I, Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, tried to behave myself. I failed, so of course I gave up. This week I scratched the couch where Ed Hoornaert, aka Mr. Valentine, couldn’t see. I barfed up furballs under the bed, in a closet, and in a shoe. I scratched the mail lady, delivering a new network router. There should be horns on my picture. Yeah!
Today’s snippet continues the opening of Mr. V’s WIP, Alien Contact: Becoming Human. Last week, our heroine was born in a forest, fully grown and ready to kill.
I stood on a house-sized slab of mossy granite. Rain blessed my face as I gazed straight up through a ragged opening in the evergreens—the birth canal through which I’d been born? A wall of prickly underbrush, a meter or more high, ringed the slab with no exit. A jailbreak, then, was the first test of my worthiness for glory—but how?
The granite was craggy, like a miniature mountain, so I cautiously climbed its highest peak. Pleased with my strength and agility, I stood there like a totem pole, one-point-seven meters above my birthplace.
Green-grey light revealed a hushed immensity. Starved of sunlight, the ground beyond the slab contained only a few stubby plants, but fallen logs and moss-covered boulders made leaping over my jail cell walls suicide.
But over to my left was a tiny patch of flat forest floor. Could I leap over the bushes and land there?
Effing Feline again. While you were reading, I found these neat-o cat horns online. Do you think should I order them?
Oh, and be sure to check out the snippets by great weekend writing warriors.