ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Commercial & Creative Writing»
  • Creative Writing

A Cat in the Cradle

Updated on June 28, 2016
Dean Traylor profile image

Dean Traylor is a freelance writer and teacher. He is a former journalist who has worked on various community and college publications.

Source

The cat staggered onto the porch and plopped down in front of the door. Blood flowed from a neat little hole in its neck as his body twitched and contorted, as it made one last grasp to stay in the world of the living. Death on the other hand, had other plans. The cat drew its final exacerbated breath before expiring. Stillness came over the cat’s body as a pool of crimson expanded on the porch.

From within the house, somebody stirred. A scrawny little girl stuck her head out of a flame-gutted window overlooking the porch. She brushed her nappy, matted hair from her face and stared at the dead cat.

“Kitty, kitty,” she purred.

Warsaw after World War II
Warsaw after World War II | Source

She emerged from the window. There, she stood; her ratty clothing and scarred and muddied bare feet exposed.

He held a black fire-poker that was meant to protect her while her brother was away. She approached the cat and poke. The action brought about a morbid glee that stretched across her ash stained face. That glee grew wider -- exposing her rotted teeth -- upon the realization that the cat was truly dead.

She heard someone approaching, ambling through the rubble. From across the street, emerging from the remnants of a two-story home, a teenage boy, brandishing his pellet gun stepped over the frayed walls onto the dead, brown lawn. He rushed across the street, up the porch and toward his prize. He stared at the still cat while trying to catch his breath at the same time. The girl glanced sheepishly at the boy.

“A clean shot in the neck,” the teen gloated between gasps of air. “We won’t be going hungry no more.”

“Food?” the girl droned.

“The catch of the day,” the boy answered.

The girl’s smile widened: “Better than rats?”

The boy smiled at his sister and lied: “You bet little girly. It’ll be like eating prime ribs from years past.”

Inside, the shattered and blackened home, he found the one thing that was unharmed. It was the cradle that once served as the girl’s bed. He plopped the cat into it.

He knew the girl never had anything like prime ribs before. The world went to hell when she was a baby. She has never known anything like prime ribs. She hadn’t known anything that resembled edible food.

Sun-light faded, quickly and ominously. Fear etched its mark clearly on the teenager’s dirty face. He glanced toward the heavens to see dark, ominous clouds slowly crawling across the sky. It had the tell-tale signs of black, radioactive rain. He felt sick, realizing the dangers of such a cloud.

“We better head to the shelter,” He ordered her.

“Bad clouds coming?” the girl inquired, seeing the foreboding expression on the boy’s face.

“Bad clouds coming,” the boy answered.

He reached down and grabbed the cat by the tail. By this time the blood coagulated and stained the cat’s fur. He walked around the porch and entered the shattered house through a hole in the wall. Inside, the shattered and blackened home, he found the one thing that was unharmed. It was the cradle that once served as the girl’s bed. He plopped the cat into it.

Source

He saw the collar and the name: Tabby. It was once the neighbor’s cat. It was the one he used to feed when those neighbors went out on trips. A lump formed in his throat, but the grumble in his stomach cured him of that. He peered again through a hole in the roof toward the oncoming clouds. He didn’t have to bemoan the past or consider what he and his little sister had become.

The girl re-entered through the window, giggling, giddy, with delight.

“So it’s yummy?”

“It’s always yummy.” the boy answered, faking a smile.

He grabbed the cradle, while his sister – always being helpful, took the pellet-gun away from him.

They ventured to the safety of the bomb shelter in the backyard, knowing the day wasn’t lost; they were going to eat tonight.

photo obtained from glasstone.blogspot.com.
photo obtained from glasstone.blogspot.com.

The Future Good or Bad

© 2016 Dean Traylor

Comments

    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    • Eldon Arsenaux profile image

      Eldon Arsenaux 16 months ago from Cooley, Texas

      Grotesque (why? to our feline-sensitivity) but riveting. Keep up the stellar work Mr. Traylor! Adios,

      -E.G.A.