Feral Cats

A slick, treacherous pool deck glistened underfoot as I delivered the morning room service—a ritual our feral cats expected, perhaps even demand.

The overcast skies hung low, draped with a suffocating fog that twisted the air into something sinister. The black cats with their piercing yellow eyes prowled like an army of dark sentinels, their gazes cutting through the mist. They moved as one, a shadowy legion conjuring whispers of forgotten rituals and unspoken curses.

Children of the Corn

Children of the Corn had nothing on these creatures; their presence was a macabre warning etched into the morning’s gloom, each pawstep a silent herald of something unspeakable.

Note:

In 1988, I was at a writer’s conference with the late Dr. Calvin Miller. He shared with me that writer fail to take advantage of the opportunities they have to work on their craft.

He said, “You might write a regular column for your church newsletter or book club. Why not give them your best writing and develop your craft simultaneously?”

I thought of him this morning as I wrote a caption for a picture I took as I began my morning cat feeding.