nor merciful.

*

Epilogue

The local cat population soon returned to normal as many new litters were born in Aunt Matilda’s manor house. It was eerie how many of them had the same colouring and temperaments of the ones who had died … more reincarnations?

***

Enjoyed this story? Then for many more, much like this one, keep a lookout for my up-coming collection later this year …

Unrequited Love – flash fiction short story

 

 

Unrequited Love

Lucy Brannen simply adored Tommy, and why shouldn’t she? He was a handsome fella, what with his thick, jet black hair, and eyes that could entrance the most reluctant heart.

Everyone loved Tommy; Lucy’s parents, her friends, and even complete strangers too immediately took to him. It was something Lucy understood and accepted, having fallen for Tommy’s charms more than two years before. Yes indeed, Tommy was something special, even if his demands and attention-seeking sometimes made her feel invisible. She had some sympathy now for how new mothers must feel when everyone’s attention and compliments were all directed towards the baby, like the mother wasn’t even there other than as some glorified slave … where was the appreciation and attention she deserved? Whatever her occasional misgivings though, Lucy continued to dote on him, attending to Tommy’s every whim, everything from preparing his meals right down to even trimming his nails, nothing being too much trouble for her. All she asked in return was the occasional show of love and affection, to be treated as something a little more special than his personal servant.

It wasn’t entirely true of course; Tommy did treat her to the occasional glimmer of attention, snuggling up to her when she least expected it or gazing into her eyes, enchanting her all over again. But such emotional shows were few and far between, and invariably seemed to coincide with when he wanted something, like a snack from the kitchen; as smitten as she was, Lucy was not stupid, fully aware the relationship was utterly and completely on his terms, and not hers.

The truth was, Tommy treated their home as little more than a hotel, often lounging around all day while she went out to work. The least she could have expected was for him to be there for her after a hard day’s work, but no, Tommy was a law unto himself, coming and going whenever he pleased, and at all hours of the night.

Lucy often wondered if Tommy would even notice if she just left, walked out and never came back, at least apart from the need to get himself another dogsbody? She knew she never would though; Tommy meant too much to her, and besides, what would have been the point? Tommy knew his worth and would have been sure to land on his feet elsewhere, perhaps even with that little blonde next door, the one always paying him compliments and attention.

There was one person though who wasn’t seduced by Tommy’s charms, and that was Lucy’s best friend, Clara. She treated Tommy with the same indifference he pretty much treated everyone else. When Tommy and Clara were in the same room, you could almost feel a literal drop in temperature, such was the coldness between them. It was not surprising then that whenever Clara visited, Tommy would either make himself scarce all together or at best, somewhat rudely go and feign sleep in another room.

And so it was today when Clara called, Tommy just huffed his annoyance and flounced out past them when Lucy opened the front door to her friend.

 

“Sorry about that, he’s in a bit of a mood,” Lucy apologised.

“Don’t apologise for him, he’s always in a mood,” Clara reminded her in reply. “If he wants to behave like a spoilt brat, that’s his problem.” Lucy just shrugged, her loyalties torn as they always were.

“Look, Lucy, I’ve no sympathy,” Clara bluntly told her. “I told you at the start … if you wanted slobbering affection, undying loyalty and the rest of it, you should have bought a dog … Cats are different.”

*

Tommy surveyed his kingdom from atop the mahogany bookcase, having snuck back in via the cat flap. Satisfied that all was well, he looked down on his devoted human.

Even though Clara had now left, Tommy was in no mood to jump back into Lucy’s arms. No, he would make her wait for another snippet of the attention she so desperately craved and needed from him, and why not, she was after all his slave, as all humans were to their feline owners.

Clara on the other hand, she clearly had no understanding of the honour and privilege it was to belong to some feline God or Goddess, never having shown him the deference he was entitled to, not even so much as kneeling before him to present some delicious offering. Her presence or lack thereof was therefore of little interest to him, assuming her to be one of those evil creatures that didn’t bow down to their feline masters or mistresses, or worse still, she might even be … a dog person … urghh, was all Tommy could muse to himself at the thought …

Tommy leapt down from the bookcase, landing beside Lucy on the sofa. He had kept her waiting long enough, a suitable penance he thought for giving some of her attention to another. Nonetheless, he snuggled beside her, again gazing up into her eyes, allowing the soft touch of his fur to brush against her bare skin. He even allowed her the rare privilege of stroking and caressing him.

