Angel Kitty

 I wrote this story a bit ago for a Facebook friend of mine whose son had just lost a very beloved (and young) kitty. It's in my book of cat stories, Pussycats Galore, but I've been seeing a large number of post recently where someone has lost a long-time companion. I can't fix it, of course, but, if this story could add even a little comfort, I want to offer it to anyone who could use it.

The picture drawn at the end is by my sister, Knixolate Bar. Find links for both of us at the bottom of this post.

Angel Kitty

On the other side of his closed eyelids, Mr. Rex sensed light. Not enough to wake him—sleep was so comfortable—but enough to touch his consciousness. He felt like he'd been asleep a long time. 

After a moment, he felt licking on his face. His mother used to lick his face like that and he loved it. 

"Mother?" He opened his eyes hopefully but a different cat greeted him. 

"Hello, Mr. Rex," she purred. "Congratulations, dear one. You're an angel kitty." The cat was large, a black tabby with a white front and feet. Around her, the room seemed to have no corners or walls, like it was carved from the center of a fluffy white blanket with a soft light seeping in through it. 

Mr. Rex stretched a paw and yawned. He got to his feet and stretched first one back leg, then the other before stretching out his back. That's when he noticed the pain was gone. For days, now, he'd been in so much pain. It hurt to eat. It hurt to drink. The pain began to follow him even into his sleep. But he wasn't hurting now. 

"What happened?"

"You died," the cat said bluntly, but in a gentle tone. 

Mr. Rex had crouched down after he'd finished his stretches, but he sat up at that. "Zane! What about Zane?"

The cat hung her head. "He is very sad, but he's glad you're not hurting anymore." 

Mr. Rex crouched back down, his whiskers drooping. "So, I'll never see him again?"

The cat began purring again. "Of course you will. You're an angel kitty."

"Angel kitty?"

The cat nodded her head. "Every kitty who is deeply and truly loved gets the opportunity to become an angel kitty. That means you can watch over your person for as long as you want to. Love them just like before. Make sure they're never entirely alone."

She stepped back, revealing a circle in the floor, much like the TV box Zane watched now and again. But, at the center of the circle was Zane, helping his mother with dinner. She said something Mr. Rex couldn't hear and Zane smiled in response.
Mr. Rex touched a paw to the picture, but the surface defeated him. "I—I can't touch him?"

"Not directly, but, with practice, you'll be able to send your spirit down to comfort him just as you did when you were alive."

"Does—does he miss me?"

"Yes. He loves you very much."

Mr. Rex sighed. "This seems so hard, seeing him when I can't touch him. Do I have to stay?"

"No. We're cats. No cat has to do anything he doesn't want to do. No one is obliged. You stay with Zane because you want to."

Mr. Rex circled that circle in the floor, his heart heavy. Zane had been warm, perfect for cuddling with when he watched TV. Zane would play with him with a string, then laugh when Mr. Rex had tried to catch it. Would he never hear that laugh again? When Zane scraped his knee, could he not rub his body along his leg and purr? "It seems so hard," he said again.

"It can be," the cat said. "Not everyone's cut out to be an angel kitty, but you have the choice to be one. Why not take a day or two to decide? If you get bored, through that hole,"—and a hole materialized behind her—"there are lots of kitties playing. You are welcome to join them."

Mr. Rex nodded, liking the sound of that, but, instead of getting up to play, he sat, his eyes glued to the circle where Zane was setting the table. He'd go in a little bit, he told himself. He didn't even notice when the other cat disappeared. 

***

Zane had always been a busy boy. He had school and went riding with his father on bikes. Just like when he was alive, Mr. Rex went to play with other kitties, wrestled balls of paper, chased after butterflies that were always just out of reach, and other things that kitties do, when they're not napping. No hairballs either. That had to be a plus to being dead. 

Maybe Zane didn't really need him. The thought made Mr. Rex a little sad, but, after all, he was having fun wrestling with other kittens and pouncing on tails. And it's not like he could really be with Zane.

