Haunted by Ink
Why does she waltz through the room exhaling her soul into notes accompanying music in the background? Waterfalls of hair cascade over the shoulders as she twists and turns replicating elaborate movements. I suppose she had been inspired by one of those Viennese concerts and performances for the New Year, but you could never be sure. People like her — beings like her — are rather unpredictable.
Or crazy.
I scoff. I suppose, unpredictable and crazy go well together.
Her skirts flutter as the air soaks in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She laughs, she shrieks, her eyes shimmer and glimmer, and a delicate porcelain cup finds its way to her lips. A delightful sigh, followed by twists and turns whilst she hums her way to the balcony.
“Clack”, “clack” — the doors are open ajar as the coffee mug bursts outside. She stands by the rail, the nightscape soaking her in, as hot bitter liquid washes her throat.
They’re talking to her, I know.
Reaching from the beyond.
From the Void.
She giggles and hums a few more notes as her eyes narrow into a satisfactory, all-knowing gaze. The Void sees her, but she might just see the Void, too.
I step towards the balcony, wondering if my presence will disturb or bring calmness to her restless mind. A gentle breeze cuddles her dress and I can smell her warmluke coffee. Slithering slithering the aroma seduces the senses and I succumb to the invitation. Slowly I approach her… Weary of my soft steps, weary of my presence.
They are talking to her, I know. I’m not quite sure if she is talking to them too, but I know: she’s observing.
Immersed.
Obsessed.
Addicted.
She’s drinking their essence like the very coffee at the bottom of the almost-cold cup. She’s soaking in their appearance, their voices, and her nose-thrills breathe in the worlds they are coming from. To an unsuspecting stranger, they might be shadows, hallucinations, or ghosts, even.
But to her, these creatures represent life itself.
As the Void and the city soak her in, the last drop of coffee washes her throat. Eyes closed, last notes echo through the night. A star may glisten — or two, or three… As she sends a prayer towards the skies, her silhouette turns around and whisks me up.
Warm, loving, welcoming arms.
“My dearest kitty,” she softly whispers as gentle kisses fall upon my cheeks.
—
There’s nothing quite like love between a writer and their cat. For I guard her restless nights, haunted by shadows, ghosts, and hallucinations.
And there is nothing quite like the love between a cat and their writer for they tell tales of warlocks and dragons, yet always find a place for a cat — well fed and warmly curled up by the fire.
My scribbles dive into a variety of topics. The thread of thought can be unpredictable — inspired by places, people, experiences, or the occasional earworm on the playlist…
I often weave my cloth of writing unsure where the threads will lead — or if the final tapestry will hold.
Yet whether I scribble fantasy or horror, highly opinionated or research-driven pieces, I hope it leaves you with something to ponder: makes you feel better (or worse?..), strikes an inner monologue (hopefully, voiced out in the comments!) or simply gives you something to chew on, inspiring to keep the creative ball rolling.
Thank you for reading!
