October Sky

Hunter swung his foot casually on to the fractured sidewalk, greeted by the desolate head of the fallen gargoyle; the mouth of which had collected a small puddle with floating leaves of various shades of orange within it’s unhinged jaws. The air wasn't too chilly, but Hunter still dove his hands into the pockets of his navy blue hoodie as he meandered slowly onto Maplewood Ave. “Okay” he thought, passing a scruffy teenager waiting for the bus. “Beer, cat food, coffee, other vital foodstuffs.” Hunter continued down the leaf covered path aiming at Flannigan’s, only to get distracted by a very much abandoned looking truck pulled into the drop up. Curiosity getting the best off him, Hunter went to investigate the neglected looking box truck, and was not disappointed. The trucks back door had been jimmied open to reveal a medley of different sized pumpkins.Hunter looked around, and the opportunity being too good to miss, he grabbed an amazingly shyrical pumpkin from the top of the pile. “correction, Beer, cat food, coffee, and fuckin’ sweet pumpkin.” Hunter muttered pleased with his pumpkin.

Back in his apartment Maurice sat atop the coffee table and studied the pumpkin intensely. Hunter smiled, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto his bed. “Alright Cat,” he said slouching onto the couch, “As much as I hate to pull you away from your new found friend, I’m about to Jack-O-Lantern this thing”. Hunter pulled the pumpkin off the table and grabbed a knife and spoon from the kitchen, sliding through the window into the alley. Hunter cut a circle into the crown of his pumpkin, instantly regretting his decision upon inhaling the melodious pumpkin odor. As he sat surrounded by the guts of his felines a loud whistle permeated through the otherwise silent night. Smirking and continuing to carve his pumpkin in a most likely dangerous fashion Hunter whistled loudly. It took about thirty seconds for the next whistle, this time it was a two measure, high low. So naturally Hunter matched the whistle, and went back to trying to move the utterly blunt knife in an artistic manner. Almost five minutes later another whistle came through the alley, it seemed louder but being a creature of habit Hunter whistled back, and a tall figure poked its head into the alley. “Ahah” Hunter looked up to see the scruffy teenager from the bus stop. “Hey..”, “So you’re the one whistling huh?” Hunter smirked, “Yeah, I’m Hunter”, “Emit.” “Nice to meet you.” Emit appraised him in the dimly lit alley, “Not to be a creep or anything, but do you want some help with that?” He pointed to hunters shitty excuse for a pumpkin. “I wouldn't be opposed to some help” Hunter replied easily. “Sweet pumpkin man.” “Right?”

Catch-07

Waking from a brief tedium induced nap, Hunter opened his eyes sprawled out on his sunbaked couch. He looked around his apartment in a somewhat fabricated feeling of bliss. Aside from the somewhat constant aroma of human urine and disappointment that lingered in the hallway, Hunter liked his apartment. The stacks of aging novels atop his almost impossibly decrepit coffee table, matched his weary brown leather couch. Hunter closed his eyes and thought of the first time he’d ever really felt at home in Maple Wood Crest. Almost three weeks after he’d moved into his apartment it still mainly consisted of a box springless mattress on the floor, a lamp, and a motley collection of books and cotton shirts strewn about the single studio. Although to his credit he had managed to paint the single room of his studio apartment a faint blue. He had yet to meet any of his neighbors, and was justifiably somewhat hesitant, considering that more than not he would hear someone yelling angrily or drunkenly, (although they are not mutually exclusive) from somewhere in the building. In his fourth week, Hunter finally decided, or rather was forced to introduce himself to  his neighbors. That would be due to the fact that the window leading into the adjacent ally was busted, and had a tendency of letting in fucking freezing gusts of wind as soon as Hunter stepped out of the shower. And try as he might to fit a beer cap into the screw to close the god damned thing, he needed a screw driver. One of which he did not have. So he conceded, and walked the draining four feet to get to apartment number 8 across the hall. Upon knocking on the door, it creaked and swung open. The apartment was significantly bigger than Hunter’s, and much more furnished. There was even an established living room, complete with a leather couch, coffee table, old green leather reading chair, and lamp. On top of the table there was a hand scrawled note, and seeing as he was trespassing anyways, Hunter figured he would go ahead and violate some minor privacy while he was at it. The note was somewhat informally addressed to the landlord, stating that the former occupants of apartment 8 had skipped town and that their furniture could be disposed of or put up as last months rent. And so, Hunter did as any good citizen would do, and stole the lions share of an apartment. After approximately three hours of shimmying various stolen goods into his apartment, that he sat down on his new couch and felt utterly at home.

