Beth Sherman

Nala is in the dirty laundry basket, dreaming about hard-boiled eggs, when something dark flies through the open window. Midnight. The moon a pasty wafer in the sky, black clouds drifting like a shroud. 

A rustle of ebony wings wakes Nala and she sees the thing – a huge bird? a Two Leg? – hovering over the bed where Dave sleeps. Nothing wakes Dave lately. Not his alarm clock. Not sunlight. Not when Nala climbs on him and kneads his chest gently with her paws because she’s happy to see him. He gets up when he’s good and ready. Nala likes that about him. Meanwhile, the thing opens its mouth and Nala, who has excellent vision, notices its pointy teeth and too-red popsicle lips. It’s watching Dave the way Nala watches the basement corners where mice like to hide. Now the thing bends over and strokes Dave’s neck with its talons, which look stabby and brittle. Its sadness matches Dave’s sadness. Its mouth stretches wider and Nala knows if she doesn’t act, it will fasten its lips to Dave’s neck and that will be the end of everything good.

Nala lets out a hiss that she hopes sounds scary and the thing jerks its head up, flattening its ears. Nala does the same, preparing for battle. The thing floats up up up to the ceiling, hovering, stalking its newest prey. Spotting Nala, it flies straight toward the laundry basket, but Nala is quicker and nimbler. She darts here, there and everywhere, squeezing into spaces it can’t reach, avoiding its clutches.  

Now the thing starts speaking words Nala doesn’t understand. Angry words. Nala hears the bitterness in them. Longing, hatred. Nala knows her name and also come, lay down, stop, no, let’s go, sleep, litter box, carrier,and her favorite, treats. None of these words are uttered. She smells its rancid breath, the lingering blood of other, weaker prey, and this triggers a memory of the Before Time – mud and rivers, caves and kings, witches and fools.

She leaps six times the length of her body so it’s like she’s flying, her eyes golden sparks, her fur electric. She sees the thing start to panic, flailing its wings at the window with loud thuds. Gah gah gah, Nala thinks it says until the moment when it launches itself at the moon. The noise wakes Dave, who rolls over and scratches himself. Hi, Nala, he says, with a yawn. Another boring Saturday night, huh? Nala walks over to him slowly, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and snuggles against his thing-free neck. Are you hungry, Nay-Nay?Do you want more water? In the moonlight, Nala gives Dave a long, slow blink and Dave smiles. It’s been a long time since Nala has seen that grin. She blinks again, even more slowly. I know, Dave says, stroking the tender place between the cat’s ears. I love you, too.      

What Beth said about the prompt:
I don’t own a cat, so for research purposes I visited a local cat shelter where my friend volunteers and spent a few hours observing them

Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work has been featured in Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee.
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Read more from Beth:

Ghost Parachute – ‘Alchemy‘
Bright Flash Literary Review – ‘Cages‘

Here on Trash Cat Lit – Good For a Dead Girl and The Prompt Says to Write About an Animal