Any thoughts of replacing Tommy with some slobbering little puppy as Clara had suggested instantly evaporated, Tommy’s mastery and ownership of her once again more assured than any cage or set of chains could ever do.

 

***

Enjoyed this story? Would like to read more? Then stay tuned for the publication of Flashbulb Moments towards the end of this year …

 

Cell Bitch – Flash fiction short story

Another little taster from my up-coming under 1000 word flash fiction stories, Flashbulb Moments …

 

Cell Bitch

 

Luke Thompson was as nice a young man as you could ever hope to meet, the sort of boy parents hoped their daughter would bring home to meet them. In Luke’s case though, it was correctional officer Vince Zackery introducing Luke to his parents. It was okay though; Vince’s parents took to Luke the moment they met him. And likewise, when Luke introduced Vince to his own family, they were delighted Luke had found himself a boyfriend who obviously adored him, and given Vince’s 6’3” height and build, one they knew he’d be in safe hands with.

It was an unlikely pairing; they’d met and fell in love during Luke’s monthly visits to his older brother serving a seventy-five-year sentence for armed robbery at the penitentiary where Vince was an officer.

 

Luke was attending a staff Christmas dinner and dance night. He had thought about not going what with Vince working nights, but Vince had told him to go and enjoy himself, and besides, Luke would have felt guilty letting Kathryn down. Being a popular guy, Luke had no shortage of girls happy to dance with him, which was more than could be said for Nathan Morrison. Nathan was your stereotypical homophobic racist, and a jealous one to boot, given that the girl he fancied, Kathryn, was more interested in limp-wristed Luke, as Nathan called him. Luke and Kathryn were best friends in a brother and sister sort of way. All night the girl whose knickers Nathan wanted to get into had spurned him, preferring to chat and dance … with some nancy boy … instead. Afterwards, Luke and Kathryn left together, Luke insisting on walking her the half-mile to her house.

Along with two of his knuckle-dragging mates, Nathan followed at a discreet distance before taking a shortcut in readiness to confront the pair …

 

“So, what’s girly little Luke got that I ain’t?” Nathan demanded to know as he stepped out from the shadows.

“Maybe she’s a dyke and reckons on Luke providing some girl on girl action,” one of the other Neanderthals suggested. Had it just been Nathan on his own, Luke would have taken his chances and struck out at him, but he had Kathryn to consider, and was fearful of what they might do to her if he angered them in any way? In that respect, he needn’t have worried; the three Neanderthals had no intention of raping or hurting Kathryn, knowing full-well what the consequences of that might be. But Luke was another matter – they figured he’d be too ashamed to complain given just what they had in mind for him, and even if he did, they’d say he tried to touch one of them up, that they were fearful of his homosexual advances … sadly, it was a defence that was often successful in some of the ‘less than liberal’ states of America.

Nathan and another of the trio slammed Luke up against the wall, unbuckling his pants at the same time, while the third one kept hold of Kathryn, making her watch. Nathan then produced a bicycle pump he’d stolen from a bike while following them.

“I bet this is what you want, I mean, a hole’s a hole, and you want it, don’t ya?” Nathan whispered, “and if ya scream out, ya little girlfriend here will be getting the real thing from all three of us,” he added, knowing Luke wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise Kathryn’s safety.

 

Nathan had been right in assuming they wouldn’t report the assault, though not because Luke was ashamed. Luke was worried what the others might do to Kathryn if Nathan went to prison. Nonetheless, Kathryn pleaded with Luke to go to the police, but ultimately, she respected his wishes not to.

*

A month later, Nathan was convicted of a similar assault against a young girl. Hearing the news, Kathryn finally told her father, who just happened to be the judge trying Nathan’s case, what had happened. She also told Luke’s partner, correctional officer, Vince Zackery … 

Nathan Morrison entered the three-man cell somewhat nervously to begin the first day of his ten-year prison sentence for sexual assault. He nodded to the two man-mountain sized figures looking across at him from their bunks, one from a single bed, and the other the lower one of a set of bunk beds.

 

“What’s ya name, boy?” asked one of them while the other returned to flipping the pages of his porn mag.

“It’s Na … Nathan … Nathan Morrison,” he finally managed to blurt out.

