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 Posted: Mon Dec 29, 2008 9:01 pm
 Jonathan I need you to watch my cat.
That was what Jake had said before hopping onto his scooter and fastening his helmet. A wide grin had been plastered onto his pasty face, his eyes alight. It was always funny seeing Jake excited. He was such a happy person that the more more happy he got, the more amusing he became. He was like a wind-up toy, always wound to the tightest state and just waiting for an explosion.
In this particular case, the explosion had come in the form of a protest regarding the ethical treatment of experimental creatures. I understood the matter from a political stand-point, but the distinct fascination that anyone took in the protection of mind-sucking mutants flew over my head. It never would have crossed my mind to defend them. Nevertheless, seeing Jake explode brought a smile to my face. He thought he was making history, and I was only content to oblige in taking care of his cat. It was something to do.
That comfort was distorted the minute the cat went missing, however. I had stepped outside for only a moment when my doorbell had rang, but when I had turned to go back inside, I had realized the cat wasn't in the apartment. I had searched every nook and cranny until the points were exhausted. It wasn't any use - I must have let the cat out, which was a greater annoyance than the fact that no one had actually been standing at the door.
And so I ran. I ran through the parking lot, nervously checking underneath every stationary car for the orange tabby that Jake had so eagerly claimed as his own Mr. Jingles. The last thing that I wanted was to lose the cat.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Come on. I know you're out here!" I had whistled as I walked alongside the back of the cars, patting their bumpers feverishly until I heard a small meow. A flick of orange had sparked as the cat ran across the way towards the complex's laundry mat. I had heaved a great breath of relief as it disappeared from my sight and into the small building. It was a simple comfort knowing where the cat was.
My pace had slowed. Quietly, I had straighted the collar of my shirt and had loosened my tie. It was time to wrangle a cat - and if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was catch running animals. It was a rite of passage for young law students, and I could remember chasing a pig around campus just to earn a pat on the back and the seal of approval. I wasn't sure if it had been worth the hassle or the chaos, but it had provided me with a valuable skill when it came to handling animals being pesky or disobedient.
"Mr. Jingles, time to go inside." I had said calmly. My feet had pattered against the hard, checkered tile as I slipped into the room. It was thick and warm, the strong scent of dirty laundry mixed with dust, detergent, and the unknown. It was almost like a high school locker room, and that was enough of a reminder as to why I did my laundry at the mat in town.
I had scrunched my nose at the scent before pressing forward and patting one of the center tables next to a basket. The place was empty, with the exception of one hunched over woman with a scarf wrapped about her head. I said nothing. She was tending to bed sheets, and I didn't want to distract, but something felt eerie. I could feel a trickle running up my spine as I peeked behind the soda machines in time to hear a loud bell jingle and see a flash of orange. Mr. Jingles was on the move again.
"Not this time, I ---" I had whirled around on my heel to run after the cat, stopping dead in my tracks when I saw the woman in her headscarf lean down. Mr. Jingle had walked right up to her, his tail flickering back and forth as he gave an affectionate purr and persistent meow for attention. As she had picked him up, I had inhaled the musty air. One had had found refuge within my pocket as I took a step towards her. "Thank you for catching my ... Cat."
My mouth had hung open. My brows had quirked as the woman stroked Mr. Jingles, the cat purring enthusiastically. Every motion she made seemed to be filled with genuine purpose, and she said nothing. She had not even looked at me - not even a glance.
"Ma'am, my cat?" I had cleared my throat.
She had hummed something giddily; then it had happened. It had happened so quickly that I wasn't sure what to think about the matter. Jake's cat had caught fire. The woman in her headscarf had thrown him into the washing machine, slamming the door before turning on her heel to walk away without word. I had reached out to grab her, to pull her back, but it struck me that I had to do something about the cat. I couldn't let it burn alive - I couldn't ...
I had ripped open the machine door before jerking back. The flame was hot, and it had nearly nicked my hand. I needed water! Water! Where was I going to get water in a laundry mat?
Quickly I had staggered back. My mind was racing. My heart was beating. The sound of death, and the scent of burning flesh and hair. It was overwhelming, and I couldn't handle it. I couldn't. The sight made my eyes grow wide. My heart had shattered as I scrambled out of the laundry room and made a break for the parking lot, only to fall flat on my face against the pavement just a little ways from the laundry mat. I was heaving, trying to catch my breath and gather myself. I could feel my hands shaking. The cat was burning alive - it was dead. It was dead. Dead.
Dead.
My stomach had churned. I was beginning to feel sick and dizzy.
Dead. It was dead.
