Effing Feline, Recidivist

Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, Effing for short, writes the Weekend Writing Warrior posts on Mr. V’s behalf

I, Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, tried to behave myself. I failed, so of course I gave up. This week I scratched the couch where Ed Hoornaert, aka Mr. Valentine, couldn’t see. I barfed up furballs under the bed, in a closet, and in a shoe. I scratched the mail lady, delivering a new network router. There should be horns on my picture. Yeah!

Today’s snippet continues the opening of Mr. V’s WIP, Alien Contact: Becoming Human. Last week, our heroine was born in a forest, fully grown and ready to kill.

I stood on a house-sized slab of mossy granite.  Rain blessed my face as I gazed straight up through a ragged opening in the evergreens—the birth canal through which I’d been born?  A wall of prickly underbrush, a meter or more high, ringed the slab with no exit.  A jailbreak, then, was the first test of my worthiness for glory—but how?

The granite was craggy, like a miniature mountain, so I cautiously climbed its highest peak.  Pleased with my strength and agility, I stood there like a totem pole, one-point-seven meters above my birthplace.

Green-grey light revealed a hushed immensity.  Starved of sunlight, the ground beyond the slab contained only a few stubby plants, but fallen logs and moss-covered boulders made leaping over my jail cell walls suicide.

But over to my left was a tiny patch of flat forest floor.  Could I leap over the bushes and land there?

Effing Feline again. While you were reading, I found these neat-o cat horns online. Do you think should I order them?

Oh, and be sure to check out the snippets by great weekend writing warriors.