He'd been playing for a long time, but he found himself enjoying it less and less. The cloud where he could see Zane seemed to call him. The need to see Zane was sucking the fun out of playing. Well, a nap is always a good idea, he told himself as he sauntered in. He'd just glance at Zane before he went to sleep. 

Zane was in bed, his pillow crunched against his face, tears pouring down his face. 

Mr. Rex stared down, unable to look away. Even the tip of his tail didn't twitch as he saw the boy—his boy—lost in grief. And then, without thinking, he rubbed his head against the circle, as if he was wiggling his head up underneath Zane's chin. Don't cry, he thought. You're not alone, Zane. He could imagine himself squished up against the pillow, cradled in Zane's arms. He curled up on the circle, rolling to get Zane's attention, hoping Zane would feel his soft fur somehow, hear his purr. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Zane sighed, the sobs abating, the tears drying up on his cheeks. When Zane's breathing slowed and steadied, Mr. Rex allowed himself to follow him into sleep. 

When he awoke, the first cat was back with him. "Have you decided?"

Mr. Rex blinked his green eyes. "Decided?"

"Will you be Zane's angel kitty?"

"Does Zane really need me?" He glanced down at Zane getting ready to ride bikes with his father and then squeaked. "His lace is untied. What if it gets caught?"

"What will you do?"

"He can't hear me!"

"Can't he?" 

Mr. Rex pulled in a deep breath. "MEOW!" he said as loudly as he could. 

Zane looked up, looked around, eyes hopeful. "Dad! Did you hear that? It sounded like Mr. Rex."

His father regarded him sadly. "No, Zane, I didn't hear it. Maybe—whoa, you didn't tie your shoes properly. That's dangerous. You'd better fix that."

Mr. Rex looked at the other cat, amazed. "He heard me!"

"Yes."

"And I heard him." 

"You both will, now and again." 

Mr. Rex watched Zane start biking, following his dad. "He won't always need me."

The other cat laughed. "He never did need you all the time. But, when he did need you, you knew. And that hasn't changed."

Do you think he'll stop crying?"

"Don't you want him to?"

"Y-Yes. But will he find another kitty to love?"

The cat nodded her head. "He might. I hope so, when he's ready. There are so many kitties out there that need love. But, it won't change how he feels about you. No one runs out of love, no matter how many they love. And no one loves another quite like they loved the first. Each love is as unique as the one loved. You have a place in his heart that will never go away, even if you choose not to be an angel kitty." She came closer and began to lick his head. "Just as he has a special place in your heart." 

"I don't want him to be alone," Mr. Rex said, amazed at the notion that he was happy to say it. "I want to be there when he needs me."

She licked him right between the eyes. "I thought you would. Go play. You'll know when he needs you."

And Mr. Rex did play, but Zane was never far from his mind. 

That night, when Zane began to get ready for bed, Mr. Rex watched him through the circle, warm with love for this boy, his particular boy. When Zane went to bed, he watched, glad to see no tears this time, and waited until Zane's breathing became slow and steady. Then he wormed his way between Zane's hands, as he had the night before, snuggled up beneath his chin, and thought. I'm in your dreams, Zane. I'll make sure you're never alone. 

And went to sleep with the boy he loved. 

 

 

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You can find me at stephanieebarr.us or my fan group on Facebook called Cats and Dragons

Knixolate Bar is the artistic name of an aspiring graphic novelist who was self-taught in her style.

 You can find her at:

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/knixolatebar

Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/salxer

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/knixolatebar

Furaffinity: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/knixifur/

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Call for Submissions for a charity anthology

Call for Submissions for an anthology highlighting the capabilities and contributions of disabled people in science fiction. This will be a charity anthology with the proceeds and any royalties donated to the Special Olympics. We welcome involvement from disabled authors or those that would be interested in beta reading the final anthology.

Genre: is geared toward science fiction, however, science fantasy, urban fantasy, space opera, other types of fantasy and speculative fiction are  also acceptable as long as we're focused on now or the future instead of ancient history. Other planets and non-human characters are acceptable. Dark fantasy/SF and horror are also acceptable as long as disabled heroes are not turned into victims.

