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[kamikazezoomy]

The Library Tree

Beautiful warm sunlight from above, a gentle and refreshing breeze all around, and cool, damp, and fertile soil down below.  The mobile organisms scurry, slope, flit, and slither all around, providing me with delicious carbon dioxide, and sometimes I think there is no better place that I could be.  I’ve seen generations of the mobile ones come and go, changing and aging, as I’ve grown larger, taller, wiser.  Sometimes they are nice, bringing extra nutrients, or admiring my leaves as the seasons change.  It amuses me to watch the young ones try to climb, and I try then not to let them fall to their deaths. Other times they are a nuisance, trying to carve markings into my body.  But mostly they are harmless, with short lifespans and shorter attention spans, so the damage they do is usually temporary.  

Most of what the bipeds do is building things. There’s one here, near me.  They brought stones from far away and stacked them. They brought metals and minerals, melted and stretched thin, and decorated and filled the various holes between the stones.  It’s not a natural look, but so little of what the bipeds do looks natural anymore.  As far as their structures go, this seems to be one of the nicer ones.  I’ve grown accustomed to it over the past seasons, if not fully fond of it.   But don’t let the cool stone deceive you. This structure is full of unspeakable horrors.

I didn’t realize it at first. I was (relatively) young and unconcerned with the comings and goings of the bipeds within their artificial stone outcropping.  In those days I was smaller and more of the young ones would try and climb me, with their feet tickling my limbs and branches as they scurried about like squirrels. I’ve never really understood why so many of the mobile organisms move so quickly, but it does amuse me, how they bustle about in such a hurry, as though they are filled with a raging wind.   

Occasionally, one of the bipeds will stop and rest in my shade either on the way in or out of the stone building, often carrying a small object.  Normally small objects don’t concern me much one way or another.  But there was something so horrifyingly repulsive about this one.  Perhaps the revulsion was in that the item was so small and unassuming, quiet and harmless.  I didn’t notice it at first. Certainly a great many of them had escaped my notice before this one showed me the monsters all around me.

In the hands of this calm, quiet biped, carried out from the silent stone outcropping, were the scraps of my brethren, only barely recognizable after having been shredded and and mashed, mutilated and bleached, burned and bound.  I looked and saw more: nearly every biped entering and exiting that artificial cave had one of these items, often more.  A few had more than they could hold and carried them in bags.  I had not paid much mind to what went on in the artificial cave, but it was largely quiet and still, and I had not considered the carnage housed inside, the evidence of such monumental violence, obviously carried out somewhere, if not just beyond my roots’ reach!  Suddenly it seemed an abandoned abbatoire, a gruesome mausoleum full of haunts.

I cannot view the tomb the same way again, nor the bipeds coming and going from it.  I have become suspicious of them and all their doings. They have gone from harmless follies to unpredictable monsters.  

I saw one last spring digging holes in the open land near the monstrous cavern, and placing saplings of my own kind into the holes. At the time it seemed beautiful, a nurturing act that seems to have become relatively rare on the part of the bipeds toward us stationary organisms.  Now I find myself wondering if the young are being placed there for convenience, to be grown nearby and slaughtered when they are needed.  I wonder if I am in danger, and my brothers nearby.  At times I grow angry thinking about it, and when the wind is in my favor, I break off pieces of my limbs and throw them in rage at the bipeds, their motorized machines, at the unspeakable building itself.

The bipeds would have to pay for such treachery.  I reached out to my brethren through the root network and asked if they knew of this.  Some admitted they did.  Some had heard from farther away about whole forests being cleared, but none of us knew exactly the middle steps between our kind being slaughtered and being carried around in pieces by the monsters around us.  We decided to fight back.  We had been on this planet longer than the bipeds, and we would remain when they were gone.  We slowed down our oxygen production, just slightly enough to cause panic, even though carbon dioxide was more than abundant.  Those of us with hard fruit and nuts instructed the squirrels and chipmunks how to throw it at the bipeds when they least suspected it.  We warned the birds of the treachery and encouraged them to drop their waste on the bipeds when possible, and on their motorized machines when the bipeds themselves were unavailable.  We used the wind to throw whatever of ourselves we could manage. Our efforts had little effect, it seemed, but it felt good to direct our rage back at the bipeds. For a while.  

