Barkster preened gently in the moonlight; stretching his cat-legs to the extremities of their limits. His soft purrs echoed off the shadowy walls of the alley. Barkster knew this town like he knew the little rough spots on his tongue. Without question, Barkster was thoughtful. There were a few suspicious characters in town tonight, however, and Barkster knew what he had to do.
Barkster strode down the sidewalk, cat-like. The street was empty, still shiny with rain from the day before. Barkster’s cat-like eyes spotted the headlights of a car, a Pickle car. The morbidity of Mrs. Pickle’s race as they had entered the automobile age struck Barkster at the moment, until he was nearly soaked by spray from a particularly profound puddle when a befuddled Mrs. Pickle careened past, crossing from her lane opposite Barkster into the lane near him. Barkster, saved from this soaking by his cat-like reflexes, compounded his list of complaints with the Pickle race.
Leaping into the comforts of a cushy blueberry bush, Barkster began to review the events of the night. He had begun his nightly rounds through the city, and at first everything proceeded as usual. Then, near the edge of town, he had spotted a fire. There were never fires in Barkster’s quiet town. Since the town had been destroyed during the last war, it had been carefully rebuilt in a Utopian model, as depicted in the tracts of famous turtle philosopher Depictatus, and entrance had been strictly limited. The town was covered in foliage, designed for multiple purposes and for optimum ergonomics. For example, the bench Barkster had settled on was padded with the leaves of the blueberry bush, which also fed users of the bench.
Predictably, a program of this scale used on the whole town was quite expensive at first, despite its future self-sustainability. This unfortunately required the town to resort to tourism during these early formative years. The town had become rather isolationist in light of recent events, so this was a bit of an issue for many people. You see, the area had lost a great deal of learning and development during the last war. Barkster’s town meant to rebuild the area much better than it had been before, but this meant that they could not allow themselves to devolve into the state of those around them, who they would eventually educate as they themselves grew stronger.
Barkster’s job was an integral part of this plan, as he protected the town from the negative influence of people like Mrs. Pickle, and, more acutely, from fire. Thusly, Barkster advanced toward the fire at the edge of town, seeking to end its unjust imposition on the night. He halted in his tracks, however, when he saw he was surrounded on three sides by torchbearing animals, who did not appear to have seen him yet. He fled the area and regrouped with a few other night watchanimals and jumped back in towards the firebearers. They observed the bacchanalian ceremony of epic proportions
On the outskirts of the town, in the midst of a dense broccoli forest, the animals, led by a thick Rhinoceros, began to sing and dance to the beat of the war drums in the center of the circle. Colors swirled and body parts flailed as the beat grew quicker, more frenzied. The animals took up their torches again, careening around the circle in seeming ecstasy. Several fell to the earth, shaking in fits of passion, as the drummers left all semblance of rhythm behind and rolled through the climax of the ceremony.
As all the animals writhed in ecstasy on the ground, the Rhinoceros signaled the drummers, who took up a regular, martial beat. The animals recovered themselves and took up their torches again. They formed into lines and left the forest, with the look of those who just want to be fiends in their eyes, heading towards the innocent civilians in Barkster’s town.
Barkster and his companions hesitated not a moment to execute their plan. The alarm was sounded, and the town was evacuated to the designated safe haven. The soldiers prepared to do their duty and meet the threatening animals, an army from the surrounding area come to steal the town’s wealth, and Barkster and his crew of Detective Cats headed out to do the most important job: Barkster’s crew was in charge of rounding up the leaders of the animal cabal.
Barkster’s personal job was to capture Black Spycat, who had looked suspicious ever since he had moved to town. He was accompanied by two dogs, each piloted by moth pilots and loaded with moth shock troops (dogs had been exterminated in the war, but their carcasses were prevented from decay where possible and coopted for use in defense by the town). They arrived at Black’s house just as he was sneaking out the back entrance. Caught between two moth-driven dogs and Barkster’s long talons, he fled up an invisible tree and hid in an owl’s nest, where he was soon fast asleep.
