Adv. Short Story

By James Nehme

The Ritual

A boy alone wanders to a cat curled atop a two-step porch. At closer glance, the cat’s legs are twisted in what looks like an unpleasant style of sitting. He finally reaches a distance where he can inspect the creature only to be mesmerized by the hue of its fur, the very same orange tinge that belongs to the dusk of the sky. The cat’s eyes finally wake and see him for the first time, the boy however, is curiously looking around and upwards and finally back to the cat. He’s startled to find the cat staring back at him. Waiting to see if the cat will hiss at him, or take kinder to scratching, he watches. He had seen this cat last week he thought, but this one had different eyes, dead eyes. The cat looks to want to tell him something, but it never makes a noise. The stare eventually becomes too much to bear as he stuffs his school papers, rolled up in a cone, where he knows it’ll be safe, and runs off to his friends far down the street.

The cat looks up to where the boy was looking: Blackness of dusk engulfs the sky like the sun might have never existed, if not for the weak glow of the bitter sun. Agitation looms in her eyes; they flicker to life for a moment, only to be replaced back by what scared the boy off. She leaps off the porch that draws no looks itself, and keeps a steady pace down a street where remnants of a cheap city parade reside bereft of life, having not been touched or looked at in a weekend’s time. The cat completely ignores the cups still left with sugary liquid, and the empty bottles, and perseveres forward with a look of dedication that comes only from having one thing on your mind. The wind finally knocks one cup over, letting a second smaller one roll out to face the wind alone. As if the street didn’t look disheveled enough, barrels full of packaging, junk, and other waste sits in alignment all down the street. Although no discernable face seemed to come forth from the barrels, the cat avoids their gaze as if they warned her to not make the journey, or for some other reason.

A boulder of a truck sits idly, the midsection on both sides colored in with a light corn-yellow, and black letters placed carefully that reads: Harvest. McCormick’s finest. A swarthy man sits in the driver’s seat with glasses that look like they were forced on him many years ago by a mother who didn’t understand the inner workings of making friends, only for the well-being of her children. He holds a pained expression, which is painted across the lower half of his face, mouth contorted, like a weightlifter or superior athlete reaching their limits. He looks deeply into his lap and fails to notice a small creature near the door to the truck that has stopped to examine the silly advertisement that forcefully asserts itself to all that are tricked into looking. The striking shade of yellow embeds, among other images, a lace of leafs chained together, a smoothly cut crop of grains, tied with a brown string, and golden braids belonging to a goddess’s head, matching her honey golden eyes. Her hands are swept inwards up high in a gesture that

looks to be pleading with the cat. The eyes of this creature take in everything, and then fall to the hands of the goddess, the pleading hands become impossible to ignore. Moments pass, and the cat blinks away, ignoring the advice, and returning on her journey with a quickened pace now. She leaves the confused man and pleading goddess behind and traverses the street. Increasing her gap to the truck sizably, the man inside sighs at last and starts the engine to bring the boulder to life, driving off slowly at first, and then impatiently. The ears of the cat frolics in the air at the sound of the gears churning, screaming with effort, but she doesn’t give the two another look and continues on her way.

The length of the street appeared exaggerated, like it didn’t fully embrace its place in the oversized and maze like cul-de-sac, and yearns for something more, a sort of freedom. The type of freedom that doesn’t fall into your lap, the type you take and run with. The curtain of night races the cat, yielding results faster than the modest creature can turnover in stride. By the end of the cracked and disarrayed street, she instinctively heads into an opening caused by a missing board of a fence that cries songs of its own frail existence, and bids the cat a good trekking this time. Her detached demeanor goes unnoticed on the mournful soul, as her numb paws leap onto a broken toddler high-chair, and she rushes backyard to backyard, from fence to fence.

On the far left side of the next street, pitched under the light, two outlined figures both no taller than the waist of a tall man are locked in a skirmish over a dark object, probably a toy. Looks of terror, anger, and frustration are etched into the creases of their mouths and eyes as they pull for life and deaths sake. They strain like the loser, unable to hold the dark special talisman, will be relegated to a life of wifeless, poverty, and illness. They continue to struggle. The stronger one wins. A shadow the height of roughly the knee level of a tall man pushes forward and lets out a single long scream that brings the mother out, goading the maternal fear to kick in and rush to her daughter’s side.

The mother’s unrestrained scolding violates the peaceful air, as the cat makes its way into the street. The older women tell the boys that other boys their age don’t act like this. They say they know. She tells them they are getting no supper if they act like this. They say they know. She turns to the small child, but the child opens her mouth again to let out a wail “Kitty!” The mother lets out a breath and says “go ahead, go pet it once.” The child moves to the center of the empty pavement, seeing the kitten more finely as it moves into the light artificially provided by the street. Darkness set at last, the bitter sun hidden, the girl closes the distance. Reaching with her hand like she is greeting a friend, her hand comes within inches before a look of confusion matched quickly with horror transforms her face as the dusk-colored cat propels her body into the air with a feral sound and swipes with a vicious paw. The child falls back unsure if she was scratched or not, erupting like an active volcano into screams and tears. The mother rushes forward, the boys are nowhere to be seen, and the cat runs off once again - farther back into the cul-de-sac.

Noise that leaks from a dark blue vehicle with four teenagers laughing boisterously races down the street, clipping trashcans, and swerving like a skier might down a mountain. The boy in the passenger’s seat curses and relay’s a story about a raunchy beach party, “but” he says, only to be interrupted by a buddy in back who knowingly finishes his remark, “You won’t believe what happened at the party. Really – you won’t – some girl…drowned. It was crazy. Nobody even saw her go out into the Ocean.” A murmur from the back: “No way - that’s fucked up.” “Yeah, it happened when she left her friends and said something about taking a swim. Nobody saw her after that; her friends thought she was joking when she said she wanted to swim. It was 50 degree’s out.” “That’s stupid, she must have been drunk. “What’s worse? Her parents were busy setting up her 18th birthday party, and you know, she’s an only child. Imagine that? They have nothing now. I bet they feel like…shit, I don’t know. Like numb, everywhere.” “You know, it’s one thing that-“A piercing voice cries from the front of the car: “Look out!”

The car tears to the left slamming into a parked car. Airbags rush to meet their adversaries like noble warriors on a battle to save the kingdom. An orange cat wanders through dust, dirt and shards from the car as she keeps her eyes on the last street of the cul-de-sac - at last. She bounds now as a result of seeing this. She chases it down, ignoring the traffic signs, and plunges past the last street in a far-reaching street-circle maze. The stars now glimmer with a bit of hope.

Past the shallow tree land, deeper and quicker into the woods on the edge of the giant cul-de-sac civilization, fighting branches and getting swatted with little evasive tactics, sacrificed in order to reach her destination quicker, the cat is almost there at last. She can barely wait; her whole body is shaking with numbness. Breathing in the fresh air provided by the trees, she turns it into energy, running faster and faster. The creature suddenly grounds her momentum with the recognition of a single maple tree, revealing behind it a log that might be empty. The yearning of the cat ends as she nestles on top of it, putting her paws around a hole that peers into the rotting and decaying log, it’s far gone from the touches of life. Her dead eyes rest and droop until closed, and a heavy sleep falls over her. The pleasant moon’s ray’s fall over her resting head, quietness settles, once again.