Flash Fiction

Good Cat

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Chester is a good cat, or so his humans say whenever they scratch behind his ears or run their fingers through his soft ebony fur. Chester does not dispute the honorific. He keeps the basement free of rats. He suffers the destructive affections of their two young children. He keeps an ear out for when his humans are sad, and when comfort is required, he lies in their laps while they stroke his head and keeps them company until the shared warmth lulls one or both of them to sleep.

All these things are reason enough for Chester to qualify as a good cat. But there is also another, a secret known only to Chester and the rest of his kind. It is this last thing for which he claims with no hesitation whatsoever the high and lofty title of Good Cat. It is something he thinks about each night before he lies beside the fireplace and waits for his two adult humans to go to bed, for it is only in the stillness of a house asleep that Chester’s true work can begin.

Tonight is Christmas Eve, and tonight, more than any other night, he must be vigilant, for this is when the shadows come out—not the ordinary shadows that are just the absence of light, but the true shadows, incorporeal creatures who are incapable of love and who therefore seek to destroy the love they find in others.

Right now, the children are asleep, along with their parents, who earlier placed wrapped gifts beneath a decorated tree. The house is dark and quiet, and Chester, its only conscious inhabitant, marches from one room to the next on soft and silent paws, keeping his lambent green eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. He tours the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, the bedrooms, and when his tour is complete he doubles back and starts again.

Tonight, Chester’s true master will take to the skies to deliver his ultimate gift to the world, and Chester, along with his feline brothers and sisters, will watch over the humans’ houses, alleys, and streets in order to keep him safe. It is an ancient mandate, one that’s been passed down for generations. Tonight, Chester will do his duty, and in so doing, secure for himself a place of honor in the life to come.

Now, for the third time, Chester’s eyes sweep across the living room walls. He sees the two filled stockings hung above a dwindling fire, and he imagines the holiday rush that will follow the rising of the sun. The children, doped up on candy and Christmas spirit, will no doubt pester him for hours. Nevertheless, he looks forward to the lull that will come later in the day, a time when he can finally nap beside the humans that, in spite of everything, he’s grown to love.

Chester is knee-deep in this happy vision of the future when he spots the creeping shadow by the front door. It is not like the other shadows in the room. It is somehow darker and thicker and pulses like a diseased artery. Chester slips behind the couch, and, tail swishing, watches as it extends along the length of the wall.

Keen and intelligent, it avoids the light where it’s more likely to be spotted, instead favoring the ordinary shadows that give it cover. A human would never spot it, but Chester’s vision extends beyond the visible spectrum of light. To his otherworldly eyes, the malignant entity blazes like a torch. Chester watches it settle by the fireplace, where it will await the arrival of his master, and only after it’s nestled into a corner does Chester advance.

Like his ancestors who stalked the primordial forests of old, he closes in for the kill. He creeps closer, closer. The shadow doesn’t see him coming—they never do—and by the time it realizes it should be afraid, it’s too late.

Chester sinks his fangs into the shadow’s heart and is nearly thrown across the room. Biting into it is like biting into a live wire. Every muscle in his body contracts at once as the shadow in his mouth emits a piercing silent scream. It struggles to break free, but Chester’s grip is solid. His teeth puncture its massless exterior, piercing a soul that pulses and throbs like a mortally wounded heart.

Let me go, the shadow pleads. The force of its soundless voice is like a shock wave, distorting the space and time surrounding them. But Chester doesn’t let go, will never let go, and at last, after what might have been minutes or hours, he feels the shadow weaken. Its voice drops almost to a whisper, and the current of dark energy that almost threw Chester across the room slows to a mere trickle.

Like a twig, Chester closes his mouth around it, snapping the shadow in two. Exhausted, he drags his prey toward the fireplace, where he drops to his paws and dozes. For tonight, at least, his work is done, and now the only thing left to do is wait for his master to arrive.

* * *

When St. Nicholas—his current name, though before the Christians proclaimed him a saint he was known by many others—slides down the chimney donning ancient robes and carrying a sack not filled with presents but with a single gift that he will share with the entire world, Chester is ready.

St. Nick spots him lying beside the fireplace, and when he glances at the far wall, he sees that the shadow projected by the cat’s mouth contains another shadow, limp and lifeless.

St. Nick kneels before him like a supplicant before a king and scratches behind Chester’s ears.

“Good cat.”

Chester purrs, smashing his head into St. Nick’s face, and in response, the ageless man buries his hand deeper into the cat’s ebony fur.