“Well young … Nathan … your pit will be on the top bunk above me, though most of the time you’ll down here keeping me happy … oh, and it’ll be me on top.”

“Don’t be greedy, Jim, there’s more ‘n’ enough of that sweet little ass ta go around.” The two cellmates both laughed. Unsurprisingly, Nathan didn’t see the funny side of the crude interjection.

“Too sweet an ass t’be called ‘Nathan,’ that’s for sure … I think we’ll call him Natalie instead.”

“Look guys, I mean …” Nathan began, “I’m … I’m not gay or anything, not that I got owt against anyone who is or anything …”

“Neither are we, but unless you’re hiding a pair of tits and a pussy under that jumpsuit, you’re all we’ve got … and besides, what was it you said … A hole’s a hole?” Nathan didn’t know what to say, too terrified to even notice the flow of urine soaking the front of his prisoner jumpsuit.

“Luke Thompson’s my kid brother … and if you’re thinking of yelling out to the guards, ya know that mean looking muthafucka of an officer that’s in charge of out wing, his name’s Vince,” Jim revealed, brandishing an officer’s nightstick in a somewhat obscene manner before adding: “… and he’s Luke’s partner.”

It was going to be a long ten years was all Nathan could think … that’s if he even survived the night?

***

 

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read many more like it, please stay tuned for my up-coming anthology later this year, with guest stories from an additional six authors (3 more still to be confirmed)

Flash Fiction story – Bad Review

Based on an Fb news post that was shared with my ISAD writing group, I decided to apply a little of the ‘Rudders Writing’ touch to it.  Hope you enjoy it …

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Bad Review

Sonia Dixon just loved to read. Her favourite genre was crime and murder, the bloodier and gorier the better. She was also a successful author, blogger, and reviewer, and just as she strove to produce the very best in her own writing, she demanded it too in the many books she was sent for review on her blog.

The cover and blurb for ‘Piling up the Bodies’ by Nick Hazelwood had promised much but delivered little. In fact, it was by far the worst book she’d read since she couldn’t remember when. Unfortunately, Nick had already been blogging and posting that the famous authoress, Sonia Dixon, was eagerly devouring his debut novel, even before she’d read the first page. In doing so, Nick had made it difficult for her to privately message him with a polite ‘it’s not really my thing, sorry. Good luck with your future writing.’

Well okay, he would get his public review …

 

‘A great idea for a story but poorly handled. The methods of execution and body disposal were too bland for me. Personally, I prefer something a little more imaginative than simple bludgeoning and dismembering and feeding the bodies to the dogs? Sorry, but not my cup of tea.’

 

To say Nick Hazelwood wasn’t pleased with the review of his literary masterpiece would be the mother of all understatements. He imagined all manner of horrible things he would do to the high and mighty Sonia Dixon, ways of killing her far worse than that of any of his literary victims, though not of course before giving her a piece of his mind on how wrong she was about his fantastic book. With the aid of social media, it was a straightforward matter tracking down the address of a high-profile authoress. It was a bit out of the way, some farm in the middle of nowhere in fact. That suited his purposes perfectly …

 

Living in the remote highlands of Scotland, Sonia Dixon wasn’t used to visitors, so was more than a little intrigued at who might be at the door …

 

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked the man standing before her. It wasn’t anyone from one of the neighbouring farms, and yet, he looked familiar, though she couldn’t remember from where

 “Call yourself a writer?” Nick screamed at her, “what’s wrong with feeding body parts to the dogs? All the crap you write is more like the stuff of cheap, second-rate B-movie horror scripts.”

“Uh?” was her first response, not sure of what else to say?

“It’s writers like you who keep readers hooked on a diet of cliched rubbish while real talent goes undiscovered.” Sonia Dixon was confused. Yes, she’d heard the same old drivel a thousand time before, but only online, not on her fucking doorstep. Then the penny dropped, his mention of feeding bodies to the dogs. She remembered where she’d seen him before, well, his blog avatar anyway.

“Don’t you think it would have been more appropriate to say all that in an email rather than travelling hundreds of miles? Or did you just want to be offensive in person?” That wasn’t the response Nick had expected. She was supposed to be scared, terrified even of what was going to happen next, just like his literary victims. Instead, she was mocking him, just like she’d done in her review. He was about to push past her when she invited him in.