Dream of the Red Haired Chamber

He sat. Engulfed in a veritable ocean of white bedding. Maurice's insistent licking, the slap of waves hitting the hull of a forlorn ship. He stared at the ceiling, vaguely aware of the thickening air of the apartment. The sheets clung lifelessly to him, crowding his body, swelling around Hunter’s inert form. “Jesus” he moaned. The cat’s saliva finely motivating him to peel himself from the vast white expanse. Hunter shuffled through his apartment, deciding somewhere in between leaving his bed and tumbling over a rather precariously stacked pile of books, that he should take a shower. The kind of shower reserved for people who still have the taste of ash, cheap beer, and espresso in their mouth. The kind of shower he almost certainly deserved, and more than certainly needed.

Hunter stepped into the single room of his studio apartment. The freezing drops of water spilling down his back were silenced by his surveil of the room. In some way Hunter though of his barely-health insured, sparsely thinged life, as a slight way of registering a rejection-of conformity, of middle-class convention, of not just acquisitiveness but of the overwhelming idol of  “Security”. This thought of  his almost rebellion comforted Hunter as he realized that he would most likely have to go to work today, because he did in fact need the money despite his rejection of acquisitiveness. He grabbed his coat from the hooks adjacent to the heavy oak door.

The main wall was a rustic gold wall full of nearly empty or bursting slots. It lined the wall directly across from the grim filled double doors. He liked to think it was a pleasant reminder of the extravagance of the past, and not simply a relic reflecting the lackluster efforts of the building. In front of the mail wall stood a sullen looking redhead who he believed was named Syria.

Hunter had always thought she was slightly shallow. Not a bad person by any means, no, but the type of person to quote Rainbow Rowell and market it as deep, or some philosophical brilliance intended for only those open minded persons with a willingness to ‘feel’. Hunter had no issue with those who had the higher capacity to experience life's emotional turmoil, or those who exposed the raw truth of being. In truth he loved these peoples various works and theories that so perfectly encapsulated the complexities and subsequent simplicities of living. He found them thought provoking and intriguing.

No, Hunter loved philosophical and brilliant literary minds, he simply disliked people who were phudo-deep. People who wanted to be brilliant. People who acted as though they were enlightened for some kind of praise.

The Young Man and the Sea

The drenched cat sat, stoic across from him. Illuminated by a single lamp set atop a pile of yellowing, coffee stained books. “I’m sorry,” He said. Once more apologizing to the angered cat. “Look, I’ll leave the window open from now on.”, “Scouts Honor”. The cat remained motionless, staring at him accusingly; it’s eyes narrowing slightly. “Look cat,can I call you cat? It’s raining. You don’t normally come by when it’s raining.” His own dumb joke reminding him he needed a name for the currently very wet cat sitting in front of him. Hunter bent down to the stiff cold floor and reached out to the cat. The cat moved forward, begrudgingly head bumping Hunters outstretched hand. “Hemingway”, the cat looked at him, and then proceeded to wipe his wet body on Hunter’s hand. “I’ll take that as a no.” he muttered. “Fitz” The cat didn’t even bother with that one. “Alright I get it. Maybe you’re a more whimsical cat. What about Seuss?”  No response, “Dahl?” The cat stepped back looking genuinely offended. “Not a Dahl fan. That’s okay, he’s not for everybody.” the cat gave Hunter one last glance of contempt before going back to purring loudly into Hunters now fur caked fingers.  

