His Giant
An orange tabby sets his white paws on the windowsill. His pink, wet nose touches glass as he stares at the great beyond - something the giants call a "backyard," whatever a "yard" is - and yearns to finally feel the pokey green stuff against his paws. They say it's soft this time of year, but it still looks quite pokey to him.
He tilts his head, curious about the force that randomly moves the pokey green stuff.
"What if it'll move me?" He thinks to himself.
This thought frightens him, and he sets his paws back to the ground - "carpet" - with a humph.
"What're you doing, love?" His giant asks in a tone that is fit for a young child. She sound's a bit hoarse. Red circles her eyes, but the tabby hardly takes notice.
He replies, "I do wish you wouldn't speak like that. You sound dumb," and rubs against her leg.
She just forces a smile and rubs his chin.
"Sometimes I wonder if she can understand me," he thinks.
He purred, and said, "You can't love on me when we're having a perfectly civilized conversation."
She just lets out an, "Aww," and continues petting him.
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The sky darkens, the#moonbrightly shines, and the tabby wakes up from a nap.
He stretches and yawns. His eyes are slits, a defense against the harsh artificial light. He takes a look at the clock and notices that it's about the time his giant is in bed.
He thinks to himself, "Perhaps she was too tired to switch off the lights."
So he walks to the light switch, jumps upward with his paws outstretched, and turns the lights off with one go.
He pads silently to his giant's bedroom, still exhausted, and plans before he reaches the door to jump silently on the bed, right at her feet, to keep the both of them cozy.
Yet, when he reaches the door, it is shut.
If he were a human, he would furrow his eyebrows.
"That's strange," he thinks. "She never shuts this door."
He paws at the door once, just loud enough to wake her up so that he can enter.
But there is no answer.
Silence.
He paws again at the door, this time with both paws, and makes a sound loud enough to alert someone in a dead sleep.
He sniffs under the door, wondering if she is in her room at all, and catches a strange whiff that often surrounds decaying corpses. The ones who have been dead for about an hour.
He pulls out his claws and starts scratching at the door, crying loudly.
"No, this cannot be true."
His cries are left unheard, for behind the door, lying in a bloody mess on the floor, is his giant.
Sienna Williamson
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Lillian O'Phean
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Pelaf
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