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Posted: Fri Jan 09, 2009 9:47 am
 Jonathan My head was throbbing with vigor, as if it were on the verge of igniting an explosion. With every step I took through the parking lot, I would stagger. My knees would buckle as I trudged along, listening to the distant scraping of my feet on the asphalt, and to the curious shouts of neighbors wanting to know what the ruckus was about, and why there had been smoke billowing into the air from the small little shack that was the complex's laundry mat.
I could only remember feeling the way I did once before. It was a drunken stupor followed by the walk of shame, only ever to be spoken of in confidence to the one you owed a desperate apology. With the progression of movement, I would inevitably sober enough to not double-over. I would be able to slouch rather than hug my stomach and lean over, every breath seeming to tickle my throat with the remaining horrors of burning flesh and a howling yowl of an animal trapped withing a washing machine. It occurred to me that I could have placed quarters into the machine and turned it on to try and stop the fire, though I'm not sure it would have done any good. It occurred to me that I could have tackled the cat, or forcefully taken him from the woman in her headscarf, but I had not. She had not posed a threat at that particular instance. More than anything else, however, it occurred to me that I had just lost Jacob's cat. It was dead, a pile of ashes in what would be a rather distorted mess. And as I glanced over my shoulders at the smoky mess that seemed to have extinguished itself, I saw somethin small. It was almost like a little shadow, but before long, it was gone, rustling in the bushes. My eyes had shut, and I had left it alone. The throb was beating away at my head, driving me mad. I needed to lie down. I needed to take the image out of my mind.
Thus, I walked up the stairs to the apartment, my hand clutching the cool metal railing until the rust and wear had caused me to wipe it on my pants and pursue the journey without it. I had bitten down on my lip; my feet had dragged along against the stone stairs and platforms to the third floor; and I had shaken. I felt myself tremor like an earthquake, and it had taken everything in me to open the door, lock it, and slip away into the familiarity of my home.
I had stood in front of the door for a short while. What was I going to tell Jacob? How was I going to tell him that his cat was gone? The boy loved that cat more than anything in the world. He had taken it in, raised it, groomed it, cared for it. It was a pet, and pets manage to find special places within our hearts. It scarcely helped the situation when Jacob had proven himself to be a far more sensitive individual than the first night I had met him. I could see it. He would be furious, if he wasn't depressed. I didn't want to see him do that - just as I didn't want the situation to come back at me in some ridiculous way. Maybe I could hurry down to one of the pet stores, or to the pound? Maybe they had a cat like Mr. Jingles, and orange one, with smooth tiger prints. I could buy a collar, a tag, and I could pretend that nothing had ever happened.
"It'll never work." I had stated dryly before collapsing on the funny green sofa in the center of the small living room. I had buried my face within it, the smell of potato chips, soda stains, and beer indicating to me that I would need to wash the cushions or otherwise replace them. It was a brief distraction, but I found that I could not move. Instead, I had curled deeper, and deeper into the couch, inhaling and exhaling. I would need to calm down long before I could worry about distractions, and the idea of laundry had only resurfaced the image of the cat and the laundry machine.
"Just take a deep breath; that's all I do when things get rough, and everything slows down."
There was a memory within the back of my mind. Someone had said that to me once. Someone with a devilish smile, and with a peculiar mannerism of motion. Someone of confidence, and poise, and respect. What would he have done? He would have bought the other cat, and when it eventually resurfaced what had actually happened, he would have only uttered a 'sorry' with a sheepish grin. I could not do that, but I could breathe. I took a breath, long and deep, until it had filled my chest as much as it could.
And sure enough, things did slow down. My eyes had closed, and the thunder of my heart seemed normal. My thoughts seemed less frantic. It was peaceful, in the morbid sense of the word - and thus I continued with it, breathing, and breathing, and breathing until something like exhaustion had taken hold of me and I had fallen asleep on the couch.
There was a groggy haze looming over me as I sat up and stretched somewhat; I had swung my legs, sat against the couch, and stared at the phone on the end table just next to me. I was going to have to tell Jacob about Mr. Jingles sooner or later, and that was what had prompted me to grab the phone and dial in his cell number. The ringing had begun, and it was at that time inwhich something unexpected had been caught in my line of vision.
Across the way, within the slender kitchen area of the small apartment, was a figure of orange. It was a flurry, and, briefly, I found myself optimistically hoping that, perhaps, the woman had burned the wrong cat and I had been mistaken.
I had worked my way around the counter bar, each step slow and quiet. The room was quiet, except for the ringing of the phone within my ear - but it would never have lasted. The moment I had turned the corner, two noises had entered my mind at once. The phone had answered. Hello? But more drastically, the sound of my own started voice and a yell had emerged.
There was a little boy standing on the kitchen floor and clinging to the milk carton, which I supposed he had taken from the fridge. Milk was scattered all about the floor, the white substance a peculiar patch against the tiling and wooden counters. The mess infuriated me, but I was more panicked. How had anyone got into the apartment when I had locked the door?