Hunter began to sit up, wiping the gray fur from his George Town T-shirt. The smell of coffee wafted lightly through the apartment, prompting him to re-fill the mug. He slouched onto the shabby brown leather couch, setting his mug onto a beaten copy of Maurice. The cat jumped lightly onto the couch and purred, running his tail effortlessly against the edge of the copy. “You an E. M. Forster fan Cat?” the cat tilted it’s head and continued purring. The scars on the cats nose shining pink against the cats muted gray face.

Hunter smirked moving forward to take his steaming mug off of the worn print. He picked up the book, opening the the cover to show the small blue scribble inside. “Ce qui est merveilleux à propos de la grande littérature , c'est qu'il transforme celui qui le lit vers la condition de l'homme qui a écrit.” He read softly, translating for the cat. “What is wonderful about great literature,” he paused “is that it transforms the man who reads it, towards the condition of the man who wrote it.” Hunter leaned back, staring at the smudged blue ink. He looked to the cat who seemingly inspected him. “Maurice? You like it?” the cat purred and curled up onto Hunters lap. “Fuckin’ figures..” he said under his breath, smirking. Hunter turned, upsetting the soon to be slumbering cat. He looked at the window where rain still rhythmically pounded the glass, casting fleeting shadows across the floor. The rained poured heavily into the alley, almost making it look like a vast and ever expanding sea. A sea of dull muddy waters, filled with the downfall of a once great town.

He reached for a cigaret, he almost never smoked. “Nasty habit” he used to say. But every time he read that pretentious, aggravating inscription, he couldn’t help it. He would let it get under his skin. Hunter took a deep drag, letting the smoke swirl into his lungs, and closed his eyes. Allowing the darkness to engulf him. A slow release.

The Mysterious Case of the Beast in the Blackout

The may have started at nine, but to be truthful, the day didn’t start until 7:35. When it started with an undeniably feminine scream. Hunter sat, squatting over the coffee table, non-stick pan raised above his head. Sweat poured down his forehead, stinging his unblinking eyes. A warm breeze blew through the open window, revealing the trash-filled floor of the ally, rustling the pages of the splayed books spilling onto the floor. He sat completely still, surrounded by the darkness of his own tiny apartment. The eerie silence was broken at last. His pan hand tensed, as a low guttural noise emanated from across the room. The pan flew, headed in the general direction of the beast. The sound of glass shattering filled the apartment.

The sound of claws skidded across the hardwood floors. Hunter lunged, aiming his body for the creature. The fight was a quickly finished, furious outlash. Claws flew, sinking into Hunter’s flesh as he screamed and hurled the ball of fur. The creature skid out of sight once more.  

Hunter stood, paralyzed, waiting for the creature of darkness to make its move. The clock blinked, the sound of nothing once more an  present entity. He glanced at it, certain he’d seen something, a movement of some kind. Suddenly the kitchen crashed, pots fell, clanging on the floor. A flash of fur darted past, Hunter jumped back onto the coffee table, protecting his ankles from ambush.  His skin stung, the cut on his jaw beginning to bleed. A wisp of  dry air permeating the apartment fro He surveyed the apartment, looking for the beast once more. The darkness helped the creature, but soon, thought Hunter. Soon.

For the next five minutes he sat, sweating, stinging, completely still.  His heart racing in anticipation. The lights flickered; he looked widely for the beast.  The lights finally coming completely on, illuminating the brick walls and worn furniture. Before him sat a gray tabby, and a shabby looking one at that. “You gotta be kidding me” he muttered, slowly coming down from the table. The cat backed away, glaring in a suspicious manner, hesitant of it’s former foe. Hunter slowly knelt down to the floor extending his hand as a sweaty olive branch. The cat stood, motionless. Slowly padding forward to inspect his hand. Hunter reached out to touch the cat’s head, rubbing behind his ear. The cat purred, pushing his head farther into Hunter’s out stretched hand.  Hunter chuckled under his breath. “A goddamned cat. I almost just broke my leg. For a goddamned cat.” He smirked, and inspected the cat. A tabby, whose face; a soft gray was interrupted by scars cutting across it’s nose.