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The Lap Cat

I was a lap cat, loved by the hands of familiar strangers and held by a promiscuous princess in an eastern palace. Fur spun like white gold, softer than the skin of my mistress. Only gentlemen need apply. Mysterious tastes had cultivated my palate to accept the generous touch of an ancient artist, mastering strokes of seduction, tossing me off my lady's lap to slink along the marble, fanning my whiskers with palm tree feathers, drinking in the silk before I closed my eyes and the gentleman left his knife behind him. Her lap was cold like the stone that held it to my eyes...I ran towards the street then woke in a terrible dream.


I was held by a forgotten queen; now I wander stray in asphalt and concrete, strip malls and buildings worn by a galaxy of shuffling feet. Gray, flea-bitten and wet with old rain, one life of misery after nine spent in luxury. Hunger kicks me till I howl hoarse in the alley, cursed by sleeping tenements. Nobody knows of the past buried in my heavy stare; just a cat left to die, starving for the hands of any company.

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