Opera Cat

Once there was a cat who that he could sing opera.

He had grown up on the streets and in the alleyways of the city, and once when he was young his mother had led him and the rest of her litter by the back stage of the opera house. On that particular night the air was sticky with humidity so the stagehands were at the door having at cigarette and letting in what little fresh air there was to the stifling backstage area.

What they were letting out was the beautiful sounds of the opera.

The melody called to the young cat like a siren song and he lagged behind his family to get a better listen. Nearing the door, he could hear the raising of the chorus voices filling the auditorium with gorgeous sound that wafted out into the alley like a sweet cooling breeze.

He edged closer, unable to help himself and one of the stagehands caught sight of him, and thinking he was trying to get into the back door, they kicked at him to scare him off.

The little cat scrambled to get away and caught back up with his mother and siblings, but it was too late, he was hooked. From then on he would sneak away whenever he could to come back to the opera house to try and get a listen to more of the glorious music of the masters; Puccini, Verdi, and his favourite, Wagner.

In his mind he pictured himself singing the great solos and sometimes when he got carried away he would begin to meow along with the songs being sung inside only to incur a beer can or cigarette butt being thrown at him to drive him off.

But that never deterred him from coming back time and again.

When he had grown and left the security of his mother’s watchful eye, he made his home in the alleyway behind the opera house and almost each night, sat and listened in the shadows.

Until one day the stage hands left the door propped open and unattended as they were pulled away for some set malfunction emergency, giving the foolhardy young cat his opportunity to leap down to quickly dart inside.

The backstage area was dark and full of random set pieces and props. Luckily cats have very well developed night vision and he was able to navigate unseen to the curtains off to the side of the stage easily enough.

There he sat and watched in awe as out on the stage the prima donna sang an aria that had the entire audience rapt. The melody built until the tenor was to come in to join her song but the whole occurrence was too much for the cat and he leapt out on stage to begin meowing in response to the opera singer’s song.

The entire house gaped in shock as the cat meowed loudly and the prima donna stared stunned at what she was witnessing; a little alley cat standing center stage, meowing along to the music, proudly and loudly as though its sounds were more than just regular cat throat calls; almost as if it was trying to sing.

Realizing she was still on stage, the opera singer did what she would have done if her partner’s singing was up to par; she sang loud enough to mask their imperfections.

From off stage the tenor stood with his mouth dropped wide watching his duet be sung by a cat.

When the audience erupted in applause at the end of the song, it was as much for the skills and professionalism of the prima donna as it was for the brave little cat, but he stood proudly as though he was the star of the show.

The prima donna turned to her unlikely partner and gracefully curtsied, holding out her arms to offer her ample bosom and the cat leapt into her arms and they took their bows together.

From then on, everyone there would tell the story about the cat who thought he could sing opera.

And he could.

http://youtu.be/CoSLD1sCyfc

Running to the Sea

The wolves descended upon us like darkness and we ran into the night.

We ran away from the bright lights of the city and into shadows of the forest.

I could hear their barks and howls close behind, and though I did not look back, I knew I would see their red, glowing eyes amongst the trees; their breath streaming out of their gapping jaws as their sped toward us.

You held my hand tight enough for it to hurt, but I wanted you to hold on tighter still, so to never let go until we were free and safe. My lungs began to burn with fire, but we kept on; to stop would be to let the darkness of the wolves take us.

Yet in the end I knew we could never keep up the pace together. So I let go your grip to fall behind; to not slow your escape.

You looked so brave, a fierce flame shining bright in your eyes as you looked back for me.

I smiled as the wolves over took me and closed my eyes to the darkness.

I could feel them all around; the heat of their breath on my skin; their furry bodies brushing up against my own. I was no longer running from them, but with them. The darkness I had thought would come gave way to the bright light of my new eyes as I opened them.

I looked to my side and saw my brother and sister wolves with me as we ran on; looked forward and I saw you running from us; afraid of the darkness that I had once been.

I howled to you to come to us but you ran faster still; so brave and so frightened, running blindly into the wood.

Breaking from the pack I raced to you, and as you turned and lost your footing, I overtook you.

Together we ran out of the forest and came to the cliffs that over look the sea; the sun’s first light breaking over the horizon, its orange glow warming the cold air of the night.

We stop and all together sit and watch peacefully as the sun raises high in the morning sky above the crashing waters below.

Now we are safe; now we run free. Now we are the wolves.

http://youtu.be/RJ-26smj5Ds

E-Tales on Kindle

So, my friend Jason Murdoch wanted to try some digital publishing and asked for some of my old short stories to format.

He worked hard and got them all uploaded on to Amazon's Kindle as an e-book!

