Her Mother’s Cat
Hello internet traveler or potential employer! This is my capstone project for the Creative Writing minor at ArtCenter College of Design. It is a novella of roughly 15 pages about a girl who loses her canary to a cat and chases him through many different worlds. Of course, it’s a lot deeper than that and I hope the messages hidden in between the lines are able to shine through and inspire you. Or, at the very least, entertain you. I will include the project statement at the end of the page. Happy reading!
《1》
The Tilted Tower
Slate waves, granite skies;
Stone walls, cobbled lies.
I see her in a tower, a disturbance of worn rock that the persistent waves beat with angry fists. Yet, no matter how hard they beat, they could not free her. The tower just became tilted and the horizon became skewed from her view out the one window which was also the tower’s one entrance and exit. Within her haze of dreams, sometimes the tower had a door. A white slab against a gray expanse of bricks, golden light seeping out from the crack underneath. The girl awoke wondering what was beyond that imagined door, but she never felt the need to open it. She never felt the need to leave the tower; the tower was not her prison. It was her home. It was safe. It was familiar.
The sky was always the same pale gray. Well, the sky is supposed to be the same azure blue, but in her world, the sky is the same hue as the clouds that hid the sun from her. In her world, there was no difference between night and day. Only songs dictated her time. Songs her little canary would sing to wake her up and to put her to sleep.
The songs were the same melody of shrill chirps in the mornings and gentle chirrups in the evenings. The little canary was a bright scarlet thing who slept in a cage of gilded gold. The girl always kept the door of the cage open so the canary could fly about the tower as it pleased, twirling and swirling amongst the cobwebs that no amount of sweeping could banish. She loved when the little canary swooped down to nibble fruit from her hands or when it perched on her shoulder while she swept.
They often sang together. The girl with her throaty hums and the canary with its crystal whistles, a harmonized melody to accompany the orchestral crashing of the waves, to fill the tower that was too big and too silent for a girl and her bird. However, whenever the canary strayed too close to the window, the girl’s humming would lull. She feared that it would fly away or get snatched by a wayward breeze. For without the canary, there were no days and no nights. Without her dear pet, her days had no structure. And so she named the little red canary, Time.
Wooden boat, hewn oars;
Sodden dress, rain pours.
Sometimes, her mother visited her. I knew the woman was the girl's mother because they shared the same long dark hair, moon pale face, and eyes that were stained from too many tears and creased with too much laughter. I often mistook one for the other. But I slowly noticed how the girl’s mother had sloped shoulders and downturned eyes and a hollow laugh. Her mother brought her feasts of cut fruit and sweet biscuits, bounties of twine-tied bundles overflowing with marinated meats and spiced salads. Amongst those delicious morsels were bags of small dried fish and bottles of white cream. The dried fish made the girl turn up her nose and the cream made her feel sleepy and sick.
On some days that her mother visited, it would rain. The rain was a useless thing. Every drop was swallowed by the slate waves regardless of how heavy it poured. But it splashed into her tower through the large window and made the rugs damp and musty. Eventually the girl learned to lay towels underneath the window whether it rained or not; the rain came suddenly and left just as quickly. On some days that her mother visited, the sun would shine through thin cracks between the clouds. It was not enough to reveal the azure skies, but the air became warm and bright and even the angry waves ceased their battle to bathe in the slivers of the sun’s soft rays. The girl wished for sun everyday.
Sometimes, her mother would bring along her pet cat. The cat was a robust thing, a creature of night blanketed with starry dandruff and had enormous eyes like twin yellow moons. They turned into crescents when he saw her, a deep and stormy purr brewing in his rotund tummy. She fed him small dried fish and dabs of white cream. He liked her.
One day, her mother left the cat with her and told the girl that it was hers now. His name was Dream and since her mother could no longer feed him, he now belonged to the girl. She was to feed him and coddle him and give him all her time. Her mother rarely visited after that day. If she did, it was to inquire after her precious Dream.
Empty bowl, dry crumbs;
Tired eyes, idle thumbs.
Her mother’s Dream was a yowling black hole. He demanded food regardless of when Time sang its songs. His howling often frightened the gentle creature into silence, until it no longer sang and huddled in its gilded cage, head tucked under feathered shields. Even after Dream was full and content, he made a hobby of watching Time in its cage, yellow eyes wide and unblinking. Time no longer left its gilded gold cage. It no longer soared amongst the tower ramparts.
