The wrinkled gent woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. Staring into the
darkness he saw nothing. Gloom and fear ganged up against his mind. Had he
heard something? What was it? Something falling with a bang? What?
He had heard things fall in the night such as glass picture frames—old strings giving
way. The picture would crash to the floor, shattering the glass. He would recognize
this. But he did not hear shattering glass.
Was it a thief in the night? He lay listening, not daring to move. The night was dark,
cloudy, gloomy—and scary! Desperately replaying the sound, he heard a bong in his
A bong! That would have come from the old grandfather’s clock. Yes, it had to be his
grandfather’s clock. He knew it. His stomach released its tension.
His eyes popped open again. How could it be the clock? The clock stopped running
when his grandfather died – forty years ago, this very night!
Suddenly the clock started striking. Twelve strokes at midnight. With bolt-upright
attention, he sat in self-detention, and pondered.
His grandfather was a strong man who lived to be ninety years old. Then the clock
stopped to run no more. One of his kin wrote a song about it, and it was sung for
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf, so it stood ninety
years on the floor. It was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed
not a penny weight more . . .”
He would find out why the clock was striking. Slipped quietly to the room near the
clock’s encasement, he saw the clock standing with its door open.
His eyes adjusted a little, and there in the floor he saw a dark object. What was it?
He had left nothing there on which to stumble in the night. You learn a few things,
he thought, in a long life like his. And you keep things picked up so you won’t fall
Moving with stealth, he saw something hunched and furry, standing vigil with eyes
reflecting light. His cat! Apparently, the cat had chased a mouse up the clock
seeking safety. Its weight tripped the spring wound tightly, causing it to strike.
In his delusion the old gentleman grabbed his shotgun from the mantle. With the
menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger. Now the old grandfather’s
clock is no more. And the cat and mouse are a taxidermy chore.
Written for John Heck's "Choose your forte!" contest
A mouse doesn't ask for mercy from a cat. It can't meow the syllables.
Though its stomach is full, the cat, being unacqainted with mercy, will toy with a mouse.
Does the tiny heart that beats to bursting point, feel eternity?.... while pinned to the floor by that mighty paw! Any soldier could tell you.
It was a chilly morning in paradise...
Autumn was already here...
A time for strange things to happen, as it is that time of year...
She was up most of the night, doing a write....
Regarding some hubs and her series titled "Legend of Fred "
Ahh the questions she had... rolling around in her head..
Were “where were her readers, her followers “ her Hubbers...?
They had all seemed to like what she wrote in the past..
But lately her hubs were falling so fast....
She had written articles on health and life..
perhaps she had targeted too much strife...
Maybe they wanted to read about food..
But when you're not a cook, that would be kinda rude..
Oh, will wonders never cease ?
So she decided she'd get some zzzzz's
She lay in her bed, not moving at all...
but breathing quite deeply, as I saw the covers fall...
So I stretched my muscles and walked ever so slow..
So as not to wake her , then I spied her big toe..
Sticking out from the blanket..it was such a temptation..
And with me having such a" foot fixation".. however...
She needed the rest , so she can finish her quest..
I have some thoughts of my own...
that I would like to share in a poem..
And I would be happy to help her.. but..
I don’t think the world is ready for me...
as I am a BLOGGING CAT.. you see
So I will close for now...everyone have a great week...as
I'm off to seek something that has a tweak and a squeak..
The way he says my name
When he meows
His eyes light up when he sees me
Wagging his tale
After a long day
Hugging him like a baby
Caressing his fur under the chin
And between his ears
Taking his face in my hands
Kissing him on his head
After I am finish with my prayers
He would come lay on his favourite place
Warm and cosy on my lap
My fury fuzzy temperamental
Oh the many creepy crawly gifts
He surprised me with
The occasional half dead snakes and field mice
Licking my forehead to wake me up
So loyal and lovable
He listens attentively
Interrupts with a meow
When he needs for me to explain
Yup we have our one sided
This is not crazy
Cats do understand
"Suddenly you remember an old Chinese tale in which cats once ran
the world until they decided it was too much bother. That's when you
stepped in, another story. Say you get up now and go back to work"
Dian Duchin Reed
I once had a Lilac Point Siamese of royal lineage
who entered our commoner family as a small
ball of silky fur, home-schooled in the basement
until he discovered the joys of the climb.
