Status: It's short.
The Wishing Cat
Bastet
Once upon a time, there was a cat. This was no ordinary cat. He was a wishing cat, with the ability to grant three wishes to any human at will. He was powerful-he had the ability to control power, wealth, and even immortality, and he was the last of his kind. But despite all of his power, he was in trouble, and dying.
I hate to say it, but I was weak. And I wanted to die.
“Hold it down!”
“It's not even moving dude. Is it dead already?”
“Nah. Look, it's breathing.”
That night I was cornered against a fence by a couple of teenage boys with a brand new pocket knife. The kind of kids who think nothing of grabbing a cat by his tail and gutting him from chin to tail.
Now, as they smashed my head into the pavement, they took the knife to my eye.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Her shadow fell over us, and whether her voice sang out like an angel or a demon then, I didn't know. I was ready to die.
“Get out of here, lady! We're busy!” one of the boys said, shaking the knife at her. I could see it flash just a second in the street light, red with my blood.
“How about I call animal control, and you can be busy in jail under animal cruelty charges!” she snapped, and suddenly she was above him, her high heeled shoe poised above his throat. “Scram kid.”
“Ah, shit. Lets get out of here,” the other one said, and let go of my face. Then they were gone, and it was just me and her. She crouched down over me, her eyes running across my body. I was beyond embarrassment, lying there on the cold ground, my naked body drenched in blood, my insides spilling out across the hem of her dress.
“Why couldn't you just let them kill me,” I asked her. She sighed, her fingers running through my hair. Softly, ever so softly, afraid I'd break under her touch.
What a lady, to sooth a dying man.
“Poor kitty,” she cooed.
“Let me die.”
“Poor kitty.”
“Let me die!” I begged, cried. I threw my head away from her, a pile of old weights, heavy with its dark, dying thoughts. I could see her clearly now in my good eye. She looked like a doll, with her pointed chin and long eyelashes. Her eyes were the color of peonies.
“Don't fight, kitty. You'll make it worse.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Hold on a little longer.”
“I said it doesn't matter!” I shouted. “Don't you listen to me! Doesn't anyone ever listen to me!” I reached out to her, grabbing a fistful of her skirt. But I was too weak to do much else. My arm fell limp in her lap.
“Do you want to come home with me?”
What a lady, to let my blood ruin the hem of her dress.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please help me.” I wasn't sure that I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to die alone.
And she picked me up in her arms, a little black cat with one eye and blood matted fur, and took me home. She cradled me there against her chest, whispering tales of Egypt into my ear.
“I'll name you Bastet,” she told me.
What a lady was my Irony Skyes.
I hate to say it, but I was weak. And I wanted to die.
“Hold it down!”
“It's not even moving dude. Is it dead already?”
“Nah. Look, it's breathing.”
That night I was cornered against a fence by a couple of teenage boys with a brand new pocket knife. The kind of kids who think nothing of grabbing a cat by his tail and gutting him from chin to tail.
Now, as they smashed my head into the pavement, they took the knife to my eye.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Her shadow fell over us, and whether her voice sang out like an angel or a demon then, I didn't know. I was ready to die.
“Get out of here, lady! We're busy!” one of the boys said, shaking the knife at her. I could see it flash just a second in the street light, red with my blood.
“How about I call animal control, and you can be busy in jail under animal cruelty charges!” she snapped, and suddenly she was above him, her high heeled shoe poised above his throat. “Scram kid.”
“Ah, shit. Lets get out of here,” the other one said, and let go of my face. Then they were gone, and it was just me and her. She crouched down over me, her eyes running across my body. I was beyond embarrassment, lying there on the cold ground, my naked body drenched in blood, my insides spilling out across the hem of her dress.
“Why couldn't you just let them kill me,” I asked her. She sighed, her fingers running through my hair. Softly, ever so softly, afraid I'd break under her touch.
What a lady, to sooth a dying man.
“Poor kitty,” she cooed.
“Let me die.”
“Poor kitty.”
“Let me die!” I begged, cried. I threw my head away from her, a pile of old weights, heavy with its dark, dying thoughts. I could see her clearly now in my good eye. She looked like a doll, with her pointed chin and long eyelashes. Her eyes were the color of peonies.
“Don't fight, kitty. You'll make it worse.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Hold on a little longer.”
“I said it doesn't matter!” I shouted. “Don't you listen to me! Doesn't anyone ever listen to me!” I reached out to her, grabbing a fistful of her skirt. But I was too weak to do much else. My arm fell limp in her lap.
“Do you want to come home with me?”
What a lady, to let my blood ruin the hem of her dress.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please help me.” I wasn't sure that I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to die alone.
And she picked me up in her arms, a little black cat with one eye and blood matted fur, and took me home. She cradled me there against her chest, whispering tales of Egypt into my ear.
“I'll name you Bastet,” she told me.
What a lady was my Irony Skyes.
♠ ♠ ♠
It's a short one. I think htere will only be two chapters. Originally there was supposed to be four, but I doubt I'll get around to it. Hope you like!