Barkster knew not what to do at this impasse. He himself could climb trees but his nightvision did not extend to invisible trees, which he could only barely see in the daylight. Nor could he speak owl. Of course, his dogs could not climb trees at all. Looking about in a search for ideas, he saw a moth coming over the hill, followed closely by one of Barkster’s cohorts. The moth, named Admirable Goodmoth, flitted here and there, and, upon reaching Barkster and his dogs, it darted daringly into one of the dogs’ open mouths. The fight for control within the DogBrain was clearly evidenced by its erratic motions, and Barkster’s enemy seemed to have won the fight.
Barkster acted swiftly, opening the belly of the dog to free its complement of moths, hopefully before they could be stolen by the enemy moth. Unfortunately, this was not to be. The moths Barkster had released flew up to the owl’s nest and awakened Black Spycat. Spycat leapt from the tree onto the back of Admirable Goodmoth’s dog and they fled together. Barkster’s remaining dog released its moths to hold off Goodmoth’s moths and gave chase itself.
Meanwhile, Barkster and his companion cat positioned themselves to ambush Spycat and Goodmoth. When he passed, they leapt together, Barkster knocking off Spycat, whom he captured and brought to prison, and his companion, Actual Catster slicing Goodmoth’s dog’s neck open and killing Goodmoth.
The town was safe again, and the mess was soon cleaned up. No one ever threatened the village again, because they learned how to be good animals; everyone except for the Pickles, who never learned to be good animals because they liked their drink just a tiny bit too much.
Plot Idea in part contributed by Alex Hiatt and JT Ketterer, and Barkster the Cat Detective
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
To reuniting the flames of this
It was 7:30 when Beth arrived in the airport. She settled herself into a stiff airport chair quietly and awaited her plane. She had a long while to wait; she had been unable to get a ride any other time, but she had prepared by bringing her mp3 player and a paperback copy of Siddhartha. As a budding Buddhist and longtime reader, she was exploring her newfound spirituality through classic books like those of Kerouac and Hesse.
As the beat came in on The Island, things began to go awry for Beth. There were still but few people in the terminal; hers was the first leaving there that day, but among them were a few who threw Beth off her ease. Not knowing what exactly did this to her, she turned back to her book.
At a sharp pain in the back of her head, she whirled around to face behind her, her long hair sweeping in a wide arc to settle on her shoulders. She reached her hand up to touch her head, but felt nothing. Realizing the pain was internal, she began to turn around again, but something caught her eye. Down the hall, standing by a newspaper stand that had not opened yet, was a man in a tan suit, carrying a briefcase. He felt her gaze, and turned away.
Beth looked away and dug in her purse for a bottle of painkillers. Sliding her things under her seat, she got up and headed for the bathroom. The bathroom, smelling of cleaning chemicals and still slightly shimmery from its recent mopping, was not out of the ordinary for airport bathrooms.
However, for Beth, it had the odd, almost dead atmosphere that modern buildings have when one is alone and tired. An atmosphere created by the silence, silence that is very much worse than the silence one finds outside or in old buildings because it is the silence created by the soft padding of the air conditioning. And the floors, the floors are not meant to be warm and inviting; they are cold and lifeless. The near-perfect maintenance of the bathroom gave it the impression that Beth could have been the first person to enter; there were no echoes of voices long dead here.
Of course Beth would never have noticed these things were she in the middle of a busy day, well awake, with friends perhaps, or even strangers. Beth’s friends were a very vibrant sort, the kind of women you might have seen in fabric stores or other sorts of social gathering places; the type who catch up extensively on frivolous gossip at the supermarket and loudly pass ignorant opinions to whoever could not avoid hearing them.
Beth did not associate with these people by choice; they were really the only people she could be seen with in public; the small town she lived would not permit her to hang out with the few artistically and spiritually awake people in town: those who were not old enough to leave it.
Throwing the pills in her mouth, Beth cupped her hands together and got a drink from the sink. Just then, another woman entered the bathroom. She was tall, with black hair and black and white clothes. Gesturing quietly, the sink opened up before her, and, plugging her nose, she took the plunge. Reddening at first around the mouth, the corpuscles spread broadly around her face, not concentrating in any one area. This of course troubled Beth, because this woman had died a very long time ago
“Why, whatever are YOU doing here? ” inquired the aghast Beth.