Hellooo? You there? Hello? The phone had echoed loudly on the ground. The little boy had looked towards it with great interest before returning to the milk, taking a swig with a confident smile. Then he had looked to me again. "Someone's talking."
My mind fired off frantically. "How the hell did you get into my house?" I could feel the awkward haze shifting in to mere shock. I was groggy. Everything seemed mildly fuzzy, and I was confident that my blood pressure was going through the roof, a fact that possibly contributed to the sick feelings dominating me. The boy. He was small, freckled, and orange. A ginger boy if ever there were one, but something else was making me uncomfortable. He had ears. He had a tail ... And they belonged to a cat. A tabby cat. An orange tabby cat.
"The door." The boy had spoken bluntly before taking another swig. "There's a key on the box thing behind the lion head and in the hole."
I had stared at him. There was a place where I hid the spare key to the apartment, but I was certain no one knew it was there other than me, let alone a little boy that I had never seen before. I had inhaled a breath, trying to focus, trying to remain calm.
Hello? The phone had called. The boy had looked to it again before squinting at me. "Someone's talking."
And with that statement, I said nothing more. I had grappled for the phone, running around the counter and down the short hall to the bathroom. I had locked the door. I had double-checked the lock, and I had sat down, breathing and laughing feverishly. I was insane. I had finally snapped. That was the only explanation I could gather, other than it was all a dream.
Hello?
"Jacob, come back here right now."
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Posted: Fri Jan 09, 2009 11:25 am
 Jonathan My hands had clutched the phone tightly as I leaned forward from my seat on the bathroom toilet. The sound of air rushing from the vents echoed within my ears, blending neatly with the clatter and callings from just beyond the door. I could see the shadow of the young boy who had taken my apartment by storm from underneath the crack; it was pacing earnestly, the occasional curious finger slipping underneath as if it were trying to find a way in. I was not certain I wanted to open the door. It was like a sour prank – another instrument of terror, like waking up in the middle of a party with your eyebrows shaved and honey lodged within your hair while you’re trying to recover from a hang-over. Everything felt the same way. It was horrific. All I wanted to do was remain in the bathroom, wait for the doorbell, and end the ordeal when Jake finally would make his way back. But my feline antagonist would not leave me alone long enough to so much as catch my breath.
“Hey, mister.” The cat would call from under the door, his breath huffing against the wood. “Why’d you lock the door? Open up, or I’m gonna open it!”
“You don’t know how to open it.” I had replied with a slight inhale. Quietly, I had tucked my head against the phone and shut my eyes, welcoming the envelope of nothingness that would block the contemplation of the string of events that kept circling.
“Do too!” The cat had called again. The door had jerked as if he had hit it with his fists. Why did he want in so badly? What did he want from me? I could only associate the little child with the old woman who had murdered Mr. Jingles. There was something devious, something Hollywood, about the whole situation. “Just watch me, I’ll tear it open ‘nd you’ll be sorry.”
The hairs on the back of my neck had began to rise: “Be sorry?”
“I’m hungry!” The cat had wailed with a loud hiss. “I’m hungry, so open the door.”
My face had turned bright red. Did he want to eat me? Was I being followed by psychopaths and cannibalistic children? It did not seem plausible, yet with the stroke of luck I seemed to be having I was either in a nightmare driven coma or living an unfortunate life. My lips twisted at the very thought of being eaten by a small child.
The sound of the young boy talking began once more, but was quickly drown out by the pretentious ding-dong of the doorbell. Frantic knocks had resonated throughout my small apartment, and I had dropped the phone in tune with it. The battery had fallen out as I jerked upward and lunged for the door, unlocking it and stampeding over the young cat boy who had been laying and peeking beneath the crack. I had glanced back at him for only a moment as I had thrust open the front door, barely looking to see who it was. I felt I knew, and I did. I had yanked Jake from the outside indoors, holding his arm with a fierce grip as my heart had pattered.
“J-Jon! Hey!”
I had squeezed his arm tighter, pointing toward the little boy, who had risen to his feet with a snarky glare. His freckled arms had been folded across his chest; he was analyzing us. “It came out of nowhere; this lady killed your cat and it came out of nowhere.” I couldn’t think of what to say. Too much had run through my mind, and it seemed difficult to calm down. I needed to breathe. Breathe.
“What?” Jake had yanked his arm away, looking between me and the child. I felt like a circus headliner – a crazy man. “What’re you talking about?”
“That kid! It came out of nowhere!” I had spat out, slapping a hand against my forehead.
“I’m a he!” The boy had exclaimed loudly.
Silence befell us as Jake and I exchanged stares between ourselves and the boy. I felt as if I were heaving. It was safe, I told myself. It was safe, the kid wasn’t really a cannibal. There was nothing dangerous. “Jake, I’m sorry. Your cat...”
