Flash: Truth and Consequences

Image from the Internet Hive Mind (it’s hard to find a small lecture hall image)

Gael and Braxton sat together in the upper row of the university lecture room continuing their catching up on the summer apart. Best buds since freshman year, the ticking clock of their senior year pushed at their friendship in new ways. Today marked the first time they took a class together, their majors of production management and bio-chemistry intensely separate tracks. The political science course neatly filled a slot on both their liberal art requirements. After putting up the finishing touches in their room this morning from last night’s town-run, they hightailed it across campus.

Gael, on a business track, was used to the lecture rooms in Yeh Hall though not this room in particular, but Braxton usually spent his time deep in the lab rooms. Deep being the operating work, as nearly all the bio labs were located in the basement of the much older Armstrong Science Building on the other side of campus with the dorms. The University started as a hard science school and expanded into the “softer” skills as time went by.

This room was smaller than most, surprising for a 100-level poly-sci course that clicked off a liberal arts requirement, with only three rises of seats half-circling the lecture pit fitting forty students and plenty of the seats were empty, unusually so for the first day even for an early morning class. Gael counted twenty-eight students including him and his pal and wondered how this course paid for itself.

At exactly eight-thirty, the petite instructor entered the room from the door beside the white board. Barely older than them, the brunette smiled at the room, placing her books on the table.

The sound echoed strangely through the room, and Gael swore he heard the door at his back lock.

Braxton turned his head to look behind him, then met Gael’s eyes and raised his eyebrows.

“I heard it too,” he responded quietly.

After walking around the table, the woman hopped on the flat surface, her linen-covered legs swinging several inches above the floor. “Welcome to Truth and Consequences, Political Science 120. If you do not mean to be in this room for this course, now is the time to leave.” She pointed left at the double door at the bottom of the lecture room leading out to the general hallway, her hand covered in rings on every finger and some with double rings, above the second knuckle. Her wrist sung under several metal bracelets.

No one left, but the noisy room calmed as students adjusted their laptops and papers. Gael took notes by paper, having learned over time he retained things better than straight typing, and Braxton just leaned back to listen.

“My name is Madden Pelphrey. For this class, you will address me as Professor Pelphrey. How many of you are here because you heard this class was an easy ‘A’?” She raised her hand as an example, causing her oversized houndstooth jacket to slide down over, exposing a white blouse buttoned tight at wrist, and sending the bracelets jingling down her arm. Like the other hand, the raised right hand was covered in silver, gold, and gems, with the middle finger covered in a full-length ring harness with chains connecting it to rings covering the lower half of the thumb and little finger.

While students squirmed, no one raised their hand except for a freshman in the front row, shrugging an apology.

The professor dropped her hand. “Good, what is your name?”

“Wren, um, Wren Faukner-Brennan.”

Pulling a plain black book off the top of the pile behind her, the woman opened it up, placed it in her lap, and made a mark. “There is the first easy A of the class.” She then looked up at the room, her heart-shaped face becoming serious. “And the last. Let’s try this again.” Snapping the book shut, she set it aside and jumped down. “How many of you are seniors?” She nodded as most of the back row raised their hands. “Juniors … Sophomore? … no sophomores, good … Freshmen? Just the two. Both of you alumni brats?”

Wren looked at the other person in the front row who raised their hands, and they both nodded at each other. Wren explained, “Mom, class of ’02. She said this was the course to take, an easy way to get my head on straight on what to expect in school.”

“Oh, was your mom Marya Faukner?” At Wren’s affirmation, Professor Pelphrey laughed, “I remember her. Great workaround on her part. You may be the only one not lied to. Everyone else, now, raise your hands if you were told this was an easy ‘A’.”

This time Gael and Braxton raised their hands slowly, as did everyone else in the room. Some bashful chuckles broke out. Braxton whispered to Gael under the noise, “There is no way that chick has been teaching for twenty years.” Gael pressed his lips together, privately agreeing. The teacher looked like someone he would hit on in a bar, now that he was finally twenty-one. Maybe three years older than him, max.

“Truth and Consequences. Inside this room, is the truth. Do not lie to me again.” Placing her hands on her slim hips, she glared at the room. “I will be teaching you how to stretch it, bend it, manipulate it, and destroy it. How many of you still think this is an easy ‘A’?”

