On-the-spot #2

Fluffy Kitty was a showgirl back in the day, a sought after sexpot with golden hair and emerald eyes. But that was a long, long time ago, before the drugs got ahold of her. They took her looks and her all her money, and now Fluffy sits in her crappy apartment in the housing project, eating Cheetos and cat food, which she generously shares with her ten cats, each one named after the old girls from the show. It's sad, but Fluffy is happy. As long as she has her cats and Jerry Springer, life is pretty good.

I often wonder what ever became of the Bread Sack Lady and her feline companions. So strong is the memory, I believe I could touch her if only the recollection would utter a single word.

Perhaps some day I will tell the story....

The old lady settled onto her porch with the cats curled around her. She named each one, silently, as she looked around at them. Casper, Bill, Arsenic, Forlin, Cassie, Lorca, Spot, Darkling, Courtesy, Kofe. She could remember days long gone, when the cats had been her true brothers and sisters, when they had been huge and had run over the plains with no one stopping them...
But then it came, the shift in the way of the world, and the eleven of them had become merely the size of housecats, of barncats, of pets. And she, the eldest of the eleven, had prayed to the only goddess whose ears were open to their pleas. In the middle of the night, Felicia had prayed to Bast with all her heart and all her soul for a way to make sure that her brothers and sisters were safe in this new and frightening world.
And when she rose in the morning, it was on two feet. And when she spoke, it was no longer in the soft language of cats.
She remembers, as she sits on the porch with her brothers and sisters, how she had put a roof over their heads and food in their mouths. It was true, they were safe.
But for Felicia, things had never been the same...

She used to be a happy young lady, surrounded by love and financial stability. The way that she walked around the streets was full of finesse and glory. No one could ever take away what she had, she thought.

The fire in the lamp lights kept her company as she walked along the street in the night, remembering the days when she was glorious and free. Free of pain, debt, and cold. Free of the harsh, cold sting of reality. How had she lost it all? How had she been brought to this?

She sat on teh park bench in her tattered old jeans and her ugly, stained brown coat, her wrinkled eyes stinnging with cold, and her finger tips peeking out from the holes of her 20 year-old gloves. A kindly looking stranger passed her by as she begged for a few cents. Another ignorant person assuming she was some substance abuser. But how could they know who she was? That she had lost everythign because of nothing she could control?

Overcome by a deep pit of depression, and a sudden reminder of her lost love, she krept back into her bed in the bushes just at the side of the freeway and she lay there with teh tears falling from her face. The stray cats from the neighborhood surrounded her as she took her last tearful breath.

And it was then she was known as the lady with ten cats. No one knows who she used to be.

She used to be the young lady with ten cats. Before that, she was the little girl with ten cats. And one day she'll be the dead lady, and the we can finally get rid of the ten cats.

You all know those cat ladies, those weird, weird cat ladies, with a whole house filled with feline friends. Natasha Lars was one of those cat ladies, and like most cat ladies, she had an interesting past, more than just being a loner.

Natasha Lars was a superstar. Ok, not really. She was a one hit wonder. When she was thirteen, she came out with the hit single, "Eat My Dust Dairy Cow." It was hip. It was catchy. It was totally techno. Anytime you'd go clubbing, the song would echoe in your ears, even though at that time Natasha Lars wasn't old enough to even go to underage clubs. Natasha had high hopes for her future. She was working on her next record.

It bombed. "Say Goodbye Chicken," was not quite as catchy or fun or fresh. It was just...lame. The critics smashed it. Anyone who listened to it did so to make fun of it, and soon enough, Natasha Lars was wiped off the map of the entertainment industry.

She always had hope though that something would catapult her to stardom again. Until she was thirty, she eagerly waited for the day VHI would call her up, asking her to be on one of their has been TV shows. When she was thirty, she got that call. She went to LA, shot the show, and came off as the deranged woman who thought she still had a shot in the music biz. It didn't help her comeback.

Natasha Lars had learned to face it. Her dreams would not come true. She might as well just lament to a couple of cats for the rest of her life, and that's what she did.

I know what they're thinking. The kids in the neighborhood only stop by on Halloween for candy, all nervous and concealing their laughs. Occasionally when a baseball rolls into the yard they come to get it. I watch them from the window as they dare each other to step into my yard. What do they think I'm going to do, feed them to my cats? Not likely, tough, chewy stringy little bastards, they are. They think I'm a witch. I just like to keep to myself.
If they ever gave me a moment, I'd tell them. Oh, maybe I wouldn't. They wouldn't appreciate the rambling story of an old lady. They won't appreciate it until they are older, anyway, I'll never tell.
This one's name is Sputters. He can't meow. When he was a kitten I kept telling him to spit it out already; that's a phrase I adopted from my mother, God rest her soul.
She used to say that to me when I would get too excited to speak. I'd come running in to the house with some news from school and get so excited the words would tangle in my mouth, and she'd say, "For heaven's sake, Cynthia! Spit it out!" Sputters.