Theme: The main characters must be disabled and succeed through their own efforts and without normalizing (i.e. undoing their disabilities with technology). This book is about celebrating the people who exist today and making them represented in the future.

Age level: should be no racier than PG 13 and YA is not precluded but we will not be targeting a YA or underage audience.

Length: 1500-7500 words

Deadline: All submissions should be received no later than November 30, 2018 with expectation of a February 2019 publication date.

Send submissions to stephanieebarr at Dragonfaeriecreative dot org with the subject "Disabled Heroes"

Format: Word .doc/.docx file, 1" margins, 12-14pt Times (or other serif font), double-spaced, contact info and word count on first page, running header w/name, title, page #, etc. The usual stuff. And please include your name and the story title in the filename. I will accept reprints if you (a) have the rights and (b) it fits our criteria.

Please edit your story carefully. We're all busy indie authors and will not take the time to help you rewrite your work into something that works for us. Please make an effort to send something in finished form that meets the criteria we've set.

Title and cover are not yet finalized.

You can find out more on facebook by joining: https://www.facebook.com/groups/disabledheroes/

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The Holidays Are Coming: "Grandma's Cooking"

If you are thinking of hosting a holiday get together shortly or if someone is trying to push you into one, just know there are ways to get out of things like that like a boss. If you want to do it, I have no idea what to tell you. But, if you don't, take some notes because Dotty is a Grand Master.

This is "Grandma's Cooking" from my anthology Legacy and you can find her as a side character in Saving Tessa.

Grandma's Cooking

"Detention? This is a culinary school!" Chef Ramon Sharif tried to hand back the file in his hands and bent it when the director refused to take it. 

 His watch said 4:30 here in Seattle, just after the last classes at the Sharif Culinary Institute, but Sharif was still on European time where it was a good deal after midnight. He had never learned to sleep on a plane. 

If only he hadn't had to come back to his office to retrieve his omelette pan. Damn it, Hans! If Hans wasn't always scratching up his favorite pans, Sharif could have left it at home. But who would have expected the director and three teaching chefs to ambush him in his own office?

"We're calling it 'special classes,'" said Chef Bray.

"We were at wits' end. We had to do something!" said Chef White.

"Can't put the other students at physical risk!" said Chef Icchan.

Sharif, head already swimming from fatigue, snapped up at that. "Physical risk? What the hell do you mean by that?"

The director shook his head. "She has already destroyed the kitchens on three floors." The school director looked distinctly sheepish.

"Destroyed? In my culinary school?" Sharif was aghast. "Throw her out!"

"Well, she is a special case, sir. She's a beginner."

"Beginner? This is a school for accomplished chefs!" 

The director coughed. "We had a special request by a Mr. Chroz to let her attend. He offered a significant incentive over and above the normal fee." 

Sharif stopped trying to shove the crumpled file into the director's hands. "A Mr. Chroz?"

"Yes."

"Of Chroz Industries? That Mr. Chroz?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Sharif paused to smooth the file in his hands. "What was the incentive?"

"He's got us a television show to showcase our top students," said Bray.

"And the damages were paid, too," said White. 

"Oh." Sharif held the folder a little more closely. "Cable?"

"Network. Primetime," said Icchan.

"Still, detention seems ludicrous and, even if it's not, why should I be involved? I only teach the master chef class." He sighed. "I'm not even over my jet lag. Why can't one of you do it?"

"We tried to stay firm," said Bray, "but she's so…"

"It didn't take well," Icchan sighed, "not that Dotty doesn't give her all…"

"Well, with all the bounties at stake, one doesn't want to be overly harsh," the director confided. "She is quite the charming old girl."

"That's right, Sharif. No one quite has the heart for it." White said. 

"Given this difficulty, we were confident you could do it," the director said, with another polite cough. "You do pride yourself on kitchen discipline."

Sharif preened. Then sighed. He was so tired. "As you will. Best bring me some coffee and I shall deal with Ms. Miller. Where is she waiting?"

"Practice Kitchen #5," the director said, regarding Sharif with sympathy as he stumbled from the room.

"Going one on one with Dotty?" Bray shook his head. 

