What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Kitty Cat - by Marita Decosta

Blackness, pure unadulterated blackness surrounded her consciousness. Soft tendrils of sentience manifested unbidden and probed at the blackness. It was not cold or vacuous, but thick and warm and all encompassing and she knew this was exactly where she should be, at the very core of her being. A wordless soundless sensation rippled through the thickening blackness, “Yes this is where I need to be”.

She felt more conscious now, the soft tendrils intertwined forming a sense of cognition, “I must be in a cave or a tunnel” she thought and she now could see. She could see that she was in a tunnel, a natural tunnel that should lead to a cave, and there down the length of the tunnel she could make out out a dim glow, the tunnel behind her remained pure blackness. She bid her consciousness move toward the glow and it complied. She approached a perfectly square portal, “This does not look like a cave it looks like a room”, and it was a room. Pondering what kind of room it could be, she concluded it had to be someplace she wanted to be, and entered a room filled with literature. Books and papers filled the room as far as the mind could see, “Yes, this is where I want to be”.

However she noticed many of the books were big, very big to the point it would not be possible for her move let alone read, “Larger then life, how appropriate” she chuckled. She felt quite tiny now, like a mouse in the library and hoped there was not a cat around. There was the cat, curled up and sleeping on top of a rather large stack of books and much to her relief, it was a proper sized cat in proportion to her.

The stack of books resembled a Ziggurat, a massive book at it's squat base with ever smaller books rising, topped off with a sleeping kitty. A sense of melancholy manifested itself, “I am in a room where I wanted to be, a room full of books to large to handle and read, but I found a kitty cat and shall climb up and pet the warm furry body and perhaps make a friend”

She climbed up and sat next to the cat then placed her palm just behind it's head and gently massaged it's body and it purred and she felt life, his life, she was alive. She warmly gazed upon the purring kitty and felt so calm and at peace and noticed that underneath the cat was a smaller book, one that she could actually hold and read. She lifted the cat and placed him on her lap and continued to pet and massage the kitty with one hand and picked up the book with the other, the cat purred. She looked at the title, "Histories ou contes du temps passe" ~ Charles Perrault. She savored the irony of finally finding a book of a size she could read, however she could not read French.

The book looked old, time worn, printed long ago, she stopped petting the kitty then carefully opened the cover and looked for a date and saw 1697, she was awestruck. This was a book she must hold on to, even if she could not read it. She looked at it's Table of Contents. There appeared to be 8 stories or articles, one that caught her eye was titled, “Le Maistre Chat, ou Le Chat Boote”. How curious it seemed so familiar. Closing the book she reached toward her lap to pet the kitty, but it was gone. Standing up she looked around hoping with all her heart to see the cat again and noticed the title of the larger book she had been sitting on, “Histories, or Tales of Past Times, By M. Perrault.” ~ Robert Samber, lifting back the cover she saw the date, 1729, then checked the Table of Contents, 8 tales like the book in her hand but in English, she had found a translation of the book, but it was far to large for her to carry so leaving it in place she opened the pages to “Le Maistre Chat, ou Le Chat Boote” which now read “The Master Cat, or Puss in Boots”.

An involuntary shudder ran through her body, “when a cat walks on your grave” she remembered from childhood, but it was more then that, she had been so engrossed in the two books that she did not notice immediately that the air that had been so dark and warm was getting colder, and it was brighter now. Climbing down off the stack of books, she looked around, then heard a voice behind her, “You do not need to be here any longer”. Startled, she spun around, and there stood the cat, in big black boots, a floppy hat with a feather in it, and a tiny rapier at his side. “Why am I not surprised you can talk” she thought to the cat, and he replied, “You created me and everything here around you, I and all of this was what you needed at the time, but that time has past, now you must go”. She knew this was true, that she no longer needed to be here, “But where shall I go” she thought. The cat pulled his rapier and pointed, “There!” She turned and looked and saw only blankness. “Keep the point of my sword at your back and walk in that direction” spoke the cat.

It was getting colder so still holding her small book in French she did as the cat bid and began to walk away keeping the point of the sword at her back. Then she saw the doorway exiting the library leading back into the tunnel, but this time the other end of the tunnel held a very tiny pinpoint of very bright light and she swiftly moved toward it until it swallowed her.

Her eyes were closed, she could hear voices, saying strange things, “His blood pressure is very good, 124 over 79, and he is breathing on his own now, the operation was very successful and we relieved the pressure on his brain and the swelling is rapidly diminishing” She wondered who they were talking about and slowly opened her eyes to see who was talking and tried to speak, but her throat was so very dry and her lips felt cracked and sore and she could not move. “Well look who's awake” smiled a nurse, “Welcome back Mister Andrews, we thought we had lost you” spoke another nurse standing over him. “Where am I” he managed to finally croak. “Your in the hospital sir” spoke the nurse, “you were in an automobile accident and had severe head trauma, we had to operate and relieve the pressure on your brain, you were in a coma for a month”

He began to remember. He was on his way to repair a copier, he is a repair technician, he was almost at the job site, sitting at a red light, then he woke up here. “I can't remember what happened” he croaked again. “You were hit from behind by a concrete truck Mr. Andrews while you were stopped at a red light.” “Quite frankly the firefighters and emergency medical personnel that cut you out of what was left of your car were shocked to find you were still alive”. A warm morphine induced comprehension slowly filtered its way through his mind, and a lady carrying a book curtsied, and a cat wearing boots bowed and he drifted off to sleep once more.

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