“Why don’t we discuss your issues inside? I’ll make you a nice cup of tea while you calm down, and then we can talk about your book and the review.” Nick nodded his agreement. The first thing he noticed were the shelves and shelves of ‘true and unsolved’ crime books lining the walls and every little nook and cranny. Meanwhile, Sonia had made her way to the adjacent kitchen. Nick kept her in his sight, checking she wasn’t using her mobile to call for help. Actually, that was the last thing on her mind. A few minutes later she returned with their tea.

 

Nick was too drowsy from the sleeping pills she’d slipped him to see the blow coming. A solid whack with a poker to the back of his head had put an immediate end to his now slurred droning of how wrong she was about bludgeoning victims to death and feeding them to the dogs.

 

One week later …

Nick’s arrival couldn’t have come at a better time. ‘Writer’s Block’ had been crippling Sonia Dixon’s creativity, not that that stopped readers from screaming for another blood and gore fest horror from her. Thanks to Nick, she was now several thousand words into what she hoped would be another best-seller. She had to admit, elements of Nick’s story had worked a treat for her. She only had the one dog, ChiChi, a pint-sized sausage dog, and hardly big enough to devour a whole man, but she did have several pigs that fulfilled the role even better.

She made a note to write more scathing reviews in the future, especially for when the dreaded Writer’s Block hit again.

 

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like this, please stay tuned for:

Scheduled for publication, June/July 2019

Please, Granddad … Flash Fiction story.

A little ‘Flash Fiction’ piece, part of another little project I’m working on for later in the year, hope you like it …

 

Please, Granddad …

I’d been pretty darned healthy my whole life and fit too – a long stint in the army had seen to that! Even after I joined civvy street, despite a brief period of being a complete and utter slob for a few months following my freedom from the discipline of military life, I stayed active. The one blot on my otherwise healthy lifestyle though was the fact that I smoked. We all did back then. Most of my friends, including many from my army days, had long since given up the filthy habit. I hadn’t though. It had never occurred to me to even try. The fact was, I enjoyed smoking. And why shouldn’t I? I mean, I was a damned sight healthier than most of my non-smoker friends. Maybe it was just good genes; my grandparents had both smoked all their lives and lived well into their eighties. And what would the National Health Service do without the exorbitant taxes I paid on every puff I took? It was us smokers who practically financed the NHS, I told myself.

And then I got the news, the diagnosis that nobody wants to hear. I had Stage Two Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. I had no idea what stage two or non-whatever it was actually meant other than it was cancer. I couldn’t help thinking the worst. For it to be stage two meant there was a stage one, and that stage two must be worse?

            The news hit me hard. Why me? Apart from the smoking, I had always looked after myself. I drank only moderately, I got plenty of exercise, cycled, and hell, I even climbed bloody mountains.

I was 57. I knew I was no spring chicken, but I’d hoped for maybe another 20 good years of life, or at least long enough to see my grandson grow to be a man.

Was I just one of the unlucky ones, or had I only myself to blame? I’d never really believed my own rationalisations about smoking. I knew damned well it was bad for me.

            My doctor didn’t approve of smoking. Well, they don’t, do they? But he knew it was a typical reaction to blame oneself. He reassured me it was just one of those things, that the smoking had nothing to do with it. I was sure it was through gritted teeth he admitted that last bit. I was grateful though. Still, whether it had anything to do with or not, I was going to give up anyway.

I failed miserably – quitting cold-turkey, nicotine patches, vaping – nothing worked. I was a confirmed addict, even with the threat of death staring me in the face. I gave up trying to ‘give up.’

 

It had been several months since my last chemo session. I’d deliberately not visited my family for over a year. Of course, I’d seen my son and his wife when they visited me in the hospital and at a few other times. One thing I was adamant on though, young Patrick, my grandson wasn’t to see me while I was going through the barrage of treatments I was having.

I knew it upset him not being able to see me. It worried me that he’d think I’d stopped loving him. But what could I do? Seeing me completely bald, no eye-brows, sickly and gaunt looking, it wouldn’t have been right for a wee lad.

 

Since my last treatment, my hair had grown back, and I’d put most of my weight loss back on (and even a bit more). I just couldn’t wait to see my grandson for the first time since I had started the chemo and radiotherapy treatments. My son and his wife were spending the day with friends, leaving Patrick and me to some quality grandson and gramps time together.