"He's going to need more than coffee," White agreed. 

"He'd do better with cognac, the good stuff," said Icchan.

The director sighed. "I'll fetch the bottle."

Chef Sharif was reading Ms. Miller's file as he came in. "Ms. Miller," he said without looking up. "You are sixty-two years old? While I admire your initiative, doesn't it seem late in the game…" He looked up from the file and then just stopped talking.

"But I must!" The apparition before him, tiny and willowy, clasped her hands soulfully, and rattled with dozens of chains, bangles, and earrings as she sprang from her stool. Her sundress and some sort of gauzy jacket were a brilliant mix of pinks and oranges, peeping at him from the open white tunic. Her hair, floating about her head despite the white hat, was somehow orange with pink highlights. Her impossibly large cerulean eyes brimmed with unshed tears in a face that looked half its age. When she traipsed toward him, he half expected her to drift. She couldn't be real. But the drama in her voice was very real. "I must cook or die!"

"Really, Ms. Miller, there's no need for such, er, passion." 

"Oh, call me Dotty," she said, offering him a hand emblazoned on the back with a lamb. "I just know you'll be able to help me."

Sharif steeled himself to the wistful smile. Kitchen discipline required authority to be clear from the beginning. "Now, Ms. Miller…"

"Dotty."

"Ms. Miller, there is no reason to be so melodramatic. Cooking is not a life or death proposition."

The blue eyes were suspicious. "What do you know of my motivation to learn cooking?"

"Me? Well, nothing."

"See?" she said triumphantly. "So you'll just have to trust me."

Unsure if the dizziness were due to exhaustion or Ms. Miller, Sharif tore his eyes away from her and back to the file, and then gasped at her amazing list of catastrophes, given she'd only been there three days. "You blew a hole through the west wing wall?"

"A pressure cooker seemed a perfectly reasonable way to cook sauce," Dotty explained, the picture of contrition. "Maybe, if it hadn't been quite so full, it wouldn't have clogged the relief valve."

"You were lucky no one was hurt, Ms. Miller," he said in his most withering tones.

She hung her head, her easy tears at work again. "Yes. I'm so glad the class was empty. And it's Dotty."

"The stove was on after you left?" Sharif had to forcibly keep himself from gaping at her.

"I knew I'd forgotten something," she said, eyes wide with innocent regret. "I might also have had the heat up a trifle high. The new stove will be here on Friday."

Sharif closed his eyes, wishing he'd asked for cognac instead of coffee. "And a fire destroyed Kitchen Nine?"

"I just assumed when they said, 'Sauté' it was supposed to be flambé. Isn't everything better flambé?"

"Not my kitchen." 

"Well, yes, I can see that. Perhaps I should have used tablespoons of oil, not cups," she mused. "Or something other than ice water to put it out."

"We have fire extinguishers in every kitchen, Ms. Miller."

"Dotty. There are two in mine at home," she said brightly. "It never seems to be enough."

"I don't doubt it." Sharif continued with her file. "And what's this? The oven in Kitchen Three was been completely contaminated?"

"Who knew soufflés exploded at high temperatures?" she explained

"One of my chefs let you make a soufflé on your second day?"

Dotty placed a tiny hand, emblazoned with a tiger on its back, on his sleeve. "Well, no, but it looked so interesting, I wanted to try it," she confided. "It's so tiresome to have others about you making delightful things while you're relegated to prep work. Of course, I might not have had the right ingredients for a chocolate soufflé. I always take the recipe as a starting point."

"What? Marshmallows!?" Sharif closed the file with a snap. "You cannot," Sharif said in his sternest voice, "just strike out on your own. Cooking requires learning the basics. How could you reach an advanced age without…?"

Dotty's face was a study in crestfallen misery. "But I have to learn. When my granddaughter married my lover's son, he was left all alone. I must make something memorable for his birthday in three weeks."

"I don't think memorable is the problem… Wait, if your lover's son was married, why would he be left all alone?"

"Dylan wasn't left alone. Tessa is with him."

"Who is Tessa?

"My granddaughter, weren't you listening?"

