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Feb. 24, 2007 In the autumn, on a rainy sullen afternoon, when the sun was still trying, but without much success, outside became almost as night. There was some rain, and the wind stirred the leaves that were not too heavy with moisture and sadness. There was nobody around save one old man and one cat. The old man was walking and this was what he did with most of his time. He walked the streets and he walked the fields. He was short, and incredibly thin. His face told of years and years of experience. His fingers were long, and he was equipped with a head full of gray hair that got blown by the breezes. He had eyes that sat far back, eyes that looked everywhere at once. Though his body was old, his eyes had not been jaded or faded. He was like Krishnamurti, or some type of sage, walking around like that, as if walking was the most important thing, the most extraordinary thing, because it was ordinary. Walking like that. He probably drank water, and nothing else. He probably ate one or two small and simple meals a day. He probably had three pairs of pants, three shirts, and two coats, one for spring and autumn, and one for winter. He probably had one sweater and it was no doubt some big wool affair, but nondescript and one solid color throughout. There he walked, and his knowledge was not in his mind, but in his steps. There he walked… At the same time, there was another sight. In a backyard with a long fence, there was a cat that sat atop that fence. This would not be unusual, but for the fact that the cat was the size of three of four regular cats. It wasn’t right that that cat could sit there, because the fence was only about a half inch wide at the top if that. But there it was, and this cat had never been seen before around there. It seemed bright orange and red. It seemed like wet and dirty flames in the overcast world. Matted hair and a malevolent mind. This cat, this wet orange fire, that didn’t belong, and was full of sharp claws, had sin on its mind. It waited, and it watched. Maybe it sat there not because of some special feline agility. Maybe it sat there out of some otherworldly will power. In fact, maybe the cat was not a cat at all, but a shape shifter. The cat had been a powerful witch, and the man, who was also a practitioner of strange arts, had cast the witch as a cat a long time ago. In fact, it was centuries ago, and now the cat was back somehow, and had plans for his old nemesis. There he waited, at the backs of houses, and soon he would make his way to the streets, where the white magician walked. In the meantime, it continued to rain in the bleak open spaces, down the sad redbrick walls, in the abandoned parks, on the indifferent parked and moving cars, on the Oaks and the Maples, on broken railway ties. The rain made its way down pathways and streets, to the small streams and sewers. Down, down, always down, to the lowest parts it went, as the rain always did. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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