In time, he grew beautiful, sleek, and mischievous,
loved the warmth of sunshine and stovetop,
delighted in rearranging the coffee table flowers
in front of my egg yolk yellow plastic couch,
(it WAS the seventies, after all). One shout,
and he was out, knowing the rules
of the house, knowing too, noblesse oblige,
that pardon followed hard on the paws of beauty,
intelligence, and a feline sense of humor.
At bath time, cats and water at polar ends
of the tub, I was a Botticelli nude, awash in suds,
cat at breast, his blue eyes black with dread,
and though love prevailed between the species,
when toweled dry, cat fled, taking his righteous,
royal rage to simmer beneath the bed.
We named him "Charlie Chan" for the serial
father of forties' movie fame, Charlie when in grace,
C Chan, shouted out when in the cathouse
with his mom, Super Cat by any name. Daily
reveille was his, crouching bedside each dawn,
minutes to spare by cat time until the alarm clock
triggered a leap into our bed, and a practiced
tread over recalcitrant bodies.
If, as it is said, animals have no sense
of future tense, then Chan, a blessed Buddha
of the interminable now, could not foresee "NO pets"
unwelcomed in our path. Into the arms
of another woman who pledged to love him, I
placed one confused and frightened cat. Now
years past, absence making missing stronger,
I cannot part with the broken heart
I ask this poem to mend.
Fables of CharlaX
There is far too many to make a short list there is superstitions eye remember
when eye was just a kid. The many things my girlfriends had to tell me things
they ruined life at such an early age there is the BROKEN MIRROR that brings
the SEVEN YEARS bad luck? The black cat crossing my path. The ladder that
was never under the beam do not step under that in a funk of disbelief eye did all
them things and now eye am homeless could it be that eye am superstitious or
just unlucky in my life but then eye have met my violet flower my only one and only
new life partner she is such a wonderful person not a superstitious reason in her
curtain eye am certain of that now? The cat was never black enough to scare me
but there was that just one time? It ran of course because my petting would have
kept it from the dinner the mouse tail sticking out of a very black and ebon mouth.
No bad luck can come to me AH HA eye cried its nothing. Then eye ran a little up
the hill to home. And almost strangeld self eye ran full tilt boogie into the wire
clothes line nearly taking off my head and losing all the dread of dying for there it
nearly was. That was back in 1961 the time is not important there was never any
time for love. Some things eye can remember but choose not to keep at all. Do
not mop the floor under my feet is one.
Do not make such sweeps under my feet and yes we did we told the girls to put
the feet up so we must seep there anyway do you want me to get fired from such
an important job as this one?
They screamed and left the diner sure that bad luck was to come upon them oh
gentle reader ewe don't laugh Erline never sweeps behind the counter.
Stalk the pavement,
Jump up on a wall
And arch your tail
As a dog barks in the night.
This is your feline time,
Shadows cast by the moon's
Radiance, hiding under wheels
Of cars or on walls and rooftops:
You are silent with padded feet.
Overlooking your dark domain,
An intruder comes and challenges,
Stiff fur, a screech and a hiss
Like fat in the frying pan;
A shadowy flurry of movement and claws.
Back in the house you curl up,
Fur soft and yielding to
Eager fingers and hands that stroke
And produce a rhythmic purr with
Always the threat of a vengeful scratch.
Her tail quivering
My cat leapt into the air
Grabbing hold of my ceiling light
Being a boring night
I turned the light on
And watched her shadow
Change from time to time
Sometimes it appeared to be a face
Other times… as a large bird
But later that night
The best shadow she projected
Was one of a cat
Hanging from the ceiling
Kitten-play is sweet;
a precious jewel of a moment renewed
by each new discovery.
A butterfly-chase ending in a bumblebee moment
of enlightenment and sometimes
a succeeding “ouch”!
The butterfly is a more hospitable playmate.
Graceful leap into a patch of soft delicate wormwood;
A tree-leap, a prick on the nose from a rosebush;
it’s about as friendly as the bumblebee!
A jet-sprint to the patio results in a
back and forth stretched-roll on the warm concrete.
The pose that says, “I like this place; can I stay?”
Perhaps on another adventurous day
kitten will discover,
the catnip bush at the far end of the yard.