“What did you do with my cat?” Jake seemed quizzical, a nervous look on his face. I could see him backing towards the door as if he were confused about what I was talking about. I’d just wanted to tell him to sit down.
“I’m still hungry.” The little boy had stated. I had brushed him aside without a word, pulling my hand away when he had grabbed it. He had seemed startled, enough so that he had jumped back away from the both of us.
“Jon, look, I know you’re going through a lot – I know you’ve been going through a lot, but ... Are you okay? Where’s my cat? What did you do to my cat? Where’d you get that kid? He couldn’t have just come from nowhere.” Jake had said to me. His shoulders had sank; his lips had quirked with a sad expression – pity.
“Sit down; I can explain. I can explain.” I had breathed. The little boy had cut between the two of us once again, as if he were trying to get my attention.
“I’m not sitting down.” Jake had pulled the boy back behind him. There it was. The look. I was crazy. He thought I had snapped. Finally snapped. Finally lost it and broken to pieces.
“There was this old woman. Your cat got out, and so I chased it down to the laundry room. I almost had it, but the old hag grabbed it. I thought she was going to give it back to me, but she just... she lit Mr. Jingles on fire and threw him into a washing machine.” I had paused briefly, trying to say as much as I could before Jake would comment. “I passed out on the couch when I made it back here. Then I woke up and ... That kid was here. I don’t know where he came from – he has to have something to do with that old hag.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” The little cat boy had looked at me weird, trying to slip out from behind Jake. Jake had pushed him back again, his eyes wide. He looked stunned. Astonished. And that was how he remained as I tried to explain once more. The woman. The cat. The boy. It led to nothing, and before I knew it we were arguing with each other. It was my fault. The cat was dead, and it was my fault. I killed the cat. I killed Jake’s cat, he would have nothing to do with me, he was heartbroken, I was angry. He wouldn’t believe me – and in the distance the little boy watched us both, confused and unattended as we pushed, shoved, and Jake cried like a child who lost their first dog in a car accident.
Then in a flash, I had felt something sharp against my face as I staggered back and hit the floor. My hand had automatically clutched my nose as Jake slammed the front door behind him and said I could expect a visit. Another flash of orange, quick and frantic, had wizzed along by my side ... And the boy was gone once again, somewhere I could no longer see. And I was alone.
What a day.
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Posted: Mon Mar 09, 2009 4:37 pm
 Jonathan It had been nearly a week since I had encountered the small child and the old hag. The death of Mr. Jingles had left a sore spot in my mind. All I had been able to think about was whether or not Jake had truly called the police in regards to the incident. I could not believe that he would, or that he had. After all, no officer had set foot on my doorstep. I had come to the conclusion that the little boy would be staying as well. I had considered, albeit briefly, sending him to child services, but something had compelled me not too. He had mellowed out after I had found him curled underneath the bed like a frightened kitten who had been scolded with cold water. His voice had been softer, and a part of me was contented and happy that he was there. We were both the same for a moment, and that was enough.
His name was Asher. A name he had picked himself while the two of us had been slouching onto the couch and watching television, much like we were in the early morning before I had left for another four hour lecture on the conceptuality of law. I had not wanted to leave the boy alone, but what other choice did I have? I could not have brought myself to skip classes just to ensure he wouldn’t get into trouble, and, over the course of the week, he had seemed to behave in a civilized manner. He was less frightening than he had seemed on the first day. Less demonic. Less odd. Less disturbing in presence. Certainly, the time I had been given to calm down and absorb the information had made things easier. I only wished that Jake would speak to me again. He hadn’t knocked, he hadn’t answered his door, and the few times I had noticed him on campus, he had taken off in the opposite direction with that same look on his face.
I was on my way up the stairs after the lecture when I had passed that door, catching Asher crouched over as if he were trying to look under it. I had told him not to venture outside of the apartment, but, of course, children never seemed to mind an adult; thus I had set my bag down on the ground and had stood over him as he had clawed faintly at the paint of Jake’s door.
“What’re you doing? I told you to stay inside, didn’t I?” I had asked.
Asher had looked up at me, his ears flicking back as if he had been slightly startled by my voice. His lips had quirked as he made a motion. “Is he mad?”
“Huh?”
“Is he mad at me? What’d I do?” Asher had wriggled his nose before standing up and brushing off the knees to his pants.
“What makes you think he’s mad at you?” I had blinked.
“He came home and I was on the ... Those things. St...Stairs? Yeah, stairs. He made this face.” Asher had placed his fingers in his mouth, pulling them downward and widening his eyes. “Rikerisorly.” The sound had been foreign until he had released them, allowing his freckled face to return to its normal position.
