Creative Writing


The war ended today. Blackened the chimney.

Painted the door a Rothschild red and let the cat out to sit on the wall. Back into the study – from here I can just see his paws stretch. They rest and curl, feverish in old familiar surroundings. The feline prisoner once under sentence of indoor play, the arrival of his reprieve is met with bird-like mews. I sit deeper into the chair, letting the cat out of sight and the pages into my lap. Through the pane of scrubbed-out tar, I catch the last of him, tail and paw, leap like a tiger to the garden’s edge. He pauses a moment as if to turn back. Maybe to see a nod in affirmation- ‘onwards cat! It’s all yours now.’ The trees hoard in jungle-like packs but as cat descends the leaves appear to peel, forming a small opening in the humid wreath of growth. The tunnel of dark greens, forged of blue moss riddled rocks and wet, showed the glimmer of the river set in the staircase of peat. His tail just whips the grass, beating through the ozone and the flies. I wait – for him to crawl up the garden shelf, retreat to the nest of puddled blankets, to the full food-bowl but his silhouette drops. He disappears, aboard an uncompromising pursuit. He is racing the trees, dashing through the pebbled brook, away, to banks old and different and so she quells the papers, sits deeper in the chair and reaches for the pen.


About Author

Freya Broomfield

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January 2022
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