“Good cat,” he says again, and after opening his sack, after reaching inside and sowing the seeds of a celestial love that will abide and grow in Chester’s human family until the following Christmas, he climbs the chimney once more, disappearing into the dark and dangerous night outside.

Chester curls into a ball beside the glowing embers of last night’s fire, and with his lambent green eyes beholds St. Nicholas’s gift, suspended in the air like motes of shining stardust. He lets the love it carries permeate his feline body, and once content, he closes his eyes and falls asleep, dreaming of endless ear scratches and naps beside the human family he protects.

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Reaper

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Once I see the motes of light flash across her cobalt eyes, I know my Earthly journey is complete. I have no regrets. I enjoyed my time as a human and will carry the experience with me into the life beyond.

“Are you ready?” the reaper asks.

I can already feel an invisible energy mounting inside of her. Like static electricity, it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” she says, “not really.”

I shrug and nod my head, saying nothing.

I peer into a starless midnight sky and watch the gathering storm clouds swallow the moon. During the day, such a sight would provoke mass hysteria. It’s the reason reapers only walk the world at night. Their work is necessary, but humanity has an innate fear of the supernatural and such events are better off occurring when most of the world’s population is asleep.

Her eyes are blazing now, punching holes through the deepening darkness. I take long and measured breaths, savoring the sensation, knowing this is the last time I’ll feel the rise and fall of the lungs in my chest.

I lived my whole life believing I was nothing other than human, and only when the reaper came to call me home was I able to recall my former nature. That’s the way this thing works. My kind discovered long ago that there are certain lessons only mortality can teach us. Without physical constraints and the ever-looming threat of death, there can be no impetus for growth, and without the impetus for growth, there can be no driving force for change. Humans, for all their faults, possess something altogether unique, and it is only after having experienced their ephemeral nature that we can realize our full potential.

“Will it hurt?”

Now it’s the reaper’s turn to shrug.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes emit a bright and feral red, and a moment later I close my own, afraid of what must come next.

“Goodbye,” she says.

A flash, so bright I can see it behind closed eyelids, followed by heat. I’m on fire, I think just before my human mind shuts down. The light gives way to a deeper darkness, and for a moment I’m floating, suspended in a timeless void. Then I feel a tug, followed by a pull.

Like a butterfly yanked from its cocoon, I launch from my blackened mortal shell into a different life altogether.

Goodbye, I think, though the reaper can no longer hear me.

I turn away, not mortal anymore but still human in spirit, and fly away to my home beyond the stars.

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The Fog

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Fog curls around my ankles like creeping vines, and all I can think as I stand there in the dark, surrounded by death, and stare up at a cold and lifeless sky, is how the world wasn’t always like this—how it was once bright, how it was once young and new, pristine and undefiled, a shining luminescent jewel that inspired wonder rather than fear and hope rather than despair.

But those days are gone, dead and buried along with most of the population. I watch dark and dangerous clouds gather in a dusky blood-red sky, and when I tire of watching the wounded horizon, my eyes drift back to the ground and the swell of fog churning at my feet.

What secrets does the fog conceal? What hidden horrors lurk beneath its tainted gunsmoke exterior? I feel the weight of its touch as it swirls above the ground, and if I strain my ears, if I focus on the many silences of the world and the dead things in between, I can hear it speak.

Your life belongs to me.

I used to hear its call as a child, either at night before the flames of a dwindling fire, or during the day in the dark alleys of an ancient city turned graveyard. It’s always reaching out, trolling the tenebrous waters of a forsaken world in search of prey, and there’s always someone who listens. As for myself, its call has grown more insistent, and as time wears on, as I pass through the threshold from youth into old age, the lunatic cry becomes increasingly difficult to resist.

Your life belongs to me, it says every night before I fall asleep and every morning when first I wake, and every day, I find myself more inclined to agree.

Now, here I stand, broken and defeated. I can fight the fog no longer, and though my mind urges me to run away, to flee into those few remaining corners of the world where the fog hasn’t gained a foothold, I have not the strength to go on.

Once, I think as the fog creeps up my legs, life was worth protecting. Now, what is there to look forward to each day but a bloated, terminally diseased sky? What is there to pass on to future generations? The fog took away our reason to live, and now that it’s prevailed, what is left to do but answer its death call?

Your life belongs to me, it says, sweeping up my back and my chest, over my shoulders and my head, and when that fetid off-white mist pierces my lips, when it shoots down my throat and into my lungs, I give in at last.

Your life belongs to me, it says again, and just before I close my eyes, just before the last of the oxygen is squeezed from my lungs and the final darkness of death blossoms before my fading vision, I hear my silent reply.

Take me away, I say, and the fog does exactly as I command.

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