“He’s mad at me, not you.” I had muttered before taking a few steps back from the door to turn and grab my bag. Asher had hesitated a moment before jumping up to follow me, his tail swishing from side to side with idle curiosity.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Asher had snorted, folding his arms in a youthful pout.
I had shrugged my shoulders at him as I had unlocked the door. My hand had grasped the knob, turning it before a loud thud had caught my attention. I had quickly turned around, in time to notice someone struggling on the stairs with a rather large box.
“Oh whoa!” Asher had piped.
My eyes had grown wide as the person had seemed to stagger. With as much force as I could muster, I had thrust myself forward to catch the box and alleviate some of the weight of the box, just holding it up. “Careful, careful!” I had breathed.
“Agh... Thank you, Jon.”
I had blinked, trying to peer from behind the box. The voice. I knew who it was --- “Danielle?”
“Who’d you think it was?” She had grinned at me as I had set the box down on the ground.
“Not you – you live clear on the other side of town.”
She had huffed at me, stuffing her hands neatly into the pockets of her pants. It was adorable, and always had been. Danielle was that sort of girl – the sort that made me smile, was a pleasant surprise. Her neatly tanned face beneath that wheat hair of hers was distinct. The faces she made. It was lovely, and, in all truth, I was glad to see her. I was glad to see someone smiling.
“Well!” Danielle had declared. “You stood me up at the carnival, remember?” She had tapped her nose playfully. “And I had something for you, so I figured I’d try to beat you here and surprise you. It isn’t easy lugging three tons of paper, though.” She had made a gesture. Suddenly her face had turned serious. “I was going through some things – to clear out space in ... Well. That room. I found those old comic books you two used to read, and I thought you might want them. You know I hate comic books.”
Asher had slipped between the two of us, looking up at Danielle curiously. He hadn’t met her, yet the look on his face was smug and knowing. He seemed at ease, if not mildly unenthused with her. Like she were a casual thing he had seen every day for the duration of his life. The day we had gone to the carnival had ended in shambles after we had run into some little girl who had prodded him into a competition regarding knocking down milk bottles for prizes.
Danielle had looked down at him before looking up at me again. “Who’s this?”
“It’s a long story.” I had frowned as I set the box of comic books down on the ground. Asher had wasted no time in trying to open it, succeeding and peering inside. He seemed quiet for once, as if he were mesmerized by the contents. “His name’s Asher.” I had cleared my throat. “He’s my...”
“Oh.” Danielle’s eyes had widened for a moment before she had cleared her throat. Her feet had shuffled.
“He’s not my dad.” Asher had stated bluntly, looking up as he held a comic in hand. He was holding it upside down, his tongue hanging out thoughtfully as if he were trying to read it.
Danielle had laughed lightly at the statement, looking to me as if expecting an answer. I only shrugged my shoulders sheepishly at her, shuffling my own feet before looking at the floor.
“Thank you.” I had nodded my head. “For the comics.”
She has shrugged herself. “Don’t mention it. They’re more yours than mine.” A hum had left her throat as she leaned forward, hesitantly giving me a hug before zipping back down the stairs. “I’ve gotta run, but, Jon, please stop by some time!”
“Huh?” I had called, leaning to grab the comic book from Asher to prevent him from tearing it. I didn’t want him ripping them.
“Visit me some time. It’s not the same when you’re not around.”
I simply nodded my head and waved, even if I wanted to say: I miss you too. Stay longer.
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Posted: Mon Mar 09, 2009 4:38 pm
 Asher His rear had wriggled as he had tugged the pair of underwear neatly over his pants. His fingers had clung to the article tightly, nudging it to the left and right with meticulous dedication as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Tonight was the night, he had told himself early that morning. He would assume the identity and goal of a great man, and pledge to help in the most dire of circumstances. He would become a superhero. Even if he had now powers.
Asher could not deny that his own personality seeemd skewed in comparison to that of his godly idols. The strong, courageous Superman was almost too good of a man to live up to - but Asher would try, and that was the thought that had brought him to standing on the counter of the bathroom, meticulously playing dress up to the sound of Jonathan's snores from the living room sofa. He wanted to live up to Superman, and he wanted to set the record straight with the boy named Jacob.
