Wheels on Fire

Rambly writer-thoughts, proceed with caution.

So, the August challenge on the 'orkshop is the Chariot. And I think the Major Aracana, like necromancers, are one of those things I should be able to write about--apparently I can write short stories after all. Who knew?

As it happens, one of the ways I play around getting to know characters is to work out elaborate charts involving birthdates, zodiac signs, and Major Arcana (derived by some wacky numbermancy with their birthdates). So there must be some character in my current wip-world who would be the Chariot, I say, and I sit down to play with numbers. And lo, such a child was born on the 2nd of May, 1971 (though born much more recently in my head).

It's frickin' Cate. In two weeks this woman has gone from camping in my hindbrain to building a pyramid at the intersection of major neural pathways. And all of her Taurus stubborness is bent on getting stories, if not actual novels, written about her. I see Geology 101 in my future. (Or I will just steal allochthon's brain and keep it in a jar on my desk.)

So while plodding on with Dreams (and I just had a vision of my version of the Chosen of Hastur--nothing to do with squid, thankyouverymuch) I'll rack my poor brain for another short story idea, one with appropriate Charioty themes.

Because God knows...

So Steven and I go for pizza on campus tonight. As we're walking back to the car, I see a kitty sitting outside one of the bars. I stop to pet the kitty, as is my wont with any stationary cat, and she is all friendly. (That SHE was friendly is a bit of a surprise--I usually attract every male cat in a five-mile radius.)

Some scruffy-looking-mightabeenhomeless guy walks by and says "She's a stray, she's been hanging around for four days. If you can take her home and feed her, you should." Mind you, I have two cats already, and Foamy on the porch. But I continue to pet kitty, and try to pick her up. I figure, if she freaks out, she's not coming home with me. She does not freak out, and in fact immediately climbs onto my shoulder and starts licking my shirt. I don't know what's so tasty about an Aragog shirt, but there was much drool involved in the process.

So then some drunk chick and her boy come out of the bar and ask to pet my cat. I say "I found her, I think she's a stray." Chica and boy proceed to pet and coo at kitty, while kitty wraps all limbs, including tail, around my arm and licks away at my shoulder. Chica then says "You have to take her home. God knew you needed a pet." I'm thinking, God might know about the other cats already, if He's been paying much attention. But what can I do--Miss Kitty has a death grip on me and is nursing my shirt. Steven has a look of bemused resignation about him by this point.

So, next test: the car. Kitty does not spaz. Car starts, still no spaz. Already she's better than Psycho and Fluffy Pants, who are the worst car cats EVER. So we go home, and she just sits on my lap and hugs my leg, narry a meep of protest.

Psycho and Fluffy Pants are nonplussed. I have a bad history of bringing home orange cats who beat them up and take their food. She hasn't been violent yet, but she hisses and warble-snorfle-growls if they get too close. She doesn't seem bug-infested or a disease vector, so she can spend the night in the house and we'll see how it goes. I have to go pick up some Advantage from the vet tomorrow anyway, so I'll get an extra dose.

She is pale ginger, delicate and short-haired, with pointy ears and big eyes. I will post some pics later. So far she has curled up under my desk and hissed at Fluffy Pants, or curled in my lap and hissed at Fluffy Pants. She is a better lapcat than either of the Brothers von Flaum.

This all seems remarkably...convenient. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The moral is, be wary of strange pussy you find outside of bars.