Hands dropped like stones. Gael leaned forward, interested beyond expectations of the blow-off course.

“First rule, inside this room, you will tell the truth. Second rule, outside this room, you will lie and tell anyone asking, it is an easy ‘A’. Even if you fail the course, it is an easy ‘A’.” The petite woman paced in front of them making eye contact with each of the students, her brown eyes darkening to a black in the light, “Caprice?”

Gael and Braxton nodded agreement.

“I’m going to give you another chance to duck out since the manipulation of expectations was used against you. Again, inside this room is the truth. Reading is about four hundred pages from three different books I will give you. You will not need to buy them, but they do not leave this classroom. You are allowed to mark in them. Just remember the marks already in there are from other students, not experts. I will warn you: one book is a grimoire more than a normal textbook and has really obscure words. If you are good at Latin, you will be ahead of the game.”

Braxton perked up at that, and Gael became really grateful to have a roomie study buddy.

“I will be assigning at least one essay a week, and pop quizzes are the rule. I don’t do formal exams. Plus the class will be broken twice into groups for large projects, one mid-term for 10% of your grade and one final for 25% of your grade. Four times small projects will have you pairing off. I will be assigning the pairs. That is another 15% of your grade. Half your grade depends on others. They will need to trust you and you them. If you can’t handle this, leave now.” She pointed at the double doors to her left again.

The other freshman scraped up their things, “I’m sorry, sorry, I just can’t, sorry,” and scuttled out the door. Two seniors in the backrow tried to cut out the doors in the back of the hall and confirmed that they somehow had been locked, and made their way to the front. Three juniors joined them, leaving twenty-two students behind.

“Better,” Professor Pelphrey nodded. “Still a little much. The course is a 100-level course, so you seniors should be okay, unless you are buried under your major’s courseload. If you need this for the political science credit, Dr. Torbett had Twenty and Twenty-first Century Politics in this same time slot and is used to having people transfer over. Coursework outside his classroom is about an hour a week; coursework outside classroom hours for my course averages five per week, about an extra hour of effort from you per day. The coursework is done in this room. On the plus side, you may get help from the other students taking the 300-level Hard Truths and Soft Lies. The only time this room is not available for your use is during their afternoon class three to five on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

She strode behind the table, dragging her black book toward where she stood. “Last chance for you to leave with no impact on your grade. The University will transfer you to whatever you need. Countdown starts, ten … nine …”

Two seniors and junior packed up their laptops.

Gael and Braxton looked at each other. “You?” they asked nearly simultaneously.

“Nah,” Gael shook his head. “This may be the edge I need in running that business I’ve been talking about for the last two years. You?”

Braxton gave his half smile. “She had me at Latin Grimoire. I will figure out how to work this around my labs to see what that is about.”

“four … three …”

One more person abruptly stood and made their way out of the classroom, and someone else started packing.

“two, one and a half, one and a quarter…”

The final student slammed out of the room with their gear, juggling the last of their books into their backpack strapped to their front.

“Oneeeeeeee.” The teacher looked over the eighteen left, her hand pointing at the double doors. No one moved. “And zero.”

She closed her hand into a fist and the sound of the door locking echoed against the cement walls.

“Now I will take attendance, then I will take your oaths.”

(words 1,628; first published 3/17/2024)

Madden Series

  1. Truth and Consequences (3/17/2024)
  2. Endlessly Creative (5/12/2024)

Flash: Call the Chasm

Photo by Ian Cylkowski on Unsplash

In between the Elegug Stacks of Castlemartin and Flimston Bay is a chunk of headland that divides the two, stretching out into the sea. And in the middle of that headland is a massive chasm with a sheer vertical drop into the sea. Welcome to The Cauldron, what remains of a collapsed cave. As I was setting up this composition I couldn’t help but notice the climbers scaling the central pillar of the Cauldron. Madness. Rather them than me.

The Cauldron, Flimston, Wales; Published on 
***

“Where you going, Mable?”

Striding through the village, the older woman looked over her shoulder to see which of her neighbors shouted her way. It was Nell, the busy-body, as opposed to Virgil, the gossip, or Kell, the snoop. Her small community abounded with people who needed to know everything that happened outside their front door, but screamed bloody murder when someone looked in their windows.