It had been weeks since the small brawl had occurred, yet the memory remained vivid. The yelling, the shouting, the punching. It was a mortifying experience that had followed him under the bed on that fateful day, and had followed him out from under it as well. Every afternoon when he would venture outside on his own to strut the apartment complex, he would pass Jacob, who would be on his way back to the apartment just across from the one that had become Asher's own. They would exchange glances, and Asher would feel the eminating perplexities and seeming disdain as if Asher had caused something in particular. The occasional police officer to arrive at the scene was scarcely a gift from the man either, and Asher had grown particularly tired of the inquisitions of 'where did he come from'? He couldn't answer the question, but he knew one thing: he had not been kidnapped, he had arrived on his own accord. The key in the box had been neatly positioned where he had remembered it would be, and he had opened the door to his house - not to the house of a stranger. As far as he was concerned, Jonathan was an invader within his personal space, but there was something Asher liked about Jonathan. He was alright with Jonathan invading his personal space. Nevertheless, the problems with Jacob had appeared numerous, and it was crushing, for Asher felt a particular kinsmanship to the young photographer as well. Sometimes he would sit just outside of the door and stare, contemplating knocking, or trying to find a way in, and there surely was no explanation for that. He missed him, despite having never really met him in the first place.
Thus Asher stood on the counter and had shifted the underwear over his brown slacks once more. He had raised the sweater-vest up off of his body, and had neatly folded it before dropping it down onto the toilet seat and unbuttoning the white shirt that often had been relegated to a secondary accessory. As it came off, he grabbed the sleeves, and had neatly tied them around his neck. A cape. He stood bare-chested with his cape, and had wrinkled his nose at the mirror. It was a horrible looking costume! It would never do, and he could never be seen in it. Thus he had untied the make-shift cape and had dropped it onto the toilet seat; he had peeled the underwear off of the top of his pants. Then he had slipped down from the counter, nimbly landing on his toes before pattering along to find the articles which could truly compose his hero identity.
He had prowled the halls with obsessive determination, peeking through each and every door he came across in the dark. With the exception of one cracked door which he had come to feel was the door-that-should-not-be. He wasn't allowed through the door-that-should-not-be. He had witnessed Jon walking out of it once, and he could remember asking 'what's inside there?'. Jon had only looked at him and said with a stern irritation: none of your business. Thus Asher had assumed it was none of his business. The night had progressed, though, and the illumination of the television had flashed lighting throughout the small hallway as Asher dug towels out of the closet door. Towels and items he couldn't identify, all useless accessories that would do him no good. Even Jonathan's room and closet had yielded nothing. It was an empty land of nothing superhero-y, which had prompted a particular bravery in the young feline boy. He would enter through the door-that-should-not-be --- Only for a moment! Only to see if he could find what he needed.
And he did. The moment he had opened the door, he had been flooded by a world of what he had relegated to pure awesome. Posters were slathered onto the wall, some pertaining to the heroes which fascinated Asher himself, others portraying the half-exposed women he had witnessed in a magazine he had found within his own box of comic books. There were book shelves filled to the brim with books, and even a small stack of comic books neatly positioned next to a series of toys behind plastic boxes, as if meant to never be touched. The fan above had whizzed in a circle, capturing the occasional glisten of the computer screen in the far corner of the room, next to the bed, and next to what became Asher's inspiration. He had scurried over to the bed, his feet pattering faintly against the carpet as he had tried to scramble up the side of the bed. His eyes had grown wide as he stared down at pillowcase. That would make the perfect cape. Swiftly, Asher had snagged it, yanking the pillow out from beneath it and tying it around his neck. Then he had jumped down excitedly, making headway for the closet, searching, and searching, for what had seemed like hours.
By midnight, he stood once more in the bathroom, on the counter. There he was. He wore his pair of long-john pajamas, dappled with little squiggly lines. The pillow case he had found, red and deep, about his shoulders like a cape; and the most important articles of all, a mask that covered his eyes, and a belt that had been carefully set about his forehead. He was ready. He was prepared. He was Valiant Boy.
As the clock struck ten past twelve, Asher had returned to Jonathan's room, which he had commandeered. A wide, mischievous grin had been plastered to his face as he had snatched the small, folded piece of paper he had left on top of the bed. Quietly, he had unfolded it to check it, inhaling a deep breath at the sight of his work. His heart was pounding vigorously as he shut his eyes and whirled around, slipping away to the front door and beyond.
There was a message to deliver, and a friendship to mend. And for that he didn't need superpowers. 
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Posted: Mon Jan 18, 2010 8:06 am
Quest time!
Asher has thus far learned a great deal in witnessing the mourning of his own vessel half. Our tough little kitten is about to grow into a bigger, tougher, alley cat and the way he's going to do this is through a few different influences.
A package arrives with a DVD copy of Iron Giant, five Batman comics, a poster for the upcoming movie Kick-a**, and an oversized, bright red towel. There is a picture that accompanies this, a crude drawing sort of resembling Asher if he was using influences from all of the items at once. It's a mangled mess really, and the intention of the package is pretty much lost.
However, in a week's time, Asher finds he needs to utilize his prowess! At an excursion out to the mall, while taking a lunch break in the Food Court, Asher will witness someone stealing from the purchased items of another shopper. The person is trying to be stealthy about it, but Asher's senses are keen, and he's about to catch them in the act! How does this go down? Does he make a scene? Does he expose them red handed? Or does he know that this is not his fight, and lets security take care of it?