"Your granddaughter married Dylan?"

"Why is that so surprising?" Dotty said with a flash of temper. "Are you saying my granddaughter isn't good enough for Dylan Chroz?"

"Good God, no! Why would I say that? I don't even know the man!"

"I should think not!" Dotty huffed.

"So, wait, if Dylan Chroz married your granddaughter, then his father, Hugo Chroz, is your…?"

"My lover." She didn't say, "Duh," but her expression implied it.

"Of Chroz Industries? That Hugo Chroz?" His voice squeaked. He had thought Hugo Chroz might be her son. Good thing he hadn't voiced that notion.

"Yes."

"The one who paid for the damages?"

"I paid for the damages. I am not a pauper. I'm an accomplished author. He arranged for the show as a favor to me." 

Sharif took a moment to try to reorient himself but she seemed to take that as disbelief. 

"I am not a kept woman. You," and Dotty managed to inject a wealth of loathing into the word, "may not believe it, but Hugo knows I love him for himself. That's why I simply must give him something special money can't buy for his birthday." 

Sharif searched himself for a bit of diplomacy. Maybe Dotty could be assuaged without his school being put into mortal danger.

"Clearly, he cares for you. I'm sure anything you cook for him would be…"

Dotty's eyes blazed and her body positively glowed with rage. "Hugo said I couldn't be trusted in a kitchen. He barred me from cooking unless I graduated from cooking school. You see why I must succeed!" 

Her anger evaporated into tears that fell without restraint yet didn't impact her beauty in any way. "Do you think he can thwart me and get away with it? Are you on his side, too?" 

Well, Sharif was, actually, but there was no way he'd say so with her crying like that. Nor could Sharif afford to infuriate her either.

"Well, you're here in detention, er, special class, to learn. What have you worked on today?"

"Pretzels!" She was all smiles again, then gestured at an array of something… that didn't look like pretzels. 

Sharif held up a blackened ball of dough and broke it open to find it gooey on the inside. "Why is it in this shape?"

"Well, wouldn't pretzels be more interesting in different knots? That's a diamond knot!"

"And this?" He held a lumpy pretzel but couldn't bring himself to taste it. 

"That's a sheepshank."

"Yes, well, why is it lumpy?" His fingers began to sting

"Pretzels are so bland. I added habaneros and pineapple!" 

Sharif dropped it and rubbed his tingling fingertips on his shirt. He picked up a large orange pretzel and tried not to image what the black bits were. "And this?"

"The Savoy? Oh, that's cheese!" she exulted and he bit. "And, of course, broccoli."

Manfully, Sharif swallowed, the desiccated broccoli scoring his throat. "When did you say Hugo's—I mean, Mr. Chroz'—birthday was, again?"

*

As the dessert plates were removed, Hugo Chroz sat back with a satisfied smile. Their guests looked equally sated, and praise for the food was a frequent topic. Even Dylan, who seemed to treat all food not cooked by his bride as so much dust, had noted the quality. "Dotty, my love," Hugo said, "Thank you. Dinner was amazing."

"Yes."

"But how did you get Chef Sharif to cater? He won't do private events. He's turned down the President."

"I can be persuasive," she said sweetly. 

"I can vouch for that. But you didn't have any luck when you tried to get him to cater the kids' wedding, you know. You were so vexed."

"Oh yes, but you know me, darling." She kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "Do you think he can thwart me and get away with it?"

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Freebies! Companion stories available for Curse of the Jenri and Tarot Queen

I've written some companion stories to my novels that I'm offering as a pdf freebie. They'll eventually be part of a large anthology but I'm offering them to anyone who has bought (or beta read) any of my books. You don't need proof, just let me know on my author page, PM me, or comment on a blog and you can have either or both I have now. I'm working on stories for the Bete novels and Saving Tessa, but I have pdfs for Tarot Queen and Curse of the Jenri now. Just ask. The others will be announced when they're ready on my author page and newsletter.

(Why don't I need proof? Because I think if you read them, and haven't read the books, I bet you'll want to).

 Just comment here or email me at stephanieebarr@gmail.com

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