Since it would be obvious in about five minutes what she would be doing, Mable shouted back. “I’m going to call the chasm!”

“What for this time?” Nell never could take a sparce spoon; she had to know the whole scoop.

Mable just waved a hand behind her, her long stride taking her beyond polite shouting distance. It wasn’t like her scream wouldn’t be echoed back.

Hopefully to the point of a mess of layered sound. Last week when Erndale shouted he wanted just one day without someone knocking on his door asking for help plowing, everyone had heard the Call loud and clear. The unusual clarity made sense. The point of Calling the chasm is to get a need granted. At some level, the pure determination of walking all the way to the edge of town to scream into the abyss gathered the power behind the wish and things happened more often than not. Usually the first step just set things in motion and no outside magic was needed. For example, with Erndale, no one bothered him for two days. According to his wife, the man slept like a stone, his snores shaking his house.

Mable came to the edge of their world. The void sliced down nearly a mile by the Mill-walk-by River. She turned left to walk to the red clay overlook where romance Calls worked best. Where she had screamed and cried for Jullian to be healed so she didn’t need to raise their children alone. No one answered that time.

No one answered when she had walked right to the striped rock overlook when she had cried out her frustrations of working her fingers to bloody tips to get money for food to feed her four.

No one answered when she cried alone in the new house her youngest had build her so she would move out and give him and his new wife the privacy needed to start their own family.

She didn’t expect any response this time either. Still she Called her emptiness. The one making her cry in the night. Mable didn’t know how to articulate what she needed, so she just screamed. She pulled from the ends of her toes, up her legs through her knees to her belly and lungs. She screamed so hard and long she dropped to her knees, tears falling into the clay dust as her voice cracked into nothing but a hundred thousand echoes of lonesome.

(words 476; first published 3/10/2024)

Flash: The Dream of You and I

Photo by Boshoku on Unsplash

“Who is more powerful, the dreamer or the dream?”

I look over. “What kind of question is that?”’

“Just asking,” you reply.

“Nope, start making connections, I want to follow how ordering calamari led to this my ADHD friend.”

“You sure?”

I shake my head in exasperation, “Of course I’m sure.” Seeing the server walking over, I do say, “But hold that thought until we get the food order in.”

Placing the order took almost no time, both of us being well familiar with the menu, though the calamari appetizer was an experiment. One new dish a visit to help me break out of my autistic bubble. I once ate nothing but mac and cheese or tuna salad for a year according to my mother, and I wouldn’t eat both of them the same day, let alone the same meal. Drove her nuts. Added to the fact I couldn’t swallow pills until my early twenties meant she had to ground up vitamins and hide it in the food to keep me healthy. I have since learned to go further afield, though I still ordered the lobster mac and cheese tonight.

What can I say, it was a rough week at work.

Once the server left, I nodded to you, “So…”

“What?” You reply fidgeting with the napkin and fork, folding the cloth through the tines.

I sigh, used to this as much as you are used to extracting me from my house for our weekly Friday dinner, even though I like it enough once we have left my comfort place. “Calamari to dreamer or the dream.”

“Oh, oh yeah.” Your face lights up and my heart skips. We aren’t like that, you are too ace, but I love it when I can make you happy. “So calamari is tentacles right?”

“Sure.”

“And I am working my way through Lovecraft at the moment.”

“Why are you doing that again?”

“Trying to figure out racism in writing and how it changed over time,” you inhale deeply, “But anyway, so Lovecraft has Cthulhu. Tentacles.”

“Okay, calamari to tentacles to Cthulhu to Lovecraft?”

“Nah, Lovecraft isn’t in the chain, other than present hyper focus.” The fork in your hand bounces against the table making a nice chime, and I am once again glad my stims are related to doodling, much less noticeable and socially acceptable. I have enough other issues in social situations. “Anyway, in some of the stories, so I guess Lovecraft, anyway, in some of the stories, the Outer Ones—”

“Never heard of Outer Ones, I thought they were all the Old Ones.”

“Yeah, you don’t like horror so you never studied this shit, anyway, the Outer Ones cannot be part of this existence, but in some of the stories it can be interpreted as though the Outer Ones are dreaming of the Old Ones, and I was thinking of which is more powerful, the crazy half-realized Outer Ones who can’t be here, here-here,” you wave at the restaurant using your fork like a wand, “or the Old Ones which can exist in our world, but only as dreams.”