The girl woke when the cat wanted to eat and slept when he curled into a ball in the middle of her bed. Her days bled into nights and her nights bled into days. She lost sleep. She lost track of time. Yet she coddled and fed and gave all of her time to her mother’s Dream. She treated him as her own cat, her own Dream.
One day or night or whenever, the girl slept through the yowling and hissing and clawing until she awoke to chirping. Frantic chirping, out of tune and of no melody, from the little red canary. Dream had knocked over Time’s gilded gold cage. Momentarily, she sees a flash of red, a rush of black, then the click clack of claws echo along the corridor outside her room. They fade. The girl tears away from sleep, already missing her gentle embrace as the cold air bit at her bare ankles. Sleep called to her, come back to me. But she would be too late. She was going to lose Time.
The black shadow slips through the door. A door that had only ever existed in the girl’s dreams. She does not have time to examine the door, but I remember it quite well. It was painted white, and had a brassy gold knob that was oblong. It had hinges that squeaked noisily when she pushed the door open fully. But neither she nor I saw what had been beyond it before we crossed the threshold. Only a feeling. A warmth.
《2》
The Carnival at Daybreak
Warm sun, rainbow swirls;
Shrill laugh, plastic twirls.
The girl steps out onto pavement warmed by the rays of the rising sun. Behind her, the door is now the flap of a tent clothed in ruby red and pearly white stripes, its dark mouth uninviting and cold. A breeze from within smells of gray skies and tumbling waves. It clings onto the girl, begs her to return, to come home where it was safe. Where it was familiar. The girl ignores it. She is enamored by her new world.
The girl’s surroundings blend together and become mere noise, textures, movement. It hurts to look at everything all at once. A bubble of laughter that dissolves into shrieks of joy. Streamers and banners of lemon and cream, frantic floundering fish in the wind. The heavy aroma of oily dough and the sticky scent of sugar. And the sky. The sky was a powdery blue in the morning sun.he clouds were not there to hide it away from the girl. Oh, the poor thing. She twists her head this way and that, eyes wide, breath caught.
Faces blur, souls known;
Children laughed, orbs shone.
People flow around the girl. She is a rock, they are a stream. A stream of mothers and fathers bent over to push carts of children and hold the hands of children. There was not a single familiar face among the stream of people, yet she felt like she knew every single one of them, like she could point at one woman who was handing her daughter a bright red balloon and call out her name. Or point at another woman who was helping her daughter wipe off sticky fingers and call out her name. Or point at another and call out mother! Or just stay silent and watch as these strangers live their strange lives.
Every child held fast to a balloon. Some held many. Some held just one. Some held none; their parents held them instead. The balloons came in all sorts of colors and shapes and sizes. A shiny cobalt balloon bobbed in front of the girl’s face and she saw within not her own reflection, but a galleon navigating through a sea of stars. Inside a cluster of small veridian balloons there were different scenes of gardens; gardens blooming with purple roses, rainbow sunflowers, and fountains that sprayed gems into the sky. One very large and oblong topaz balloon was full of prancing ponies with braided manes and ribbons tied to their tails. Pastel butterfly wings carried them over a range of gumdrop mountains. The girl went up to every single one of the balloons and pressed her face up against each latex surface. A smile tugged on the edge of her lips. A twinkle awoke inside her shadowed eyes. Oh, the foolish thing. She wishes she had a balloon too.
Sharp ears, midnight tail;
Wide eyes, crimson trail.
I spot the flick of a shadowy tail brush past a toddler as they giggle at a clown squeezing its shiny red nose. Squeak! ! A crimson feather drifts up and before it touches the ground, I send it towards the girl. It kisses her flushed cheek and she jolts away from the balloons, catching a glimpse of scurrying black paws. She blinks stars from her eyes and swiftly weaves between sharp elbows and heavy knees. I follow close, a little surprised at her grace and speed and that little bounce in her step that had not been there before. A little surprised… and perhaps a little relieved.
It is a whirling waltz of tossing hair and panting breath, but eventually the girl stands before the largest tent at the carnival. The bubbles of laughter have dissolved into a fading memory and the clouds draw their silvery curtains over the sun. The tent stretches into the sky, a cobbled mess of spires. It wears a garment of pure chaos— dizzying bars of black and white swirl together and break away from one another across the length of the canvas. The flaps of the tent beckons to the girl. She glances back at the carnival, the laughing children, those balloons. Her wide eyes are full of stars. They remind me of those balloons.
