Category: fiction

cagey: adj. evasive. shrewd. crafty.
(from wordsmith.org, today’s word)

Smells sweet. Looks clean. Plays dirty.

******

She sees me at the sink, filling the coffee carafe with water. She knows I can’t escape. She strolls up to me, and I sense her even before I turn to look. I stiffen. We’re still getting to know each other, this cat and I, and I’m not so sure she likes me.

I invaded her territory, fell into bed with her lover. I understand her disdain.

Still, I’m bigger than her. Eventually, I figure, I’ll win.

She weaves in between and around my ankles and purrs. I relax.

“Morning. Rob’s gone already. So, either you’re feeling lonely. Or, you’re coming around after all.” I reach down and scratch just behind her ears. Her nose turns up and she leans into my leg. She trots back and forth across the kitchen, following me as I pour water into the coffee maker, walk to the drawer for a filter, head back to the beans. I press start on the machine and bend down for one more caress.

“You’re sweet this morning.”

She squeaks out a faint meow.

After the coffee’s done, I sit at the table with a cup and the paper. She jumps into a chair and up onto the table, directly across from me. I predict a stare down. Instead, she curls up into a ball and closes her eyes. So, I sip my coffee and flip through the morning headlines. When I head off to the shower, I ease my chair out so as not to disturb her slumber.

I get dressed and run through my day: 8am project meeting, outline new proposal, schedule interviews for new assistant. For once, I’m not even thinking about the cat. We had such a good morning; she was civil, even affectionate.

I turn from my dresser towards the closet and debate, flats or pumps. After one, two, three steps along side the bed, my legs shiver. I move sideways, out of habit. But not fast enough to avoid her paws as they jut out from under the bed. With claws extended, she grabs my leg. I recognize that squeeze, the prick, the burning scratch. I jerk my leg and she follows, hissing. Her eyes are red. She lets go, runs to the window and bounces off the wall onto the bed. She sits upright.

“Dammit, cat!” I grab my shoes, back out of the bedroom, and slam the door shut.

It’s only because of Rob that I go back, turn the handle, and let the door fall open just a crack.

In the hustle and bustle of the first week of school, I’ve struggled to find time to write. I’m tired, unfocused, disorganized.

So, here’s an exercise I’m giving myself (and you too, if you’re in need of a reason to write):

It’s called “Wednesday’s Word of the Day.” Click wordsmith.org on a Wednesday, see Today’s Word, and let that word be the inspiration for a story.

Yesterday’s word was “wildcatter.” I like that word, wildcatter. If I say it with a good Southern drawl and a little attitude, I feel a sense of power.

Wildcatter.

But yesterday was Tuesday, and this is Wednesday’s word. Plus, I couldn’t think of a story with wildcatter in the mix. So, on to Wednesday:

Frogmarch.
verb: To force a person to walk with arms pinned behind the back.

The word itself sounds silly, but the meaning brings a disconcerting visual to mind, for me anyway.
Here’s my story, flash fiction, with frogmarch taking the lead.

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After six Miller Light’s–on top of the two or three drafts he drank at the bar before–he jumped the railing and ran, arms flailing, across to center field. Security swarmed in from all directions, cuffed, and frogmarched him back across the infield. He grinned in response to the cheers and camera flashes, even as security jerked and pulled him through an unseen door into the bowels of the stadium.

She stood there, in the crowd, laughed nervously, and perspired.

“Helluva boyfriend you got there!” Someone hollered two rows back.

“Idiot, more like it,” an angry fan protested, “they were just about to score a run!”

She waited five minutes, maybe less. It felt like ten. Then she gathered jackets and her purse and left his half empty bottle. After asking a few ushers “where” and “how much trouble,” she gave up on trying to bail him out and went home to wait for the call.

When he did call, she diligently picked him up. She was nervous. He was perspiring. And he was angry.

It’s just the drinks, she repeated to herself, as he yelled from the seat next to her. Then, she slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He flew forward just enough to bump into the dash. Obsenties flew. Accusations. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. And her eyes darted left to right to left again, searching for security.