Wattys 2019 Poetry Winner |
#1 Epic Poem January 2020 |
#1 Epic Poem June 2019 |
#1 Americana Nov 2019 & Feb 2021 | Meowza!
#1 Animal Fiction Mar 2021 |
#1 Animal Fiction August 2021
Seven cats live in Feline Society #337, along with Hooman #1 and...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
by Tom
The next stop, Hooman #A disembarks with me and Greg in wobbly carriers, one of us in each trembling hand, as he mutters under heaving breaths
how the lizardmen corpses exploded by ultraviolet lasers is the last thing he wants to explain to an Amtrak conductor.
Since the train was still more than an hour out from our Las Vegas stop, Hooman #A opts to purchase Greyhound tickets and bus us the rest of the way, leaving Greg and I imprisoned in our plastic, back-breaking cubbies with iron-grate windows.
Greg seizes the opportunity to lick lizard guts off his paws, purring at the delicious alien delicacy.
Inspired by the sounds of om-nomming morsels, I also try to lick lunch out of my tuxedo fur.
Hooman #A slips on a shoddy Plantronics headset to listen to the news on his Android phone. I can hear the buzzing hooman language lost in the spaces between black foam earpieces and Hooman #A's head.
Newscaster #1 So the question isn't whether the President did anything wrong, so much as if it's worth to impeach him out of office to prevent further damage.
Newscaster #A I don't see things ending well for us—
Greg Hoomanity is too susceptible to Proxima Centauri B's propaganda and subterfuge to navigate out of this mess; it's like watching a Flatlander's attempts to play fourth-dimensional chess.
Hooman #A Shh!
I look through my barred window, the same as Greg, and freeze in the fiery glare of our normally gentle hooman.
It occurs to me that our hooman's fear of other people overhearing his talking cats may have validity to it, so I decide to communicate telepathically with Greg through GalaNet instead.
After logging into GalaNet, e-mail notifications buzz wildly through my skull, my neuralace coming online with the flurry of a summer firework show.
Phoebe Pinging Major Tom. I repeat, pinging—
Buttercup Tom, Greg: do you read me?
Philosopher Jones Emergency update—
Lahea DeeJAY's been taken hostage! You're needed at the Lizaggio pronto!
Phoebe Pinging Greg. Begrudingly, pinging—
Lahea Please!
Philo You fools better be fighting ancient dinosaurs—
Buttercup Tom, Greg: backup requested, priority one—
Lahea DO YOU COPY?
I disconnect my audio link until the rest of my inbox loads, instead focusing on a holographic map of the Lizaggio thanks to the neuralace projecting Gee-Atlas from my searching eyes.
Once I feel comfortable with the casino's layout, I unmute GalaNet just in time to receive Greg's telepathic transfer:
Greg Commander DeeJAY is a reckless bonehead.
Tom It will take us at least three more hours before we can exit this bus and rescue him.
Greg And we can't tell Hooman #A; whenever I open my mouth, he starts to palpitate.
Tom After fleeing an X-Files scene with two cat carriers, it's understandable that he wants to lay low. Yet I agree this pact of silence is getting in the way of hours we could instead use to strategize.
We continued to qualify differences in our thinking processes as we worked through the bubbles of panic we both knew we were trying to ignore.
This is the first time one of Cat Society #337 was taken hostage, and whichever reptiles had the gall to go this far would be our first targets for nanobot lasers, round two.
