A Short Introduction

The family room curtains were completely gone. In front of the window where gauzy, rose-colored curtains had once hung there was now nothing, not even a plane of glass. At least traces of other furnishings were still there: the burnt frame of the couch, the wiring of a lampshade, and scattered plastic globules, which before being melted had been Jake’s action figures. Everything smelled of smoke. Although my mother said to think of it as a fresh start, I couldn’t look at the destruction of my home with her level of optimism. The night of the fire wouldn't stop replaying in my head.

The Cat Collector

She looked over the selection with practiced eye. Ever since the recent depletion of her collection Nancy had spent her afternoons at dozens of various suppliers searching for a suitable replacement, and so far with no luck. Wandering the aisles of the Humane Society, she reminisced. There had been Frito, Neville, Suzuka, Hawk, Bailey, Grace, Spartacus, and Gizmo. So many cats had come and gone. Now only two remained of her feline menagerie: Denny and Bella.

In her minds eye she saw Denny stalking some hapless creature, either rabbit, mouse, or bird. His sage green eyes locked on the target and his muscles rippling under tawny fur as he creeped ever closer. Whenever plucked up and cuddled Denny, the proud warrior, would twist and yowl until freed of such undignified displays of affection. Nancy respected his autonomy, as well as his rather devious hobby. In return Denny brought her the fruits of his labors. Oddly enough, these slain rodents and slaughtered songbirds were always beheaded. Nancy wondered what Denny did with all those heads. She imagined a pagan shrine hidden deep in the woods, dedicated to savage hunting gods, and lined with tiny skulls.

In contrast to Denny’s domain was Bella’s bower. Most of the prim feline’s days were spent in the attic. Bella was an artist, as passionate, as mad, as depressed, and as brilliant as they come. When hit with writer’s block or when frustrated by the hem and haw of life, Nancy climbed the spiral stairway to Bella’s ethereal world. More oft than naught, Nancy found the long haired calico seated on the window seat, silhouetted by hazy beams of sunlight. In traditional greeting Nancy nodded and Bella blinked. On the golden wood of the floor yarn would be strewn about in a dizzy pattern of reds, purples, and greens. For hours Nancy would trace the tangled weave. When her mind finally cleared Nancy re-rolled the balls of yarn and left Bella to her work.

Denny and Bella were attractive and intriguing specimens in her cat menagerie, but this time Nancy wanted to acquire something more than another beautiful and polished addition. For one last time Nancy surveyed the room and that's when she spotted the cage tucked into the corner. Peering inside Nancy met the feral glare of a scrappy black cat. She catalogued its features: one torn ear, patchy fur, a kinked tail, and a pearly white fang overlapping the bottom lip. As she leaned in closer, the frightened feline hissed and spit. A clipboard beside the cage read: Cosmic Creepers, older male, abused, and in need of a loving, patient owner.

“Purrr-fect,” the cat collector whispered under her breath.

Morning Meeting at Ye Olde Bookshoppe

Nancy pushed and squeezed her way through the crowd. Claustrophobia overwhelmed her. To free herself from the press of humanity she took a turn and ran onto the pedestrian crosswalk. Tires screeched and horns blared. From on high, death cast its shadow, but did not strike the quarry. Oblivious or perhaps just indifferent, Nancy continued her brisk jog across the street. She gave the irate drivers a big grin and a cheery wave, while the mantra of Alice and Wonderland's white rabbit danced through her head, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!”

They had planned to meet at the bookstore that morning at nine. It was already a quarter past the hour. “There’s nothing like making a good first impression,” thought Nancy, as she rounded the corner and arrived at her destination, Ye Olde Bookshoppe. An ironic name because as she pushed open the door she was engulfed by the smell of new books; the smell of freshly cut paper, of printing ink, and of binding glue; and the smell of distant worlds crystallized into tangible, reachable conduits.

The familiar thrill of finding and of knowing filled Nancy and she went to the closest display, picking up the first book that caught her eye. It was The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas; she had been meaning to read it ever since she had read The Three Musketeers in junior high, but there had always been other books pleading for attention. Her desire for just a small taste of The Count overcame the urgency of her situation, so she opened the book to a random page, “His mind was filled with a single thought: that of his happiness destroyed for no apparent reason,” and with that the book consumed her.