The girl turns away and steps into the darkness. We are plunged into the cold. Into absolute silence. Emptiness.
《3》
The Sunlit Halls
Endless rooms, glass walls;
Footsteps echo, long halls.
The darkness around the girl smells of citrus cleaning solution and glue. The purple kind that came in plastic cylinders and disappeared when applied to paper. The girl’s ragged breaths seem to echo in the room and I can hear every rustle of her clothes as she stumbles forward, hands outstretched. Something falls with a dull thud that makes her freeze in place. I shake my head helplessly and guide her trembling hands toward the door. Her finger tips brush against the cool metal of a knob and she grasps it like a lifeline. The girl pushes the door open.
Before her is a hallway with endless glass walls on either side. Sunlight streams through white rectangles placed too high up. It is alive with a river of students marching from left to right, right to left. The chatter of a hundred voices drowns out her racing thoughts, replacing them.
I’m going to be late for class I hope I didn’t forget my homework I forgot my lunch again I didn’t study I hate my classes This shirt is too bright My legs look weird My braces hurt I got another pimple this morning Is it too obvious I wonder if she likes me I’m so hungry He probably doesn’t even know I exist I don’t know where I’m going I don’t know who I am I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home.
Heavy bags, dense books;
Dragging steps, strange looks.
The girl realizes that no one seems to be aware of her. Once again she is a stone in the river, not a dam that can stop the flow of time, much less the march of countless teenagers who have too much to do and too many places to be.
Most students carry books. Some have many. Some have just one or two. Some have none. I suppose their parents keep them at home, on shelves too high to reach. Or perhaps they simply have none. Each book is unique. Some are thick with translucent pages like moth wings. Some are small and thin. Some are sealed shut with large padlocks or combination locks. The girl tails behind students and reads the books over their drooping shoulders.
She reads about white rooms full of sharp needles and dripping bags of clear liquid, of life too small to be seen, of blood and flesh and bones. They make her shiver. She reads about cubicles and bright screens, of numbers that can build cities and topple empires. They make her eyes hurt. She reads about money. She reads about greed. She reads about dreams. She realizes that these are the balloons from the carnival, yet they are nothing alike. The girl can not see anything in these books. Yet, the girl wants a book, too. She needs a book. Because people are beginning to stare.
Heads turn, nervous glance;
Glass eyes, awkward dance.
Their attention is suffocating. Each passerby strips the girl naked with a single glance. She is suddenly aware of every single freckle on her face, of the way her feet were too big for her body, and how her eyes were too far apart. No one says a word out loud, but they call her things in her mind. Things that make her want to run. To hide. To go home.
The girl dashes through the sea of prying eyes. She trips and stumbles into people. Pages flutter to the ground, full of words like angry ants. But she also sees crimson feathers scattered over the white tiles. A trail of crumbs in the forest. The girl follows them to a door that opens into a classroom. Every single head turns and several dozen pairs of eyes pin her to the spot. One pair is a set of twin yellow moons. Dream drops Time onto the polished wooden desk and swats at it. The bedraggled bird cries out and becomes a flurry of feathers that shoots out the window. With a gleeful yowl, the cat bounds over desks, scatters books, topples chairs, and leaps into the white rectangle of light.
I turn to see red in the girl’s eyes. Her brows are furrowed. Her fists are clenched. A low growl escapes her lips. Before I can react, she has dashed across the room and is swinging her body through the window. We fall. Weightless.
《4》
The Forest of Mysterious Night
Shadowed leaves, damp breeze;
Starry paths, breaths freeze.
The tail end of her scream is cut off by an oomph as the girl tumbles onto the soft, wet earth. Taking shaky breaths of the cold and crisp air, the girl scrambles up to her feet. We are in a moonlit meadow surrounded by a wreath of ancient oak trees that encircle the full moon, trapping its silvery light. Beyond the thicket, the girl can see silhouettes of lost souls and a small dark shape weaving between them. She stands up before she can even process where she is. The girl’s dark eyes are trained on the cat and I notice that under the moonlight and with that new glint of determination, they were actually a tawny golden brown. I observe the souls as they make way for the girl, who sprints after her Dream without a backwards glance.