Some are really odd and funny when I look back at them, but here's the link to the Kindle website! Take a look!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AHJN62I#_

Particle Distributor

Stephen had not returned; he had gone for lunch at his usual time, but he was late to come back. Stephen was never late to come back.

I looked up from my computer screen and saw Stephen's empty desk across the row; I wondered where he could be.

After a few minutes I looked again and was startled to see two men in dark blue overalls standing at his desk, quietly discussing where to place the equipment they carried.

The older of the two motioned to the other to set his thick, brownish tablet on Stephen's desk.

Placing it delicately down, the younger turned a knob set into the top of the rectangular slab and it began to make a humming-clicking noise continuously as they went about their work.

The older man set down his black case on the floor to open it up. Inside, the case held a blue-coloured device with a numbered meter on the front of it and a wand connected by a long clear tube to the top of the coffin shaped instrument.

While he unravelled the tubing, his partner took out a glass cylinder of clear liquid from the pouch on his belt and held it out to for him to dip the wand's tip into.

I watched in stunned silence. At first I wanted to ask what they were up to, yet my curiosity took hold as they went about their task. I wanted too see what it was that they were going to do.

Once the wand was sufficiently dampened, the older workman took it from the bottle, which the younger carefully covered and placed back in its pouch, and waved the silvery rod around in the air where Stephen sat.

After only a few passes, he looked at the meter and quietly told the readings to the younger man, who wrote them down in a notepad. He then put the device away in its case, and just before he shut it closed, I was able to read the label inside the case's lining: "Particle Distributor".

What kind of work were these guys doing?

The particle distributor safely back in its case, they returned their attention to the noisy brown tablet. The older workman told the younger to shut it off, which he did with a turn of the knob, and then clicked a side latch to open the tablet's faceplate off like a lid. I could not see what was inside but they both took notes on their findings and then closed it up again.

Their tasks apparently complete, they gathered their equipment and turned to leave.

Sensing it would be my last chance, I made to speak up and ask what they had been doing, but before I said a word, the older workman turned to meet my gaze and his completely black eyes burned out at me with rage. My words were lost with sudden fright and he turned slowly to leave with his partner.

Once they had disappeared around the hall corner, I turned to Will at his desk next to mine.

"Did you see that?!" I asked in astonishment.

Will did not look away from his screen, "See what?"

I pointed back at Stephen's empty desk, "Those two guys at Stephen's desk, they were..."

As I spoke I looked over to Stephen's desk and stopped in mid-sentence when I saw Stephen sitting with his back to me, working quietly at his computer.

"Hey," I said, a bit stunned. "When did you get back?"

Stephen turned slowly from his screen and his eyes were as pitch black as the workman's had been.

"What do you mean?" He replied in a hollow voice. "I've been here the whole time. Haven't I, Will?"

I looked shakily from Stephen's dead eyes to Will, fearing what I would see.

His eyes shone black as well.

"Yes," Will spoke in the same hollow tone, "The whole time."

I stood up quickly and looked over the cubicle walls to see dozens of teams of workmen, all carrying their kits; all stopping to look straight at me.

And the darkness of their eyes washed over me in a silent shout.

Yes, we had all been here, the whole time.

Don't Get On The Train!

Cleaning out my desk at work yesterday, I found a note. I have no memory of writing it, yet it was in my hand-writing.

"Don't get on the train." was all that was written, along with today's date.

When did I write it? And why would I write such an odd note to myself? Those questions came to me right away, but as the day went on, another occurred to me.

The note must have been in there for months, since that was the last time I cleared out the clutter of papers in my drawers. So how come I found it the day before the date on the note?

Any later and it would have be a moot point, the date having passed, I would not have seen it in time; but in time for what?

Why did I write the note?

As I tried to do my work, my mind raced trying to remember when and why; but nothing. Then my brain started to go off into wild imaginings like: what if I did not remember writing it because I have not yet?

What if somehow, me from the future wrote the note after some terrible series of events happened in the future all starting with me getting on the train, and I am trying to stop them from happening?

I chuckled to myself on that one for a bit, and then I noticed the red spots on the corner of the note. Faded and dried, they could have been red pen, yet they had too much of a brown hue to them for it to be ink.

Possibly coffee, I rationalized. Though, in the back of my head I thought of the fact I hate coffee.

I hardly spoke when I got home after work; I just kept going over the note and what it meant as I ate dinner and tried to watch TV. Through restless sleep I dreamt of a horrible train wreck on the subway and the pain of the screeching impact woke me up so I could not shut my eyes again without picturing the burning wreckage where my mangled body lay.

In an exhausted haze I got ready for work and left the house with a distracted goodbye.

Now, here I stand, waiting for the train to come; I can hear it roaring closer through the tunnels. In my head it is a rumble of dread.

I look down at the note and read its simple message once more.

Do I heed its warning from the future, or is it just some random scribbling I jotted down on the paper and forgot about in my desk?

