The new year brought on the dogs; not a favorite cycle for most cats. Corn loved the Year of the Dog.
"Are you back now?" Corn purred softly.The veil and the masks between the worlds set themselves on pegs as the cat waited for Ambriana to wake. Dreams were her favorite mode freeing her from choosing and second-guessing. The boots leaned against the bed as the young woman focused.
"Would have liked to stay put and clean things up once and for all." Corn knew that voice of resignation. The face and body was someone else's. She had stayed put too long and now the cards would have no pull on her. The future was not hers. The story was older than the girl.
"Did you sip a bit of Milk Thistle before?" Corn was hopeful.
"No. I didn't think to support the liver. Is it ... is it too late for that now?" She knew the answer to that. Corn was mostly mist now.
The story was older than the girl and its threads were pulling up the corners of her toes cobs wrapping them in expert webs. No need to go further with the ramble the Year of the Dog will never know the rest of this tale. For now it is enough to have begun to understand not all stories are yours.
"Perhaps another game, another deck of cards printed in floppy left-handed script will come to write itself a fresh chapter." A giant web dangled like suspended scaffolding on a thread the of charcoal silk.
"Perhaps." Corn the ancient cat climbed on the back of God's Dog and headed toward the smell of crispy bacon.
"Are you back now?" Corn purred softly.The veil and the masks between the worlds set themselves on pegs as the cat waited for Ambriana to wake. Dreams were her favorite mode freeing her from choosing and second-guessing. The boots leaned against the bed as the young woman focused.
"Would have liked to stay put and clean things up once and for all." Corn knew that voice of resignation. The face and body was someone else's. She had stayed put too long and now the cards would have no pull on her. The future was not hers. The story was older than the girl.
"Did you sip a bit of Milk Thistle before?" Corn was hopeful.
"No. I didn't think to support the liver. Is it ... is it too late for that now?" She knew the answer to that. Corn was mostly mist now.
The story was older than the girl and its threads were pulling up the corners of her toes cobs wrapping them in expert webs. No need to go further with the ramble the Year of the Dog will never know the rest of this tale. For now it is enough to have begun to understand not all stories are yours.
"Perhaps another game, another deck of cards printed in floppy left-handed script will come to write itself a fresh chapter." A giant web dangled like suspended scaffolding on a thread the of charcoal silk.
"Perhaps." Corn the ancient cat climbed on the back of God's Dog and headed toward the smell of crispy bacon.
