R. C. Weissenberg
Lora shrieked when the porcelain cat fell behind the couch.
She pushed the cushioned behemoth to peer behind it. The statue lay atop a pile of dust-caked clothing. She picked it up.
The feline statuette, blue bright with sunny stripes, was actually made of very shiny plastic, not porcelain. She never held it before, but had spent all morning thinking about how it would fall and break and upset her grandma. Now that she knew it was plastic, she didn’t think much of it, and regretted all her worrying.
“Stupid cat,” she said.
Lora put it back on the shelf, sat down, and took a long, measured breath.
She looked at her hands and gasped. They were covered in blood. And like thunder following a lightning flash, she felt the pain and screamed.
She looked at the cat and noticed its claws had extended, metal glinting in the light. The cat’s eyes looked bigger and its mouth seemed to curl in a smile.
Lora heard a noise, but she didn’t know if it came from her or if the cat was, in fact, purring.
I may not be real, the cat said, but I can still scratch you. Never call me stupid.
She screamed even louder and her grandma came into the room. Lora was hurriedly cleaned and bandaged, and she told her grandma about the cat. But when they looked, the claws had disappeared, and the cat looked completely innocent.
R.C. Weissenberg is a writer of various things, who spends most of his time in the Southwestern United States. He enjoys sketching, playing guitar, and reading obsessively.