One calm spring day, when the wind wasn’t strong enough to do much and we had nothing yet for the squirrels to throw, I watched some of the young bipeds running through my domain.  I noticed a small biped clutching a particularly large specimen of my mutilated kin.  Several other bipeds, also small, but larger than the first, were chasing her.  At first I thought they must be practicing their violent ways, growing their anger and honing their rage.  But then I noticed that the smallest one, with her horrible souvenir, was not in a frenzy, but was actually fleeing, afraid of the demons chasing her.  I watched, studying the situation as the others caught the small one and took the prize from her arms. She shrieked in defiance, and I inwardly cheered, siding with the beasts that were apparently also enraged by the sacrilege it represented. The small one continued crying out, pleading with the others, who then encircled her, taunting her with what they had taken. But then I changed sides, for as I looked on, the others took the artifact and waved it, open with the thin shreds of my kind flapping perversely.  The small one made a lunge and fell, and I noticed her face was wet. The others cheered and laughed at her humiliation and, to my horror, began destroying the item they had wrenched from her hands.

The sheets fluttered about like autumn leaves as the small one scrabbled for them and begged the others to return the carcass.  They laughed maliciously, and with a final rip, tossed the now empty shell back at the small one and scattered.  

I was dumbfounded. The small one caught each stray piece of the mangled tome and, still sobbing, sat beneath my boughs and put each one back in its place with a gentle caress.  She seemed to apologize to each scrap as she lovingly smoothed, tucked, and straightened each one back within the covering.  I could no longer be angry with this small biped holding tattered remains of my family. It was painfully clear that this was no monster cherishing a head on a spike.  Whatever had been done to transform mighty trees into this small brick had carried great meaning with it.  My fallen comrades had become the medium that bore greater meaning than we could have imagined.  No biped had ever cried out over a branch we had lost or even one of our great number completely letting go of the earth and falling.  We became so much more important to the souls of these creatures when we carried the markings they burned upon our processed flesh. And while I still wished that we were valued more as living things, my anger subsided to see how dearly the bipeds loved what we became.

I still shudder inwardly, from time to time, at all of the carcasses entombed so nearby, but it’s almost worth it when I see how much meaning the bipeds get from the messages we carry.  And maybe someday we can find a compromise.  

[kamikazezoomy]

Unfortunately not everyone likes gummy worms...

I’ve been swimming in this sea of sour gummy worms for ages now.  Seriously, like three weeks maybe? I’ve nearly lost sight of the shore.  It’s just bright orange, lime green, electric blue, and hot pink, sunshine yellow and neon red all about.  Gorgeous really.  

I asked my friends to come along. It looked like a lot of fun, something I hadn’t done before, maybe a fun adventure.  It was something that I would definitely have jumped right into in my younger days, and I thought they would appreciate that, always reminiscing like they are.

I said to a couple of them, “Look! It’s a sea of sour gummy worms! Doesn’t that look great! Let’s just go for a little swim! Might be fun!”

They looked at me blankly.  I tried to keep a fun, encouraging face, and said, expectantly, “Well?!”

Monica smiled and then said “Hey, remember that time we walked through the chocolate forest? That was funny right? I don’t know about swimming in gummy worms, but the chocolate forest was ah-mazing! All the chocolate right?! Yeah, that was great!”

I smiled and nodded, still wading in the gummy worms, in up to about my ankles. “Yeah, that was fun, this could be fun too. Let’s give it a go!”