“Ah, hence the question, who is more powerful, the dreamer or the dream.”

“Exactly.” You reach across the table and squeeze my hand with the hand not holding the fork.

I freeze a moment, until you say “sorry” and stop touching me. “No, it is okay. Just give a person some warning please.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Forgiven. It’s okay.” I twist up one side of my lips while pressing them together in a semi-smile. “Back to the question asked – strictly rhetorical, or can we talk about it, because it is interesting.”

We stop for a moment as the server drops off our sodas and the bread basket with bread straight from the oven. They always run a little behind on the bread on Friday nights, which is one of the reasons why we like to come here on Fridays. We both adore hot, hot bread, so instead of cool bread in a basket being ready the minute we sit down, on Fridays we have to wait for it to come out of the ovens. Sometimes that means we don’t get any until our food is ready, but most Fridays, the bread hits the table about the same time as the salads. Speaking of which, a second server comes up behind our primary server with a portable table and a tray filled with greenery, mine with no dressing and yours smothered in raspberry vinaigrette.

When the servers retreat, I reach for the bread. I always eat one of the buns before anything else. It’s too good to pass up and I slather it in salted butter. You use the fork you have been playing with to move around the salad until every inch of the leaves glisten with lightly pink oil.

“I’m thinking the dreamer is more important, until the dream takes on a life of its own.” I take a deep inhale of the yeasty bread, then take a bite. Life with yeasty bread is good, especially compared to the store-bought loaf sanitated to an inch of its life so it can stay in the fridge for three weeks without mold while I make my sandwiches to take into work. “Like Martin Luther King Jr.”

You point with your fork, agreeing with me. “Exactly, yeah, I see that. ‘I have a dream.’ He was a dreamer sharing a dream.”

“A dream which lived beyond him but couldn’t have lived without him. An infectious dream.”

“A COVID of dreams.”

I snort. “I know some political people who sure think the dream of ‘when all of God’s children, Black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: Free at last. Free at last. Thank God almighty, we are free at last.’ is worse than COVID.”

“I can tell you which one I rather catch,” you reply.

Having dropped off food for a week at your doorstep during your round with the disease before the vaccine came out, I know which one you rather catch too. I had been worried sick about you even though I barely knew you at the time, just a coworker who was badly sick, even though you weren’t sick enough to go to the overflowing hospitals, thank god.

May the goddess keep Morgan wrapped up in hugs until we can all met again on the other side. I miss you, you big craziness.

“Hey, come back to me,” you say.

I look down at the salad, now carefully sorted into lettuce, carrot strips, cucumber, and olives. I would have eaten the tomatoes automatically. They drip on the other food and need to be removed quickly. “Sorry … Morgan.”

“Oh.”

You never met my high school best friend, and I hate that. You and I, we had only met at the office Christmas party in 2019 and only got to know each other in the year the world ended. During that time, everyone needed to help the ones near them and Morgan lived on the coast. City lights of New York had drawn Morgan in and so many COVID arrivals from around the world.

I inhale deeply and breathe out. Your eyes grow soft.

Breaking the melancholy, I pull out one of our standard Friday questions, “How was your week?”

Morgan is a topic for sofa, blankets, and ice cream at home and you understand this.

“Funny you ask…”

(words 1,255; first published 2/4/2024)

Flash: Song for Rosalynn

Image from Habitat for Humanity

I hate my life.

Waking in the middle of the night humming means someone is going to die. The worst thing is they aren’t dying right now, which means the song is stuck in my head and it is the worst. I mean the song itself isn’t bad, majestic yet homey and full of laughter and loyalty, but it has this annoying jingle theme mixed in that is just addictive. It’s not time to sing it yet, but it’s eating at me and I didn’t get a lick more sleep after it woke me at two am.

I made my way to the office coffee for the third time this morning.

“Hey Sullivan, you are a banshee, who’s dying?”

“Huh?” I grunt setting back the coffee pot onto the counter after pouring out the little skim at the bottom. Someone before me had made very sure to leave just enough in the pot they weren’t the ones needing to make the next one.

Rude.

