The Bloody Spoils of Writing

bw-cats-12Pardon this imagery, but…

Picture, if you will, a weathered old tom cat whose long ago lost its tail in some horrific incident involving a chainsaw, moonshine and a soused-to-her-gills granny. Now, this old cat is a mouser, a darn good mouser. He takes pride in his kills and occasionally, just ever so occasionally, drops his ratted booty at your feet to share.

You cringe, throw up just a little bit in your mouth, and then force a smile. “Thank you, Tom. Good murder. But it’s all yours.”

Not satisfied, Old Tom picks up the prized carcass, in lightning speed jumps and spits the dead mouse into your lap.

What are you to do? You love Old Tom, but frankly the ol’ fellow scares you a bit. It’s a healthy fright, one you’ve built a decade’s long relationship around. He occasionally kills for you and you occasionally slip the sweet kitty a bowl of milk. But still, you don’t have the balls to screech and run away from the assassin. Old Tom would catch you. So, again, what do you do?

You poke at the offering a little with a long stick (dropping it off your lap; you’ll burn your jeans later), grit out another grin at your mouser and coo “Let’s get you some cream to go with this, boy.”

End of unpardonable imagery.

Why the heck have I shared this grisly tale with you?

My creativity coming off a killer of a headache is Old Tom.

The dead mouse: my bloody poor writing.

I’ll leave the rest to you.

Until tomorrow…


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