Whitney said, in her hip German accent, “You know I don’t really eat sugar anymore. It’s not very gut for you, you know.” Whitney, who used to drag us to the candy shop every weekend.  We bought a whole grocery bag full of candy once, just for the hell of it. But now it’s not good enough for her.  So much for old times’ sake.  All I could do was blink. I turned to Carla.

“For real, though! Look, taste this one, Carla! Feel how squishy it is! Wouldn’t it be a hoot to swim in!”

Carla tasted the the gummy worm I tossed to her.  She nibbled the end thoughtfully.  She smiled, “Yeah that’s not bad,” my eyebrows went up with my hopes. “That’s something I might consider doing in the future.” Eyebrows and hopes crashed back down.

“I’m already in, though! I didn’t mean three weeks from now, I’ve started now! This could be a fun thing for us all to do!” I cried. But I had already lost their attention. They were talking about something else that I couldn’t quite hear and they had started walking down the shore.  With spiteful determination, I turned and faced the sour gummy sea. I stomped out until the gummies reached my knees and then I leapt out, arms outstretched into the rainbow of gelatinous worms.

The beach where I had started was sort of in a cove, and as I paddled and frolicked (swimming in gummy worms is not quite like normal swimming. You do float, but not quite as well as in water.  It’s sort of between swimming and going through a ball pit, so frolicking is still definitely possible, even when you can’t reach the bottom), I noticed one of my other friends out on the shore to my right.  She had always more tolerance for my strange notions, and had had some of her own.  When others failed to appreciate me, she usually did. I waved and called out to her.

“Vanessa!  Look! I’m swimming in a sea of sour gummy worms! Come join me!”  She waved back and smiled. I knew she liked sour gummy worms, so I was hopeful I would finally have some company.  But with a wave of nausea, I remembered that the last several things I had suggested to her had not gone over well.  She hadn’t been thrilled with the sugar glass spectacles I recommended, and thought that the cotton candy wig I told her about had been cute, but not practical enough to really say she “liked” it.  But still! We had both previously enjoyed sour gummy worms, and on a separate occasion, wading through a maple syrup swamp.

“Oh, that looks like fun! Let me go get my goggles!” She shouted back.  

“That’s a good idea! Sometimes the sour sugar gets in and burns a little, but it’s still worth it! I am just having fun, so I won’t be far gone when you return!”

That was two weeks ago, and I haven’t heard back. I thought I saw her coming back over a dune and I jumped and waved, asking if she was coming along, that I was getting lonely, but she either must not have heard me or she decided a sea of sour gummy worms was just too much.  So I bounce along alone.

Sometimes I think the gummy worms are coming alive and keeping me company. They’re always a lot of fun.  Very sarcastic, sour gummy worms are.  Just like you’d expect from a candy that makes you pucker.  Other times, I start to think that maybe I’m becoming a sour gummy worm too.  Part of me knows this isn’t really rational, but there are nights when the full moon shines down and my arms and legs wiggle about a lot like gummy worms, my knees and elbows the middle where the flavor and color changes. Sometimes each of my fingers are gummy worms too!  But when I bite them, it hurts, so I don’t do that so much anymore.

I don’t regret coming out here, even though sometimes the sour sugar gets in my eye, and I’ve got a canker sore on my tongue. I just wish my friends had come along. Who would have known that candy could be so divisive?  The gummy worms are my friends now.  It’ll be alright.

[kamikazezoomy]

Cat

People think cats are assholes, but I don’t think they ever stopped to consider that maybe we’re just reacting to the way we get treated in the first place.  Nobody goes bad without a reason.

Take me for example, when I was a young mangy stray, I got taken in by a family of people.  See what I did there: taken in.  Double meaning, that! They really liked me at first. They saw me in an alley, playing with the small one’s bike handle tassels.  Thought I was so cute, they did. “Oh, look at her play with the tassels!” they said. “She’s such a cute playful thing, swatting the tassels like they’re alive!”  They went and got some tinned tuna out of the pantry and put it on a dish for me.  I thought to myself, this is a sweet gig! I find fun things to play with, bring it to these big, weird primates, demonstrate how it’s fun, and they reward me with food and attention!

