Hamilton the Brave "Thank Gawd," Hamilton wheezed, rolling to his squat feet. Pausing to wobble on his paws, he yawned, stopping to admire the way the sunlight created fire and sand over his short, silky pelt. A silky pelt which once hung looser, gliding over powerful muscles, stopping the heart of any choice piece of prey
. Hamilton stopped, scowling distinctively, dulled yellowed teeth perched on the corners of soft, wet gums. He shook his head rapidly, red collar swinging wildly on his layered neck. "No use thinking about what once was," he purred softly, somewhat reluctantly. His ochre tail thrummed behind him, raising delicately into the morning dew as he dipped his head to his bleached chest. Sure, the thrill of the hunt was breathtaking. The taste of wild meat was hot and rich, true, and the joy of being a hunter was as nearly as strong as the pride was immense. But hell, fat cats were much easier to pet than skinny ones, weren't they? With a flush of sleepy pride, he
Cranberry Dreams I dreamt I drank the last of the cranberry juice this morning. It was almost too tangy in that unsweetened way, but I drank it anyway, enjoying how the liquid slopped and slid against the cheap glass. I watched in appreciative dream induced silence, observing the way it left watered down crimson notches, much like scarlet coffee lines, to mark my steady progress.And when I woke up, the near constant presence of the cat was absent, and nose-bleed reminiscent blood hung on my lower lip and chin. Licking my lip tentatively, I found it tasted like cranberry juice.