Good luck, little superkitty!
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Posted: Sat Jan 23, 2010 4:10 am
[Quest: Shades of Gray ] A feeling of contentment had nestled within Asher's stomach as he set his head upon the cool table top. The bustling mall about him, and the scent of cheap food, had dispersed with ease. Like a ghost, it had drifted away into oblivion as his feline eyes closed. The world was invisible, shrouded in a veil of darkness provided by his eyelids. Nevertheless, it was not frightening, nor was it unwarrented. He could feel the corners of his lips tugging into a loose smile. The smooth feeling of his fingertips against his arms was comfortable; the smell of the wooden table was comfortable. Everything was - and he had himself to thank for such pleasures.
The event of having delivered his apology notice to Jacob (on behalf of Jon) had been successful. At the very least, it had brought a level of satisfaction to Asher. The young men were talking once more. They were on civil terms - and something about that had put him at ease. He felt accomplished. He felt good knowing that Jacob spoke to Jon, and that Jon spoke to Jacob, without a physical confrontation following suit. More so, it felt good to see them both. In what fragmented time he has spent with each of them, he had grown fond of them. They were family. They were friends. He needed and wanted them to be together. He wanted them in his life, and he had accomplished that. Whatever had happened to poor Mr. Jingles was no longer a relevant factor in their daily lives - which was for the better, Asher supposed. The cat was long since dead, and it was over.
With such an accomplishment, Asher had graduated throughout the ranks of herodom. He was a superhero. He had no powers, surely, but he needed none. He'd successfully revived a friendship that may have otherwise been lost. He had successfully established a relationship with the world about him. For such trite accomplishments, they were his - and they had been doubly rewarded by some mysterious benefactor who must have realized his great potential. He had amassed a small collection, inspiring, and personable, in the form a mysterious package left upon the apartment's doorstep. Whoever had left it had good tastes in items. They had served him well, notably by providing him an onslaught of role models. The iron robot and his companion, Hogarth, had been reminiscent of himself and Jon. Surely, Jon was no super robot - but Asher was. Within his mind, anyway. The world was a brand new place to explore, and a knowledgable, if not naive and somewhat isolated, young man was responsible for showing it to him. The raising of a superhero. Why, Jon would be proud - if only he knew. But as Batman had so thoroughly proven, the sharing of secrets was not compatible with the life of vigilantism, or even the object of being as good samaritan.
It was a private world.
But it was his.
A sharp breath escaped Asher as his ears flicked. His small fingers had squeezed against his arms. In a sluggish motion, he had opened his eyes, a groggy haze surrounding him as the food court's lighting re-entered his senses. A small smile had found a home amongst his lips as he straightened himself, peering forward towards the lengthy line outside of the burger joint. Ten minutes had passed since Jon had ventured towards the line. It certainly didn't look as if he were any closer to obtaining food. Asher couldn't blame him - even if he was hungry. His temper was subdued and countered. He was at ease, and the food would come soon enough.
His legs had dangled over the edge of his chair. Quietly, Asher pickered his lips. His head had lolled, tilting off to the side as he leaned to observe the crowds about him. People of all shapes and sizes were waddling about. Fat ones, skinny ones, tall ones, short ones. Small children toddled behind their older companions, or by themselves even. Planting his chin within his hands, he had slouched. The crowds had quickly grown boring, and once more he was attentive to the burger joint's line. His brows had furrowed as he pushed his chair back, hopping from his chair. His sock-covered feeth and brushed against the cool tiles of the floor as he stood on his tip-toes, attempting to gather a better look. No Jon.
Heaving a sign, Asher had rolled his shoulders back. His arms swung as he proceeded throughout the labyrinth of bodies and tables. With simple grace, he hopped over bags, over cracks in the floor, and through the narrow openings the mass of Gaian citizens provided unconsciously for him. All the while he stared up, scanning the faces of the individuals he passed. No Jon.
"Jooooon!" Asher's shoulders sank. His face had grown long as he neared the counter of the burger joint. He could feel his lip quivering. When the man had said they were going somewhere, he hadn't gotten the impression that he would be leaving him. In fact, it had appeared quite the opposite. Jon had been more enthusiastic. He had been friendlier with him. He'd even made a make-shift bedroom for him in the living room, and had bought him a small variety of clothing and toys to play with. Why would Jon have left him in a food court at a mall in the middle of the city? He wasn't sure, but too much time had gone by, and Asher was unhappy to find Jon was not within his line of vision. "Jon?" Asher's shoulders sank lower. His eyes had grown wide as he waved throughout the crowd once more, staring up face after face, peering at passer-bys. No shirt, no tie, no nice shoes. No Jon.