And it was a sweet gig.  The people let me keep my freedom to roam the neighborhood, and they fed me and played with me on a regular basis.  And in return, I’d bring them presents, souvenirs from my adventures.  The small one, especially, seemed to like these gifts. I’d disappear for a couple of days and come back with butterfly in my mouth, or colorful piece of cloth that I’d found.  The small one would pick up the presents I’d leave by the back door and tell me how much she liked them.  One time when it was raining, I darted inside to warm up and dry off and before the people caught me, I found a box of my presents under the small one’s bed.  The medium one grabbed me with a towel and put me in the garage before I could look too closely, but it was enough: I knew this thing was working out. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.  I bring presents and joy, they give food, shelter and attention. What more could I ask?  Oh, how about not to have the rug pulled out from under me!

Time passed and the seasons did their thing.  The big one and the medium one continued to feed me and play with me, and they seemed to find some enjoyment from the little gifts I brought back from my adventures. The small one was getting bigger, but she still played with me too, though she wasn’t around as much.  One afternoon, when I was napping in a patch of sunshine, she told me she had shown some of my presents to a friend who was impressed with the uniqueness of the items, the buttons and stones and ribbons. She confided that there were a few presents I had brought that she hadn’t kept, but she had appreciated them all the same.  That frog I had caught? What a shock! She’d had quite a laugh from that one, she had!

She also talked about other presents that the other people had shared with her. I don’t know where they came from, but she said they had a lizard inside. She called it Brennan. She and the big one liked the lizard. It ate crickets and made them chuckle with its antics. I wished I could share their laughter over the lizard, but I think it eventually died and I never got to see what was so funny.  They didn’t seem to care that I might like to play with the lizard.  I began to wonder if my presents weren’t good enough to earn time to play with the lizard. They weren’t playing with me so much anymore. I would have to step up my game.

On my next adventure I brought back a mouse.  I had heard them wondering that I had kept mice away from the house and thought maybe it was a hint. I presented my prize at the door and sat proudly above it until the people came and saw. They laughed kindly and said they liked it, I was a good cat for catching the mouse. They weren’t going to keep it, but they were glad I caught it and could tell why I liked catching mice. Mice must be just the perfect thing for me, a cat, to catch. I must have had such a good time catching it and playing with it! And you know what? I had had a great time catching and playing with that mouse before I brought it to them.  It didn’t matter that they weren’t going to keep it, they liked that I had caught it and shown them.  Maybe this would get them to play with me again.

But it didn’t, really.  I would have to do better. Maybe, since they now preferred lizards, I should bring them one of those! Yes, that would do it! They missed Brennan, so I’d bring them a new lizard, and since I brought it, maybe they’d let me play with it, too! We could all play with the lizard together, and things would go back to the way they were!  I set off to find a lizard.

Now, I was smart enough to know that they wouldn’t want a dead lizard. No, I didn’t think they liked dead things too much, and surely Brennan was not dead when they talked and laughed about him.  The people liked different things from what I liked, but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t want to play with a dead lizard.  I’d bring them a live one.

I spent the next couple days stalking through the neighbors’ gardens, chasing the scurrying little dinosaurs through the dying plants, getting themselves ready for winter’s hibernation. After a few attempts, I caught one. (I had had several close calls, but the damn things kept letting their tails fall off, and what was the fun in that?! But I finally got one around the front and middle, so it was still burdened with its glorious tail when I brought it back to the people.  As before, I waited by the back door, proud and triumphant, with my souvenir.  This lizard was fantastic. I loved it, and I knew they would love it. As I waited by the door, I heard the people coming. They had all been on a walk looking at the trees and talking about how excited they were that soon the leaves would change color. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but they were excited.  I was excited too. I ran to meet them, the wriggling lizard gently but firmly held between my teeth.

