Humans are funny. They make me laugh but mostly they’re just boring. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a human? Do yourself a favor, don’t.
Cats, we know how to cut to the chase, to say what’s on our minds efficiently and succinctly. Most humans don’t know what brevity means.
Here’s a tip to all the two-legged beings out there. Until you can catch your food with your bare hands don’t bother me with your inane and pointless speech. And when you see me here yawning? That’s my polite way of telling you to stop talking. Please.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , M
The sacrifice had been made, the blood collected, flesh and bone set aflame. The priests had declared it a success, promised an abundant harvest and land free of drought. And the townspeople cheered, convincing themselves once more to believe the killings were for the greater good, for a noble and honorable purpose.
Rory carefully made his way up the stone steps, the brush and oils in his sack; one more trip to clean the sacred stones. And he wondered how long before it was his blood being washed from the altar, his remains being scrubbed by a new ecclesiastic servant.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , O
Rusted metal and decaying wood, the old gate was incapable of serving its original purpose. Now it only kept the inhabitants in due to lack of cognitive skills, inanimation having dulled their senses.
The residents of Morpheus Hill had yet to grasp that freedom was merely a step away, one slight push on the fence would send the posts sprawling to the ground, the rotted wood no match for even a fraction of their strength.
Abject terror kept the townspeople in their homes. But who has the courage to stop the dead, to erect a new fence around the old?
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , R
The cramped shop was piled high with glass jars and little pots. Only a small path on the floor was free of earthenware crockery and overflowing baskets. Competing smells assailed your senses, the heady mixture of herbs and dried flowers making you feel as if you’d just walked into a giant bowl of potpourri.
But the chaotic was actually cozy, the overwhelming almost homey. The shopkeeper greeted you from her perch behind the counter with a cup of tea and a smile. Browsing in the small space often took hours, a pleasant escape from the rush of the city outside.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , N
Smiling, he’d laugh if he could. Chasing the sea and the sand, almost weightless as his legs defy gravity, scoff at conventions that would tie him to the ground. A dash, a quick reverse, a full out sprint to another unseen marker; not aimless, just free.
Nothing stands between him and the horizon. He’d run forever if not for the love of his person, his devotion to her keeps his focus on these shores, in this place.
Exuberant, flying against the wind, he races nothing but himself, and the moment when his human tells him it’s time to go home.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , G
No holy sacraments were ever said but rather hasty words to pacify the remains of the damned. Reviled in life, feared in death, the bodies are lifeless but not at rest.
Each day the fence is rebuilt, the wire mended. Blessings are read with the laying on of hands, the shaman lending all his power to strengthen the links, keep the chain intact.
But each night the villagers can hear the rending of metal, the scream of a barricade being torn asunder. They huddle in corners with only faith for protection. If luck holds, only a few will go missing.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , I
A quiet street, two-story houses lining a suburban road. Well-manicured lawns and gardens, finely-pointed brick. You can almost smell the normalcy in the air, the “contentment” of the American dream.
But it’s late afternoon on a Saturday and it’s a quiet street. No children playing on the well-manicured lawns, no cars on the suburban road. As the sun sets the street lights come on like beacons, grounded stars, but the houses remain dark. And silent.
It’s over quickly in the end. A distant roar, a trail of noxious fumes in the sky, then nothing but vapor where you once stood.
© 2009 C.S. Evans and alphadrabbles; click image for original picture
Filed under: drabbles, writing , A