His lower lip had ducked beneath his teeth. Nervously, Asher had bitten down. What if the package he had received had all been part of a trap? What if they were surveillance objects? What if someone took Jon away? Superheroes had super-enemies, didn't they? Even if Asher had done nothing in particular, surely he had an arch-nemesis. Did that make Jon a helpless Lois? He bit down on his lip, retreating towards the unoccupied table he had been seated at. His ears had flicked upward at the sound of a voice from behind him. At once, his head had snapped, his jaw hanging open.
"Christ, Asher - I told you to stay in the chair!"
Jon!
The edge of Asher's lip had quirked at the sight of the young man carrying a bag with two drinks. His crinkled shirt, his silly red tie. They were distinctive, and they were wanted.
"You said you weren't gonna disappear!" Asher exclaimed, thrusting his arms up about himself. "What took you do so long? You were making Mooch-y Mooch-y, weren't you?"
Jon had jerked slightly, his head tilting at the word. In a dismissive motion, he shook his head. "Mooch-y mooch-y's a new one."
Asher straightened himself. His face had eased as he nudged the corner of his cheek with his fist. His tail had raised up as he took a few steps, holding his hands up to take one of the drinks from Jon. He wouldn't want him to drop them, spill them all over the floor. Or worse! Spill them all over his food. "I want fish."
"Right, right. You've got fish. Go sit down and I'll give it to you."
Asher's lips had shifted up his left cheek, his freckles rolling like slow moving stars. He rolled his eyes before turning on his heel, beginning to sluggishly progress back to his seat. Before he had made it, however, something had captured his attention. His eyes had grown wide as he noticed a little girl crawling underneath one of the tables, her pigtails bobbing as she wiggled her fingers over a purse belonging to a rather fat, doggish woman. Asher had squinted at the girl, his ears flicking backwards as she lifted something from the confines of the small bag. It was hard, square, and shiny - what Asher supposed was called a CD case. He had seen them before. Jon had lots of them in a small cabinet. The little girl had tucked the CD case into her shirt, crawling away from the table with great caution.
His heart had pattered against his chest. His head had throbbed. What was he supposed to do? Clearly, that CD didn't belong to that little girl - and clearly, that woman had not noticed the action. Something needed to be done! It was a time for ... Valiant Boy.
Asher's drink had slipped from his fingers, the cup clattering against the floor. The soda pop had oozed out, seeping into his socks as he made a dash for it. Time had appeared to stand still in a moment. The woman at the table had jumped back, her jaw dropping as she cried out. Her purse had scattered all about the floor, make-up, money, papers, flying a short distance as it fell. The table shook faintly as Asher scurried - and the sound of Jon's voice faded into the distance.
"Stop!" Asher jerked, sliding out from the table. The little girl with pig-tails was just a short distance away, staring at him with wide eyes as he jumped, slipping through the crowd.
It was at that time Asher realized something ...
A sharp pain had coursed throughout his head as something collided with it. He had staggered, fumbling over himself until he had landed on his hands and knees. Looking up over his shoulders, he had realized it was the woman whose purse had been infiltrated by the girl with pig-tails. With wide eyes, he had stared up at the woman, wincing as another feeling coursed throughout him. He felt himself being lifted up. Instinctively, he had began to kick.
"Asher, stop it! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"She stole something! She stole something!"
Asher squirmed, staring out into the crowd as the little pig-headed girl approached the doggish woman, pointing towards him. Everything was a haze as Asher looked up at Jon staring down at him, holding him tighter. The woman had started yelling, started pointing, screaming even.
"That little monster! Don't you have any control over him? My god! I've never seen a child so ill-behaved in public, just attacking innocent little girls! you're lucky he didn't lay a hand on my daughter; I'd sue you for every penny."
Asher's body had eased over. A contorted look of fear befell him as his feet touched the ground. Daughter? The pig-tailed girl was the woman's daughter? His breathing had stopped. His jaw had hung wide open as his ears pressed against his head. The pig-tailed girl had looked sleazy, and conniving, wiggling her fingers and removing the CD from the purse. Yet she was not wrong - she was not bad? She was the daughter.
"B-b-b-b-but..." Asher choked, his mind racing in confusion.
"M-Ma'am - he didn't mean it." Jon had stammered. Asher could feel his grip on him tightening as Jon tugged him behind him.
Yelling. The woman was yelling. It was as if Asher's ears had shut down. They had folded back as he glanced towards the girl with pig tails. The sound of his heart throbbed within his head, an internal steadiness amongst the disorder he had instigated.
He gave a staggered breath, wincing as Jon pulled him away, grasping the bag of food from the table and yanking him along.
He'd made a mistake.
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