We’d spent hours just playing, laughing, and watching films together until I was pretty exhausted. Amid all the fun we’d been having, I’d gone without nicotine for several hours now …

 

“Now you sit here, Little man, and watch your cartoons while Granddad goes for a smoke.”

“Please, Granddad, please don’t smoke. I don’t like it.”

            “It’s okay, Patrick, I’m going outside to keep all the smelly smoke out of the house.”

The look on his face told me his reaction had nothing to do with the smell of cigarette smoke. I sat beside him on the couch, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“What’s up little buddy?”

“I’ve missed you. I don’t want you to be ill again.” It was beginning to make sense now.

“Aww, you don’t have to worry about that. It was something quite different that made me ill. The smoking won’t make it come back.”

He stared at me. I could see he was trying not to cry.

“Smoking’s bad for you. It makes you have cancer.”

That last bit startled me. The little lad was only six, but he already knew the word cancer. He certainly didn’t know exactly what it meant, but clearly, he knew it was bad. By now it was me trying not to cry.

“Smoking didn’t cause my cancer, Patrick, really it didn’t.”

I held him a little tighter, hoping that might reassure him. He was having none of it.

“Promise you won’t smoke again. Please, Granddad … I don’t want you to die.”

By now, the wee lad was sobbing. Now you all know the feeling: You feel your throat tightening, and a screwing up of the eyes as they fill with tears. You breathe a little harder. You take an almost ‘gulp-like swallow, and then another. All the while, that ‘welling up’ feeling overcomes you, right down to the pit of your stomach.

            “You win. I promise.”

I’ve not smoked since …

 

***

National Rat Day – Rat Tales short story collection …

Rat Tales is Book One of a three-book collection, titled …

The Creature Tales.

Books Two & Three, scheduled for publication, early 2019.

Rat Tales  –  Book Trailer …

 

 

Click HERE for UK Amazon buying link – Click HERE for Amazon.com link

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Rat Tales

A Mischief of Little Horrors 

Had your rabies shots yet? The rats are loose!

Rat Tales. Twenty-four ‘rat’ themed short stories, and the first book in a three-book collection, The Creature Tales. 

Many of the stories here are traditional blood and gore filled horror, but several venture slightly into the realms of science fiction and the supernatural.

Within this collection, the reader will find every rat incarnation imaginable, from the super strong and ultra intelligent to bloodthirsty and seemingly immortal. 

While every story has been written to stand alone, several are loosely inter-connected with an ongoing reference to the future. Among the stories are:

A farmer’s imaginative though barbaric attempt to solve his rat problem backfires in the worst possible way.

A young boy’s efforts to repay the kindness of his childhood rodent friends has consequences that will change the course of history.

A vicious ghostly rat falls victim to karma

A centuries-old rat looks back on how it became the seemingly immortal creature it is ...

Some escaped convicts realise too late they’ve chosen the wrong couple to terrorise when their rodent pets see their own comfy lives threatened.

A grim fate awaits those who take shelter in an abandoned house.

A country squire finds himself on the receiving end of his sporting cruelty.

 

These are just some of the stories in this extensive collection, so brace yourselves for … A Mischief of Little Horrors.

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Amazon Reviews …

Marmalizer – A fun but also interesting collection of rat stories

24 October 2018

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

I first read a story about rats in Mary Danby’s Nightmares 2 collection as a child. One of them, ‘Heads and Tails’ was particularly gruesome, considering the target group was children. In ‘Rat Tales’ the level of gruesome is handled well, from the entertaining but thought provoking Raticide to the comic sounding but unsettling Rats on the Radio. Some of the puns work well, Ratcula for example.

Even the hardest non-rat fan (and there’s a lot of us out there) would find it difficult not to find one story here they might enjoy.

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Jan RDeliciously gruesome!

24 October 2018

        Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

Deliciously gruesome bitesized morsels to infest your nightmares. There are no holds barred yet many teeth bared in the flesh-rending descriptions. Despite being repulsed, reading the tales from the rat’s point of view had me sympathising with their plight. Love them or hate them, this is a must for horror readers.

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Theresajcbs –RATS

October 22, 2018

        Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

Whether you like rats or not, this anthology is a great read. The writing style keeps you wanting more. I highly recommend this book for all horror seekers.

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