Brother Carl has the honor of being the author of the final kitten story posted in the rabbit hole… Thanks, everyone, for swinging the hammer, whacking the nail, and sending in your handiwork.
     – Indiana Beagle

 by Carl Magnuson

“Bollocks!”

I tensed as the realization set in that I had been left here on the sidewalk and the car that had deposited me was not going to change its mind.

I took a deep breath. It wasn’t cold. It had stopped raining. Poor Thatcher would have gotten soaked.

Why did the car have to leave me here?

And where is here?

I began to walk toward the intersection hoping the street names would give me some idea what to do. It was dark.

Stead and Brandon.

Nothing memorable about those names.

“Bollocks!”

Mother is going to be even more upset. Colchester is a four hour trip on a good day and I am quite certain the last bus has gone by this time. I could go to the station but the dirty old men there would never let me pass the night in peace.

I’m famished.

I cut across a grassy yard between two brick buildings. My toes felt a little wet now.

Thatcher, who was curled around my hand in my coat pocket, bumped against in my hip as I walked. Looking to the left and then to the right I saw the glow of some windows that could belong to a pub. I crossed the street. As I neared the front door the low the murmur of voices was suddenly drowned out by a man singing. After a few words a chorus took up his lyrics.

I stopped and surveyed the house and then up and down the street for a better option. Seeing nothing I decided to walk around the building. If there was a back door I could deal directly with a cook or serving boy.

I found what appeared to be the only rear door. I pounded.

I pounded again.

I tried the knob. It turned.

Peeking in I saw a dark entry with disordered shelves lined with bins and cans. Beyond that was the kitchen where I couldn’t see anyone moving. The smell of boiled meat and cabbage and carrots met my face warmly. I opened the door a bit more and cautiously stepped inside.

I closed the door, not entirely, knowing a quick escape might be necessary. The shelf to my left had some cans that I could probably make off with but it being too dark to see the labels no telling what I’d be eating later. Plus it would be dishonest. And where would I find a can opener? I pushed Thatcher firmly into the corner of my big coat pocket. He had, by the smell, apparently thought our fortunes improved and wished to see for himself. He clawed and bit at my hand gently. I continued cautiously into the dim light.

“What you doin’ ‘ere boy?!” Came a man’s voice.

I jumped, swallowed a scream and turned to face the direction of the sound. Thatcher bit my hand very hard then. I opened my mouth in pain and swallowed another scream just before it escaped. “Oh it’s alright…” The voice came again probably misunderstanding the painful expression for one of terror.

Thatcher relaxed his jaws.

As I exhaled the pain I could see now the voice came from a fat-ish man sitting on an overturned bucket in the shadows against the wall. A fag glowed red as he took a drag. A dirty apron hung down onto the floor between his legs.

He called me boy just now. Must be the dark and my short hair. Will a boy or girl get more sympathy? Can always change to a girl later. No going back once he knows.

I lowered my tone, “Sorry sir…”

“I said it’s alright.” He stood up took another drag and dropped the fag on the floor. He stepped on it. “I suppose you’re hungry. And you’re in luck cuz I’ve just ended my shift and there’s a bit left in the pot.” He walked toward the stove. “You’re lucky though I tell you. The normal cook doesn’t take well to beggar brats. Likely he’d have told you to wait by the back door and then come out with a pot of boiling water to teach you not to come round.” He chuckled a little as he picked up a bowl and slopped the ladle into the big black pot. It was crusted around the top edge with bits of veg which fell dripping from the bottom of the ladle as he went from pot to bowl.

I was ready to explain that I wasn’t a beggar brat. That I had planned to offer him coin in exchange for what he might have. That I was really visiting my Emily who had written me about her illness. That Thatcher and I had stolen away when mother forbade us to come see her in hospital. That I was a girl and NOT a boy. That I prefer my hair this length because it doesn’t get so full of dirt and twigs.

I wanted to tell him that. That was the story I had prepared. But as the man, now with a pinch of a grin, set the bowl down in front of me it was unnecessary. Stealing cans may have been dishonest but allowing his assumption in order to secure a free meal was just good sense.

Turning back to the stove he pushed some smaller pots and bowls around and from between them plucked a crust of bread. He tore it and tossed me one half.

I moved my hands to catch it but before the bread touched my fingertips Thatcher had clawed his way to the top of my pocket and was jumping down onto the floor.

Faster than I thought so stout a man could move Thatcher was scooped up.

My heart pounded. I dreaded the man’s mood would be turned because of the hatred most men have for cats.

He reached back to the stove and when he turned a small scrap of meat dangled from his fingers. Thatcher chewed it greedily.

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WEIRD: Two days after I’d posted Carl’s story and written the preface in blue at the top of this page, Wizzo received the following photo and email from the author. But that’s not the strange part. The strange part is that Carl doesn’t know Wizzo’s email address. He tried to guess it, missed it by a mile, and the email arrived anyway. How do that happen?