That one over there is Wendell. I've had a cat named Wendell for years. One Wendell dies, I get a new one, and name him Wendell too. It just always seemed like the right thing to do. The rest of the cats have come here over the years. I couldn't turn them away. They're my children. I'd go find me a new Wendell and bring home another sad little devil of a cat cuz I just couldn't leave 'em. The Wendells always come with baggage. I know, I shouldn't laugh, but it always seemed the way.
Why do I name them Wendell? Well, let me see. Wendell was my very best friend. We grew up together. He lived over on Pearl Street. I lived on Moore, right around the corner. He loved cats too. When we got older he said he would marry me one day. His family moved away for work though. That's when finding work in these parts was hard to do. My heart was broken. Wendell George wrote me letters. I still have them if you want to see them. He made me promises and told me how he loved me and I wrote back and said all the same stuff, just in girl words.
One week I didn't get a letter. The next I got a package in the mail. It was from Wendells's mother. She wrote me a note that said he'd gone into the Army. Wartime and all, so many young men went away. She sent me some things he's told her to. A photo of him. A letter he hadn't had time to send, his letter sweater from school, and a ring. He'd been working as a farm hand, saving his money. The letter he wrote said it wasn't an engagement ring, but to save the spot for something better when he returned.
The next letter I got was a condolence. He never came back.
I wish that ring still fit. He was my best friend. It didn't feel right replacing him. He was the only one for me. See over there, around Wendell's neck? That's the collar all of my Wendell's wear. The pendant is the ring. Only seems right. Just always seemed like the way.



I wasn't paying attention to the clock. I have no idea how long that took. Not too long, but...well probably too long. I like this character.

Robin was a beautiful young woman. The type of woman that men go home and have fantasies for days. Lush light brown hair with natural streaks of blonde, full lips, deep set eyes, and body that even a movie star would envy.

In spite of her good looks, Robin was excessively smart, and she rose quickly among the ranks in the Marriot chain. She was now a district manager and was in charge of setting up the openings of all new facilities. Her promotion was the begining of her end.

Long hours, too much money, lead her to cocaine, and a chain of men that were not good for her. She took off one day with a group of them while doing drugs, and every imaginable type of torture happened. When she sobered up three days later. She had no, clothes, money, or any idea where she was. This caused her panic and run naked in the streets of Philadelphia.. which she didn't do for long because the cops came for her.

Her family came to get her and took her home. She no longer was employed by the Marriot Corporation and she went to work in her father's restaraunt.. however 10 days later she took off for parts unknown.

A year later after numerous bouts with the law, and on again off again treatments she was diagnoised with schizophernia. Her parents were told she would never recover.. and was in the hospital for three years. That is when she escaped and started hitchhiking.

Tom was riding in his truck and saw her. He thought she was beautiful - if only he had seen her before since she just now had a hint of her original beauty.. Robin hopped in the truck and the two hit it off. Tom worked on computers for the Navy and was too educated to pay attention to her little oddities.. the two married.

Robin was advised not to have children... so she bought a cat who happened to be an unfixed female. Tom didn't care about the cats, and they were Robin's companions and she wanted more. They kept the voices out of her head.

Miss Lizzie was once called "Liz." A beauty in her time, she had her choice of the neighborhood boys. She held back, waiting for the thing she'd read about in so many countless books, love. She thought it might come bursting in at the door one day, but this never happened. On an intellectual level, she knew what she was looking for; love was the very thing that she was raised with in a family with two outstanding parents and five other siblings. It was like a peace that grew within you when everything seemed calm. But Liz longed for adventure.

Liz's best friend was adventuresome. She wasn't sure about being "in love," but she loved him and when love did not come bashing down the door, Liz decided that she could do worse than marrying this man that she loved. Afterward, she discovered that her feelings grew ever stronger. When their first child arrived, they both felt that love come bashing at the door.

Soon afterward, though, Liz's husband grew restless and began a new adventure. Liz, her heart broken, decided to raise her child alone. That was when her passion for cats began, when Chumly, her first appeared one Christmas at the door. Chumly was skinny and sick, but after a few good meals his vigor returned. Chumly remained with Liz for the next ten years as she raised her child, completing her broken family and often reminding her of her missing husband. Chumly drew the attention of other homeless cats and the family continued to multiply long after Little Lizzie was grown and gone.
Miss Lizzie can still be found living in her three room house. There is always one or two of her cats curled on her lap whenever she sits down.

She lives in that apartment building behind the old library, only three rooms but enough for her and the cats. Maybe 90 lbs, long white hair in a neat bun at the back of her head, her bright blue eyes still don't need glasses. Anastasia they called her during the revolution, they gave her other names too but that stayed the longest until she believed it was hers. But she could never go home. The cats love her, they beleive in her no matter what she's called.