On the Wall Sat a Cat

Free domain photo from wikipedia

     On the back courtyard wall of a long-standing town house, sat a calico cat. She surveyed a flock of sparrows, scattered on and below a little black feeder (set there for their use,) with the detached interest of her kind. She was Cook's favorite after all, and needn't worry about catching sparrows for her supper; besides mice were much fatter and the rewards ever so much nicer. (The last time she caught a sparrow she had been jabbed severely with the broom. Whenever she caught a mouse she received a fine dish of buttermilk and the choice leavings off the humans table, they were rather wasteful creatures weren't they?) 

     Her pastime was interrupted quite abruptly when, with a beating of many small wings, the sparrows took off all together in a cloud of brown feathered bodies. The cause of this disarray continued running, completely disregarding, (as humans are wont to do,) the disturbance he had caused.

     Now what is that human kit' up to now? wondered the cat as she stretched contemplatively. With a final twitch of her tail she set off along the wall to where, in a corner behind the little wagon cook used for market goods and such, the human child had stopped.

     Curling her tail around her paws, she settled down to observe this careless intruder to her domain: He was a breathless boy of seven or eight with sun faded brown hair and a jam stained shirt.  

  
     This was a writing exercise I set myself a wile ago. The first version was a very boring run of sentiences:There was a cat sitting on the wall. Below the wall there was a bird feeder. The cat watched the birds. Then a boy came running by. The boy stopped at the corner of the wall. The cat walked to the corner and watched him. Very dull, but it did serve to jump-start my imagination. I have no idea what comes next but I liked the way it came out. Who knew writing a cat would be so much fun? 

Also posted on my first blog, http://fromyesterdaystomorrow.blogspot.com/2011/05/on-wall-sat-cat.html  

Wish to be Weaving

  

   Sometimes all I want to do is write something, I want to dive in and have the words fall from my finger times like rain running off the eves. I want to wash the world away until nothing is left save my pen and I. I want to be swept away to some far off place and make it near enough to touch. I want to feel the rush of adrenaline when the hero, with myself beside him, fights to life and love. I want to feel the butterflies when she dances the last dance with him. Taste the blood in my mouth at a back handed blow. Smell the pine and cinnamon and the wood smoke from the castle Yule log… I don’t want to sit and academically think of what could happen, I want to be there I want to write it and feel it and see it clear as a sky in midsummer. How do I make it through brain storming and research when all I long for is that rush of discovery and creation? I tire too quickly of spinning and the sorting of many colored threads, I want to weave the stories at once, though I expect they would be poor at best if I were to do so, that is if they were ever finished at all.