6/27/15 Imp

She was as old as the day the last remnants of the glacier melted, and she had a long memory. She was as old as the roots, and older than the fallen, washed up trees. She sometimes changed her tune and shape, but mostly stayed the same. Her cousin assaulted her daily. See how the waves hit the shore and recede, pummeling it with habitual nature. Sometimes only hanging to her with the smooth ripples of the low tide.

A cat scampered across the open beach. Its eye were deep in the night. Its tail a bushy mop of fur. He gazed up at the master–the moon. It was friends with the long beach and her bucking cousin the sea. Her paws were damp and and that infuriated her. It always did. But sometimes, when dealing with such powers as these, you had to make some sacrifices.

She sat on a dry sandbar and twisting herself licked the fur on her back. She’d almost had enough, then she turned and bent down and with her jaws, like a dirty dog shoveled some sand into her mouth and swallowed with effort. Her stomach began to boil immediately.

Not so fare, the world as this. The Witch she had learned from had used beakers and bowls, pots, pans, and other containers. The only thing the cat had was her own stomach for mixing such concoctions as this.

After a moment of wreching, she vomited. The taste of bile drowned out the smell of water and fish and decaying things. Then the smell of that hit here and she gagged some more, this time against her own volition. The pile of sick on the ground, illuminated by the moon, wasn’t hairy, and didn’t resemble the the sand she had just eaten. Instead it was bold and solid and scurried about in confusion.

It thrashed its limbs and yammered, rolling over onto its back and splaying out its little wings.

“Behave yourself,” said the cat, trying to ignore the hateful smell of the creature.

The imp looked at her. She looked at it. It was batty–she’d watched them fly before but never caught one–though this had more of a snout.

“Berimbo,” it said.

“You are no longer in the sad place you were born. You are now my slave,” said the cat.

“Is my favorite coffee,” said the imp. “Can’t do nothin’ ‘til I get me coffee.”

The cat knew coffee, but she’d never liked the smell, nor the flavor–once as a kitten she’d clawed open a bag of it her human had left out, and eaten some. It had made her sick on multiple fronts.

“There is no coffee,” she said. “You’ll have to do without.”

The imp rolled over onto its stomach. Sand was matted to its wings. Its ugly snout twitched in her direction. It was about half her size, she imagined she could kill it if it attacked her. She extended her claws–little daggers in the night.

“You’re isn’t the usual sort,” said the imp.

“No,” said the cat. “I don’t suppose I am.”

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