Kitty

Dear Vociferous Langoustines,

It seems like all I've been doing is posting stories, which really was not my intention when I started this blog, but it just so happens that I have less to say than I previously thought. At least, not anything interesting or vaguely witty. So, here's another story. It was recently rejected from a contest by way of elimination. The winner was to be notified by today, and I haven't been. Ergo, not the winner.

I also can't think of any other place to submit it. The story was based on the prompt that someone sees something they shouldn't have in a neighbhor's house and has to decide what to do about it. The way I went with it was pretty dark, and slightly strange, and I don't have any idea who else would be interested in it, so there you are my wonderful imaginary audience!

Enjoy.


The Cat's Meow By Matt Mok

There are ten pieces of mail for me today. Seldom this popular even at the end of billing cycles, six of them are not for me. Our mailman, the kind and wonderful man though he is, has been eligible for retirement for a few years now and in my opinion should take his much deserved time away from the rain and sleet and snow.

The Reardons live in the white picket fenced house to my left. I walk past posters for missing cats stapled onto the trees that line our street. Over the past month, there's been a steady increase of the notices, to the point that there is more paper than bark. I for one, am not sorry to see the cats go. My lawn has never been cleaner.

There's no response when I knock on their door, but I hear music. I walk around the side for the back door, stopping when I notice the kitchen window open. Loud classical music blares over the sound of crying. But it's not crying. It's a cat, and I see Tony, the Reardon boy, wrestling with it over the sink. The cat thrashes about until the boy lifts it up and slams it onto a cutting board, brandishing a meat cleaver in the other hand. As he raises it in the air, I turn quickly from the window, my heart leaping from my chest. The frantic cries stop abruptly with the thudding sound of blade on wood.

I toss their mail onto their front stoop as I flee. Pacing in the safety of my house, I contemplate what I should do, weigh my options, and wonder if I imagined it all. I turned away before I saw anything incriminating. Maybe it was a game, an insane, wrap-you-in-a-straight-jacket game, but maybe that's all it was. The Reardons, however, didn't own a cat.

Determined not to be driven crazy, I decide to wait until tomorrow to figure out what to do, hoping that a good night's rest would put things into perspective. But a good night's sleep I didn't have, and the decision is no clearer.

There's a knock on the door the next day. It reveals Jeffrey Reardon holding several letters.

"Hi Carl," he says.

"Jeff."

He hands me the letters. "Looks like Ray did it again," he says, referring to our near-sighted, white-haired mail carrier.

"Thanks," I say, smiling. I realize what I should do. I'll tell Jeff. He's the boy's father. Let him deal with it. "Jeff, I wanted to--"

I see scratches, small parallel red marks that run down his forearms. He notices me noticing them and quickly pushes his rolled up sleeves down.

"Gardening. Damn rose bushes, you know?"

"Oh."

"What was that you were saying?"

"What? I forget," I say.

"Well, alright. Tell Sarah I said hello."

"Bye."

Jeff turns around to leave but then stops. He looks back. "Almost forgot," he says, smiling "Peggy made all this meatloaf and we just can't finish it. I always tell her she cooks too much, but what are you gonna do? You like meatloaf, right?"