I slug back the charred liquid in the hopes it would wake me up enough to make more.

“Dying … as in about to end?” Chad Parfait from claims leans against the counter. “Who is about to go to the big party in the sky?”

“Wouldn’t know.” I mumble after dumping out the filter and spent grounds. Looking inside the holder for the filter, I see spludge clinging to the sides but don’t have the energy to walk all the way to the bathroom to rinse it out. I drop the next filter in the basket and pull the coffee canister to me.

“Oh, come on.” He pours on the charm. Really, he should be in sales instead of claims the way he can just turn it on. “It’s not like it is a big secret. It’s all over the news, banshees everywhere are humming. Something big is about to go down.”

“Not my Composer, not my song.” I lpull the canister lid off.

Fuck, just enough inside to not quite fill the scoop.

I kneel down and open the cabinet under the coffee station.

“Fine, be that way.” He huffs, waving his fingers around. “You banshees always got to be all spooky mysterious.”

When we aren’t wailing on walls at the top of our lung, sure.

Coffee! I pull the new yellow plastic jug out and hug it to me, standing.

I empty the old container, then dumped that betrayer in the trash can on top of the grounds, and then add the prescribed additional scoops from the new one and set the brew going. I ignore everyone else approaching, staring at the whining machine like a kid focused on an ice cream cone. They, unlike Chad, respect the space of an addict and her addiction. As soon as the wake-up nectar starts flowing, I pull out the pot and place my mug underneath.

Once full, I switch the two containers back judiciously so none of the go-juice splashes out.

On normal days I would add enough sugar to qualify for diabetes, but this Friday is a black-black-black Anish-Kapoor-isn’t-allowed-to-buy-it-black day. No additives needed.

***

The Underwriting vice president pulls me into her office after lunch, officially checking to see how I’m doing now that I just passed my three-month probationary mark. A banshee herself, she was touching base with all the wailers in the department. I had noticed her asking each of us to report to the office. I’m number three and the last one.

Don’t ask me why insurance companies like us banshees in the life insurance underwriting business. It’s not like we know a person’s death date unless they are in our Composer line. Yes, meeting a person who will die within the day usually sets off a tune, but that isn’t useful in modern insurance with computers creating a barrier between us and the person we are evaluating. Still, somehow, we have the reputation of precognitive ability outside of our very limited real abilities. (If we actually had solid precog, do you think any of us would be working with the lottery available?)

Admittedly, the actuaries have run the numbers and we are 2% more accurate than average humans, enough to be statistically significant, but not really a big thing. But when one talks about insurance companies, 2% adds up over time and they snap us up like candy.

I’m not going to turn down a guaranteed job and went the easy route in community college, picking the courses needed to land me an insurance career.

Dr. Foster is humming that dang jingle theme under her breath when I enter. I still haven’t placed it, though it seems familiar.

“I give up, what is that song?” I say after closing the door, hoping I’m not out-of-line with my guess that this is an older banshee checking in on a young one, not a VP touching base with a recent hire.

The manager waves to the chairs in front of her desk. “Oh, an old commercial. Kids back in the day would make fun of presidents, back before … sorry, no politics. Anyway, all fun and games. How are you holding up?”

“Not my first rodeo.” I shift, getting comfortable in the chair.

Her face firms, slightly sour and in control. I imagine it is how my grandmother would have looked if she had been able to keep ahold of her sanity as long as Dr. Foster has. Late fifties is an accomplishment and I really would like to learn how she did it. I should be listening to her instead of acting strong. “But waking up in the middle of the night is rough.”

“Isn’t it though?” Her black eyes soften, lines crinkling at the edges. “I’m used to it as an old woman. The bladder doesn’t hold it well anymore, but a midnight song is never easy. Did you talk to anyone about it?”

“Umm, no.” My fingers twist in my lap. “I know that the counselors recommend talking it out, but I don’t have any roommates. I just moved here for the job.”

“No boyfriends, girlfriends?”

I shake my head.

“Could you call your parents? Your mom likely would have been up with this one.”

“Dad is the line and so it skipped a generation.” I shrug. “And it was 2 am.”

She didn’t ask about the previous generation, grandma. Banshees rarely live long.

The VP taps a beautiful blue and white decorated almond shaped nail against her wooden desk. “You need to get someone. A banshee buddy or other supernatural, even a human … boyfriend?” The last word raising in a question.