At first, before I got to them, they smiled, pleased that I was running to meet them; what a happy reunion after their walk and my hunt!  They turned and waited for me, watching me prance up like a proud, stupid labrador.  They smiled. I smiled. I parked myself in front of the people as they said “What have you found, kitty? What did you bring us?”  I triumphantly dropped the lizard (who was terrified, by the way, I guess he didn’t understand that we weren’t planning on killing him. At least, I wasn’t. But I had never figured out what had happened to Brennan, I suppose…) at their feet.  The people gaped at me. They looked at me. They looked at the lizard. They blinked. They shrugged. And they walked on into the house.

Unbelievable! What happened? They used to love when I brought them things! And I knew they liked lizards! This one wasn’t even dead!  Not even a “good kitty!” The bastards!  I’ll admit, I was a little upset over this for a little while. Personally offended. I had put serious thought into this one, and I was sure it would be a great new thing for us to bond over, like the bicycle streamers of old. But nooooo, just a blank expression, a shrug, and nothing! Like they didn’t even know me! The loveable alley cat they had fed and played with for years!  I vowed to myself I wouldn’t bring them any more presents.

But I really am a softie. And even with the embers of anger smoldering inside me, I eased my rage a little when I thought I saw the problem. Over the next couple days, I overheard the people talking about the leaves changing color again, and I guess if I looked closely enough, I could tell that they maybe were a slightly different shade of gray, but mostly they smelled different and I could tell that they’d be loosening from the trees and covering the ground soon. Crunchy leaves were good for playing in but bad for stalking. Too noisy.  I frowned inwardly for a moment, but was drawn from my reverie as the people started bringing things from inside the house to outside the house. They put some gourds outside and little signs in the yard.  And then, lo and behold, skeletons!  Maybe that was the problem! They had wanted a dead lizard after all!

I contemplated my next move, my previous vow to neglect the people out of spite forgotten.  I should bring them something dead. I had underestimated these people! I didn’t think they liked dead things, since they had thrown out my dead mouse, but they were more ferocious than I thought, marking their territory with the carcasses of what I can only presume were their own kills. I didn’t think I could bring down anything as large as the people themselves, but I could find something nearer my own size.  That should impress them.  But what specifically? I surveyed the items they were arranging around their territory.  People shaped skeletons (too big)... Pumpkins (too heavy)... Oh a picture of me! (obviously I’m not going to sacrifice my own kind for these jerks, though)...  A people with a funny pointy head (no, those carry those bristly sticks they swat cats away with)... And then I saw it:  a raven!  Genius! I’d catch one of those big sinister birds and they could decorate with it! We’d be thick as thieves again!

I staked out the neighborhood and found a flock of ravens to stalk. There were a couple that were on the old side but should do just fine. And, like the lizard before, it took me a couple tries, but, damnit, I caught the one of the bigger ravens. When I was sure it was dead and would present nicely to the people, I dragged it back. It was almost as big as I was! But they would have to love it.  They used to always give the best reactions to my surprise presents.  (Except for the lizard. I had to forget about that. Just a fluke, it was. Had to be!) And it had been a while since I had brought the lizard, so this present would sure be a surprise. They had always seemed to like the unpredictability best. When would I be back, what would I bring? They never could tell, and the shock would make them laugh. They would love this raven.

And to add to the surprise, I would take it to the front door this time! Usually I brought presents to the back door, but that was too predictable, and this was a surprise!  A grand surprise!  I sat with my raven on the mat by the door. I could hear the people inside talking about the decorations, about pumpkins and sweaters and leaves.  I thought to myself, I’ve done it this time!  I’d be proud of this present any time of year, but they’ll particularly like it right now!  I grew impatient. I mewed to get their attention.  But still they stayed inside. I had suspected that maybe they couldn’t hear as well as I could, so I mewed louder.  By the time I was almost hoarse, they opened the door, all bundled up in extra clothes to go somewhere. I realized they hadn’t heard me, but I waved that thought aside.  They would still like it.