Looking down the tunnel, the headlights of the train begin to brighten the darkness; like the present, come to bring light to the abyss of the unknown future.

As the doors of the subway car open onto the station platform, Jane looks at the dazed looking man in his suit and tie, carrying a briefcase in one hand and holding a piece of paper in the other. She frowns in disgust as she sees that he has pissed his pants.

Then she sees the poster on the wall behind him and remembers that she wanted to see the movie it is advertising.

"A Thrill-ride of Terror" it reads, "Don't get on the Train! Starts Today!"

Rain City

There used to be a saying; "When it rains, it pours."

They don't say it anymore. Now; now it just rains, all the time.

Light rain drops fall upon the brim of my wide-rimmed hat as I stand looking out from the high train platform.  I look out over the city; its tall buildings reaching out of the watery depths below.

People adapt; the world adapted.  After all that had happened; all the catastrophes, the world rebuilt itself to adapt. Adapt and thrive.

For now, there was no shortage of energy or fuel. It was all around us, it fell from the skies. Water powered everything.

The power of water harnessed in giant generators underneath the surface of the mega-structure buildings, giving us more power than we could ever use.

More than the oils that countries used to war over. More so than even the sun.

The sun.

I miss the sun.

It's hazy, yellow glow fills my memories. I can remember it shining brightly in the blue skies when I was young; it warmed my skin and made the days seem happier.

Now; now I look up and see the gray clouds, ever-present, ever pouring their chilly drops down from above.

A shiver runs through me and I clutch close my damp jacket.

Oh well, this is the world now. The city I live in; Rain City.http://youtu.be/-sNBgRObwW8

Rivals

He scoured the room; first turning over sheets of music that were already lying scattered about, covering the desk and chairs, then turning over the desk and chairs themselves; searching frantically.

Where could it have gone? He had to find it!

Running from room to room, Theo upturned every piece of bedding, furniture, and any other material big enough to hide it. In a few short moments the entire house was in a state of upheaval and he sat on the floor of the living room in a sea of papers, the morning sun shining through the windows that overlooked the sea.

His head in his hands, he rocked back and forth, racking his brains as to where he could have placed it. It had been right there on the desk in the study where he had always put it at night. He knew it.

Without realizing it, tears had begun to roll down his cheeks. He had never misplaced it before, not since the day it was given to him.

Theo's thoughts went back to that day, when he was just a boy, no older than 5 or 6, and his father had brought it home.

It's magic, his father had said as he brought it out from behind his back and held it out to Theo; a reddish, brown violin, with a bow small enough for his young hands.

The instrument did not look magical, or anything but ordinary, but even still, Theo hesitated to touch it. His father smiled and said it was okay; that it was his.

Theo remembered how light it felt, even when he was young. It weighed next to nothing, yet it was not fragile, but sturdily built. Even so, he took it gently in his left with the bow in his right.

When you play upon this violin, his father had told him in a hushed voice, you will be the greatest violinist in the world.

He looked up at his father as he said this and his smiling eyes were telling the truth.

With excited anticipation, Theo put the violin to his chin and the bow to the strings and began to play.

His father had been right.

The music he was able to play upon that violin was extraordinary, even in his youth; the masters of the instrument could not keep up. And his skills only increased as he became older.

Packed concert halls, and world-wide fame filled hi life, all because of the magic of his violin.

And when his father passed away, the notes he played at the funeral seemed to make the skies themselves open up and weep.

The violin called to him to play and he was happy to oblige it. No other musician was his equal when he played upon it.

Now, it was missing.

He was to unveil his newest suite to the world the evening and the violin was no where to be found.

Turning the expansive mansion on the hill upside down had yielded nothing.

Theo now sat in the study, where he knew he had left it and a breeze from the open window caught his attention. He had not left that open. The sheer white curtain fluttered in the soft, sea breeze as he approached the large window, its glass pane swung out wide on its hinges.

Had someone, somehow, gotten passed the elaborate alarm system and stolen his violin away?

Under the window frame on the floor Theo noticed a single sheet of music laying face up. He bent down to pick it up and rested his hand upon the sill. The alarm that should have gone off when the intruder had first entered started to sound as the weight of his hand activated the pressure sensor.

The blaring alarm seemed a distant buzzing in his ears as he looked upon the sheet of blank music in his hand. Blank, except for a single signed letter: G.

Theo crumpled the paper into an angry fist.

He shook with rage; He had snuck into Theo's home and taken his most prized possession; the one person who suspected the violin's true power, his longest and most bitter rival. Theo cursed his name under his breath as he stood in the open window that looked out over the hillside which lead to the rolling waves of the sea below, and vowed to hunt him down and get back what had been stolen.

He vowed to make him pay; Giorgio.