The woman, rubbing her womanly thighs against Beth’s purse, replied “This is MY home, Beth, dear. I don’t see why you can’t understand all that; you’ve known this would happen since we were in school together ”
At this point, the man Beth had seen earlier emerged on the scene. It happened as quite a surprise for Beth, when the man’s head emerged seemingly from the woman’s hip, although it was soon apparent to her that his entire body was there as well, hiding behind the tall woman’s billowy dress. The man spoke up to Beth from his hip position.
“Do you know who I am, Beth? You remember the stories, don’t you?”
“Yes, Beth you really ought to remember the stories, from school, dear.”
At this point the memories came flooding back to Beth: She knew the man and his mythic stature, and the woman, and how she came to be here, even after her untimely death at Beth’s side decades ago. She knew why the woman had not aged, and she knew what exactly was in the man’s briefcase. . .
As the beat came in on The Island, things began to go awry for Beth. There were still but few people in the terminal; hers was the first leaving there that day, but among them were a few who threw Beth off her ease. Not knowing what exactly did this to her, she turned back to her book.
At a sharp pain in the back of her head, she whirled around to face behind her, her long hair sweeping in a wide arc to settle on her shoulders. She reached her hand up to touch her head, but felt nothing. Realizing the pain was internal, she began to turn around again, but something caught her eye. Down the hall, standing by a newspaper stand that had not opened yet, was a man in a tan suit, carrying a briefcase. He felt her gaze, and turned away.
Beth looked away and dug in her purse for a bottle of painkillers. Sliding her things under her seat, she got up and headed for the bathroom. The bathroom, smelling of cleaning chemicals and still slightly shimmery from its recent mopping, was not out of the ordinary for airport bathrooms.
However, for Beth, it had the odd, almost dead atmosphere that modern buildings have when one is alone and tired. An atmosphere created by the silence, silence that is very much worse than the silence one finds outside or in old buildings because it is the silence created by the soft padding of the air conditioning. And the floors, the floors are not meant to be warm and inviting; they are cold and lifeless. The near-perfect maintenance of the bathroom gave it the impression that Beth could have been the first person to enter; there were no echoes of voices long dead here.
Of course Beth would never have noticed these things were she in the middle of a busy day, well awake, with friends perhaps, or even strangers. Beth’s friends were a very vibrant sort, the kind of women you might have seen in fabric stores or other sorts of social gathering places; the type who catch up extensively on frivolous gossip at the supermarket and loudly pass ignorant opinions to whoever could not avoid hearing them.
Beth did not associate with these people by choice; they were really the only people she could be seen with in public; the small town she lived would not permit her to hang out with the few artistically and spiritually awake people in town: those who were not old enough to leave it.
Throwing the pills in her mouth, Beth cupped her hands together and got a drink from the sink. Just then, another woman entered the bathroom. She was tall, with black hair and black and white clothes. Gesturing quietly, the sink opened up before her, and, plugging her nose, she took the plunge. Reddening at first around the mouth, the corpuscles spread broadly around her face, not concentrating in any one area. This of course troubled Beth, because this woman had died a very long time ago
“Why, whatever are YOU doing here? ” inquired the aghast Beth.
The woman, rubbing her womanly thighs against Beth’s purse, replied “This is MY home, Beth, dear. I don’t see why you can’t understand all that; you’ve known this would happen since we were in school together ”
At this point, the man Beth had seen earlier emerged on the scene. It happened as quite a surprise for Beth, when the man’s head emerged seemingly from the woman’s hip, although it was soon apparent to her that his entire body was there as well, hiding behind the tall woman’s billowy dress. The man spoke up to Beth from his hip position.
“Do you know who I am, Beth? You remember the stories, don’t you?”
“Yes, Beth you really ought to remember the stories, from school, dear.”
At this point the memories came flooding back to Beth: She knew the man and his mythic stature, and the woman, and how she came to be here, even after her untimely death at Beth’s side decades ago. She knew why the woman had not aged, and she knew what exactly was in the man’s briefcase. . .
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