I nod. “Guilty, straight as an arrow.”

“No shame in that.” Dr. Foster smiles at me. “We got enough to deal with, adding anything out of the ordinary just makes life exhausting.” She should know, being the only black VP in the company, and the only woman VP, though the female thing is fairly common in life insurance underwriting departments. Banshees getting special attention and all that.

I mean, look at me, three months in and getting a one-on-one with the Vice President of my department, skipping right over my supervisor. I know Kelly is Dr. Foster’s special choice to replace her when she retires, but if I do things right, and don’t go mad before Kelly takes the seat, I could be Kelly’s protegee.

“I’ll think about it. Do you think one of the other banshees here could buddy with me?”

“Sadly, all of them are in committed relationships and depend on that person for their support system. Besides, it’s usually better when it is someone other than another banshee, that is only a last resort.” She rotates her chair sideways and stands. I stand with her. “When it is two banshees, they end up talking over each other when they get the same song, instead of listening.” Dr. Foster places her hand on the doorknob of her office door. “Better to find someone else, but if you can’t link up with the Banshee Wall. A great community, you can get some really helpful hints there.”

She opens the door. “Keep up the good work and welcome to the team.”

“Thank you, I really am enjoying working for Jackson and Prior.”

***

Mr. Lincoln, my direct supervisor, gave me a delivery to take up to the fifth floor soon after my meeting with the VP. Nothing really out of the ordinary. The owners of the company are vampires and prefer to do things the paper way. Usually Mr. Lincoln delivers the end-of-week report for our group upstairs after emailing Dr. Foster her copy, but he wanted to serendipitously find out what happened behind closed doors.

I lied, saying she was just welcoming me to the team, and he lied saying how he loved how our department is a family and Dr. Foster inspires him with her teambuilding. He really is a good manager, but the glass ceiling in underwriting clearly makes him bitter. Mr. Lincoln should transfer to a different department if he couldn’t handle banshees jumping past him in the hierarchy.

Women have to deal with it everywhere else. Suffer.

The Chorus hit while I was upstairs.

Normally I already be in the bathroom hoping no one needed a big shit until the song completed, but company policy allowed us to take over any conference room, as they all had soundproofing, even shutting down a meeting if needed and kicking everyone out when a wail takes over. I manage to shove open the door to the executive meeting room, Crone-blessed empty at fifteen of five on a Friday, before the opening notes hit.

The room is amazing. As an insurance company we have pretty nice things, but top floor rooms take it to the next level. Brown carpet soft under the feet, unmarred wood table with an audio call-station in the center and room for eight large ergonomic chairs around it. Wood paneling instead of obvious acoustic tiles. No beat-up chairs line the wall, like they do in underwriting for when we had to get everyone in the room. I cross to the window overlooking the city as the evening lights start to flicker on under the setting November sun. Lugh was showing off with a display of red, orange, and yellow.

Tapping the glass, I confirmed the sound of shatterproof, bulletproof material. I can blow out my lungs, and the glass wouldn’t end up on the street five stories below.

Music flows, filling the large space. I can hear my sisters sing of hope and love. Determination. The woman we sing of isn’t dead yet, but her final coda has started. Two days and our predictions will become reality and the rest of America will mourn with us.

May your melody be heard and your memory bless those that know you Rosalynn Carter. You did amazing things.

Sometimes I love my life.

(words 1,818; first published 11/26/2023)

Ymir’s Songs series

  1. Fifteen Minutes (10/09/2022)
  2. Song for Rosalyn (11/26/2023)

Flash: Honey’s Adoption

Image by Nika Benedictova on Unsplash

“Aw, isn’t she the cutest.” I hunch down beside the black cat. “Look someone has put her in a costume.”

“Jessie, it has orange eyes.”

“I know.” I sit beside the cat, not directly in front of it so she (or he, I wouldn’t want to misgender the black beauty, but in my mind all cats are girls like my calico pair at home) could decide if we might be friends. “And believe me, if it’s owner is around we would be having a talk. But I don’t think they are contacts, they look natural.”

“Its nails are blood colored.”

“They did not!”

The cat hissed at my sudden outburst.