They didn’t.  They wrinkled up their noses.  They took a step back.  They looked back and forth between me and my raven.  

“Oh, kitty! Why’d you do that?” the big one sneered.

“Eurgh! I just don’t get it!” the small one said, recoiling.

“I’m not even going to touch it.” said the middle one, slightly exasperated.

I tried to explain, “I got this for you! I thought you’d like it! You used to always love the things I showed you! This is exactly the kind of thing I’m supposed to do!  It even goes with the decorations!  You’ve got a fake one over there!”  But I guess they never learned to speak cat because they grabbed a bristly stick that people use to shoo away cats and used it to throw my raven in the trash. Then they stepped around me and went on their way.

At first I was heartbroken.  I thought they loved me, but they rejected me and my contributions.  I couldn’t understand it. What had I done wrong? But that sadness melted away into anger.  I had done my best! And I hadn’t done anything wrong! I had continued to uphold my end of the unspoken contract.  They’re the ones who changed the deal! It wasn’t my fault! It was theirs! How could they do this to me?!

It all became clear to me: cats aren’t born assholes, we’re made into assholes.   My destiny was clear.  My future opened wide with the possibilities of malevolence.  In the spring I would shred their new plants. In the summer I would knock their fruity beverages off the patio table. In the winter I would wait for an approaching snowstorm and poop on top of their cars and let the snow hide the dirty surprise.  In the fall I would hide in the leaves and attack their furry boots as they walked by.  I could roll over as if to ask for tummy scratches and then bite their fingers to bits. If I could sneak my way inside on a regular basis, I could do so much more… so much more…

And that’s why this house is covered in a mountain of spiders. It was a big job, but some asshole had to do it.

[kamikazezoomy]

Hazard Lights

We sat in the ice cream shop driveway waiting for a break in the traffic to make our way home.  It was evening, not quite dark, so it wasn’t like rush hour traffic or anything, but there were plenty of other cars about. 

A line of cars approached with a new Mercedes-Benz at the head of the line.  It was sleek, glossy black with tinted windows.  Its obsidian tires rolled almost silently down the asphalt toward us.  Since daylight was dwindling, but was not yet gone, the sedan’s running lights were on, but not the full headlights.  It led the other cars like the badass leader of gang of normals made cooler just by their boss’s presence.  The Benz seemed to say, “You know your place. Stay behind me while I show you how this intersection is done.”

The Benz’s hazard lights were on.

“Why are his hazard lights on?” William asked beside me.

“Maybe his girlfriend turned them on and is seeing how long it takes him to notice,” I suggested.

“Maybe he’s stolen the car and  it’s a silent alarm” William offered.

The Benz moved closer to us and to the intersection.

“Maybe it’s a very short, very fast funeral procession,” I proposed.

“Maybe the breaks are out and he isn’t going to be able to stop if the light turns red,” William theorized.

“Maybe the car is making a weird noise inside that we can’t hear and he’s afraid it’s going to blow up,” I put forward.

“Maybe he is hosting a slow rave on the front bumper of his car for squashed insects,” William hypothesized.

The car passed the driveway where we sat and drew closer to the intersection.

“Maybe he likes to listen to the ‘ding, ding’ of the turn signals but doesn’t want it to stop when he turns the wheel so far,” I guessed.

The light remained green as the Benz advanced on the intersection. We watched from behind as the three rear brake lights briefly illuminated.

The Benz split neatly down the middle lengthwise as the driver’s side turned left and the passenger side turned right, each half going its own separate way on two in-line tires, and the indictor lights shut off.

“Well, I guess that answers that!” I said to William, as we pulled out of the ice cream shop driveway and headed home.