Post by andromeda on Jul 27, 2020 8:25:35 GMT -8
A splash. Two splashes. A thousand splashes, unceasing like time. The drawn-out heartbeat of the ocean syncing with her own. Each brush of seaspray was a deja-vu of the last, though when the past, present, and future were one, reliving history becomes all but impossible. Memories are simply alternate versions of now. She wraps herself in a cocoon of the present moment. Outside, the world stretches on. Inside, she is forever.
She wades deeper into the waves. A large bass floats just beneath the sea spray. She takes her time. As the wave retreats, she finds her paws on solid sand again. She hooks the fish in her claws and drags it to shore. A surgical killing bite, an act of mercy. She watches the fishâs upward-facing eye milk over, then rests her salt-caked muzzle briefly over it. Thank you, Silver Sky.
The shadows inside the abandoned shop were deep today. It was but a little bit after sunrise, but the distant glimmer of the ocean already seemed to promise a scorching, sunny day, making the coolness of the shop ever more welcome. In the deepest corner of this small hideaway lay a large bass and a couple of crayfish. The bass was the main attraction, the crayfish, an amuse bouche. The heat of the day had yet to penetrate the threshold; the door was left ajar, as was the window, and fresh, cool ocean air filled the tiny room. Even so, the dayâs catch would begin to putrefy before long, and whoever it was earmarked for had better come sooner rather than later, if they didnât fancy gullfoodâŠ
Clearwaterâs shadowy figure busied about at the back of the room with lumbering but sure-footed movements, shifting various objects back and forth as if occupying time for the sake of it. There was no apparent logic to it. A chipped seashell on top of a wobbly armchair. A bundle of dried herbs dangling off the end of a rusty fishing rod. It was her own space of controlled chaos. Knowable entropy, if you will. It was the only organization scheme that made sense to her. Try to interfere with it, I dare you.
She had been thinking for a while of moving, however. She had found this little hideaway only by accident. It looked so ramshackle, even dangerous, on the outside that she hadnât at all been surprised that it remained unclaimed before her discovery. Yet she had remained unscathed all this time, and the building looked no more prone to crumbling now than when she had first moved in. As useful as it had been, she wasnât the biggest fan of sleeping indoors. It reminded her too much of the mostly dull and stifling moons she spent as a housepet. Even after claiming this little shop for her own, she slept outside most of the time. There was no dearth of safe, warm sleeping places around, as it seemed most humans were too tired to bother with feral cats, and there was so much fish guts left around the skiffs that other predators always got their fill before they could move on to cats (which werenât all that tasty compared to fish guts when you think about it).
And the little shop had its own problems. During the winters it frequently became too drafty to bear, and the absence of nooks and crannies, coupled with its high ceiling, always made her feel overexposed. The shops around it, which also used to be empty (just fully locked), began to fill up with stuff and then, inevitably, humans. Soon, she wagered, someone will come around to patch this one up, and it, too, would be opened for business, selling tackle or ocean-themed jewelry.
But for what it was worth, this shop had become quite famous among Oceanside cats. Every three turns of the sun, she left generous helpings of food inside for those too weak, or too lazy, to hunt. Everyone was welcome, no matter their circumstances. Did she ever feel taken advantage of? Well, maybe, but as far as she was concerned, any such feelings would be quickly subsumed by a sense of fulfilment and purpose that heartened her days. In any case, what she was really after was any information about her sister, which she knew would sooner or later break through the wealth of gossip traded amongst her regular rotation of patrons.
She knew it would be a slow day when sunlight began filtering into a still-empty storefront. She paid it no mind, really; summers were always slow because prey was overabundant and appetites generally sluggish. She would wait until noon. After that, the shop would heat up, and she would have to find refuge from the sun elsewhere. But before then, she would have plenty of time to reorganize.
She wades deeper into the waves. A large bass floats just beneath the sea spray. She takes her time. As the wave retreats, she finds her paws on solid sand again. She hooks the fish in her claws and drags it to shore. A surgical killing bite, an act of mercy. She watches the fishâs upward-facing eye milk over, then rests her salt-caked muzzle briefly over it. Thank you, Silver Sky.
⌠⌠⌠⌠âŒ
The shadows inside the abandoned shop were deep today. It was but a little bit after sunrise, but the distant glimmer of the ocean already seemed to promise a scorching, sunny day, making the coolness of the shop ever more welcome. In the deepest corner of this small hideaway lay a large bass and a couple of crayfish. The bass was the main attraction, the crayfish, an amuse bouche. The heat of the day had yet to penetrate the threshold; the door was left ajar, as was the window, and fresh, cool ocean air filled the tiny room. Even so, the dayâs catch would begin to putrefy before long, and whoever it was earmarked for had better come sooner rather than later, if they didnât fancy gullfoodâŠ
Clearwaterâs shadowy figure busied about at the back of the room with lumbering but sure-footed movements, shifting various objects back and forth as if occupying time for the sake of it. There was no apparent logic to it. A chipped seashell on top of a wobbly armchair. A bundle of dried herbs dangling off the end of a rusty fishing rod. It was her own space of controlled chaos. Knowable entropy, if you will. It was the only organization scheme that made sense to her. Try to interfere with it, I dare you.
She had been thinking for a while of moving, however. She had found this little hideaway only by accident. It looked so ramshackle, even dangerous, on the outside that she hadnât at all been surprised that it remained unclaimed before her discovery. Yet she had remained unscathed all this time, and the building looked no more prone to crumbling now than when she had first moved in. As useful as it had been, she wasnât the biggest fan of sleeping indoors. It reminded her too much of the mostly dull and stifling moons she spent as a housepet. Even after claiming this little shop for her own, she slept outside most of the time. There was no dearth of safe, warm sleeping places around, as it seemed most humans were too tired to bother with feral cats, and there was so much fish guts left around the skiffs that other predators always got their fill before they could move on to cats (which werenât all that tasty compared to fish guts when you think about it).
And the little shop had its own problems. During the winters it frequently became too drafty to bear, and the absence of nooks and crannies, coupled with its high ceiling, always made her feel overexposed. The shops around it, which also used to be empty (just fully locked), began to fill up with stuff and then, inevitably, humans. Soon, she wagered, someone will come around to patch this one up, and it, too, would be opened for business, selling tackle or ocean-themed jewelry.
But for what it was worth, this shop had become quite famous among Oceanside cats. Every three turns of the sun, she left generous helpings of food inside for those too weak, or too lazy, to hunt. Everyone was welcome, no matter their circumstances. Did she ever feel taken advantage of? Well, maybe, but as far as she was concerned, any such feelings would be quickly subsumed by a sense of fulfilment and purpose that heartened her days. In any case, what she was really after was any information about her sister, which she knew would sooner or later break through the wealth of gossip traded amongst her regular rotation of patrons.
She knew it would be a slow day when sunlight began filtering into a still-empty storefront. She paid it no mind, really; summers were always slow because prey was overabundant and appetites generally sluggish. She would wait until noon. After that, the shop would heat up, and she would have to find refuge from the sun elsewhere. But before then, she would have plenty of time to reorganize.
| tagged DELAWARE | ooc ugh i love oceanside #dejavu for july |