“So sorry honey,” I say looking down at the cat, “but did your owners paint your needles of death? If they did, that is so rude. Could I see, please?” I hold out my hand carefully, waiting.

Turning towards me, the cat holds out a paw, her claws extended.

They are indeed red, but it appears the keratin is naturally that color. I take the foot and press the toe beans to extend the claws further. “All good.” I whisper, assuring her and myself, letting go of her foot. “Gill, they are fine, she just has some unusual coloring.” The cat stands up and saunters over to me, standing on her back legs and raising her small body so her front claws prick at my jeans.

I hold my breath, and Gill, bless his overcautious body, takes a step back. She pushes off and lands in my lap, the wings opening and closing with the movement. Turning around in a circle in my crossed legs, she presents me with her long black tail with a swish across my face, an extra smack against my nose, and an unmistakable view confirming she is female, before settling down. I start scritching her behind the neck and she arches into it.

“Where…” Gill coughs. “How are those wings attached?”

I dig into the fur, looking for strings or some sort of wire frame, maybe a leash support. The wings look leather with very short fur over them, almost a felt, thick along the lead edges mimicking bones; whoever made the costume did an amazing job. “Not sure,” I answer, “I can’t find anything.” I frown. “Not even a collar.” I run a hand down the body. “Oh, honey, do you need a place to live?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“No?” I raise my eyebrow at my live-in fiancée.

“No, we do not need another cat.”

“We can’t take her to a shelter, not this close to Halloween. All kinds of kooks grab up black cats this time of year.”

“No. She is a demon cat, look at her.”

“Darling, they are all demon cats.” I lean closer as I continue to pet her. “Isn’t that right honey? Do you have a name? Would you mind if I call you Honey for those beautiful eyes of yours until we figure it out?”

Gill sits on a discarded can in the alleyway. “No, please do not name the demon cat.” He covered his face with his hands. “We will have to take it home, then keep it separated from the others for two weeks, then all the new vet bills, explaining why the fuck Honey has wings.”

“So you think Honey is a good name?” I ask happily. Honey’s body is doing a deep, nearly silent purr against my hand. “She likes it.”

“Right,” Gill sits up straight. “Honey,” he says to the cat and she lifts her head to look at him. “Oh, this is going to be a fucking disaster,” he mutters, before continuing in his I’m-in-control voice I enjoy so much in the bedroom. “Do you want to be adopted?” he pauses and her head tilts sideways. “By us. We have two cats, normal ones … well they are both whack jobs and Patches ain’t too smart.”

“An understatement,” I whisper to Honey, “but I love her for it.”

“Queen Bee is gonna to do the territory thing. But she is lazy about it and will wear down. But,” Gill held up a finger and I felt Honey tense under my hands, “Jessie and I are engaged. We plan on getting married next June after I finish college and we will be having two children.”

“Four,” I whisper really soft to the potential adoptee, Gill was an only child didn’t know just how big his heart could grow. I felt Honey relax back into the pets. A full house doesn’t seem to be a problem.

“You must treat these kids well. No harm to our children, to our present fur babies, any future fur babies because Jessie collects them as you can see, or to us.” Gill dropped his hand to his knee. “If you came to live with us, you are welcome, and we will protect you as one of our own, but we expect the same courtesy.”

Honey looks back and forth between us, takes a gentle swipe at my hand, and then leaps out of my lap. Those gorgeous wings do a quick spread for the perfect landing then pulling against her body. Whoever made them did an incredible job. She walks away, her tail swishing.

“Oh, oh well,” I say, disappointed. “I guess, as clean and neat as she is, she already has an owner.”

At the entry of the alleyway she meows in annoyance, turning her orange eyes at us. The sunlight streaming in from the street made them look like they were glowing.

“Oh, wait, she wants us to follow!” I jump up and go to where Honey is sitting, waiting for us, her wings completely blending into her fur.

Gill reluctantly follows. “No, I think she is waiting for us. God help us.”

Honey hisses at Gill.

“Sorry, no G word. Got it.” He shrugs. “We don’t use it much.” My patient, forgiving boyfriend pauses in the twilight between the noon sun on the street and the midnight dark of the alleyway. “Blessed be better?”

Honey stands, flicking her tail high before walking over and rubbing his legs.

(words 1022; first published 11/20/2023)