Each soul seems to have their own path that I can not see. Some walk with determination while others drag their feet. The souls in this part of the woods are dressed in all manners of business casual, haphazard hair and eye bags accessorizing their gaunt faces. Whenever their paths converged, they would shake hands, then go about their own ways. Beyond this clearing, I see souls in turquoise scrubs and white lab coats locked in some kind of desperate dance. They weave around each other and shout things I can not make out. Another clearing is full of souls whose attention is consumed by brightly lit screens. Rarely did a soul wander beyond the clearing in which they currently resided, but those who did diverge were chasing cats.
Twisting tails, deep purrs;
Moonlit eyes, soft furs.
There were quite a few cats scattered throughout the forest, if you knew where to look. A fluffy calico lounged lazily on a low branch while several ginger kittens swatted at her swaying tail. Sapphire eyes of smoky Siamese blinked at the girl as she raced past their nest of soft clover. A gray tabby with snowy mittens chases a silvery butterfly and stumbles right into the leg of a bespectacled soul. They blink at one another and the soul bends down to scratch under the cat’s chin. The gray tabby shuts his eyes. Deep purrs resonate within his belly, the vibrations traveling up the soul’s arm and into their heart, which picks up its pace and pumps warmth back into the soul’s very being.
Although dressed in different attires, the souls are just people shaped blobs of translucent moonlight, seemingly evanescent. But the souls who found their cats were different. As the bespectacled soul bent to scoop up the gray tabby, their edges began to solidify and details started to paint themselves onto their face and hands and body. The young man straightened with the cat clutched to their heart. His pale eyes were still weary behind thick spectacles but there was a smile on his face, a bounce in his step as he left the clearing.
Soft meadows, bright moon;
Time taken, lost tune.
As the girl neared the dark shape she had been chasing, she began to realize that the cat didn’t resemble Dream in the slightest. Dream was a wild cloud of dark night and lamp yellow eyes, but this cat was small and sleek, a wisp of smoke. The wispy cat turned around as the girl neared and regarded her with big emerald eyes, her plaintive mawr turning up at the end as if in question. Then she sneezed, sat back on her haunches, and began cleaning her paws.
You are not my Dream, the girl gasped. She was breathless and doubled over in pain, a stitch tearing at her side. Her flats were meant for smooth floors and gentle steps, not the wild worlds she now trod; the shallow grooves on the soles were caked with bits of rainbow confetti and soft mud. Completely ignoring her, the wispy cat pranced off and jumped into the arms of a soul who was dragging their loafered feet aimlessly. Looking down, their featureless face bloomed into that of an old woman, the edges of her eyes creasing. She had found her Dream.
《5》
The Shores
North star, ever bright;
Eyes tire, endless night.
The girl eventually finds a trail of crimson feathers. She follows it deeper and deeper into the forest. Without her little red canary’s songs, the girl has no idea how much time has passed since she fell from the sky, a starry tapestry that remains unchanged from the moment she arrived. When her stomach growled she appeased it with bright red berries that tasted like nostalgia and grew on spiky leafed bushes. When her throat became dry, she sipped the fresh dew that gathered in hollow acorn caps.
The scattered feathers grew sparser and sparser as the girl progressed on her journey. It had been several minutes since she saw the last feather and a knot began to twist her insides. It was all the girl could do to stop herself from kicking the earth and screaming at the sky. To cry out for someone, anyone, to help her, save her. Instead, she stops and releases her clenched fists. She lets out all the stagnant breath in her lungs and then refills it with the earthy, cool air. Breathe in, breathe out, in, out, in, out, in—
A rustle behind the girl makes her whirl around. A white kitten stands with one paw poised to take a step, head tilted and regarding her with eyes that were the color of the morning sky and the calm sea. The souls and cats had become a distant memory and the girl had not seen another for a while.
Go home, the girl tells the kitten, go find your soul and make them happy. I have to save Time.
The kitten blinks and slowly lowers to the ground, tucking her soft paws beneath her body. She yawns, go look for your Time. I will wait for you here, under this silver birch, until you have Time.
Cloud fur, ocean gaze;
All hers, dreamy haze.
I blink. My mother’s Dream had never spoken to me. Nor had any of the cats back in the meadows. Yet understanding this little creature was as natural as taking a breath. I lower my weary body to sit in front of the kitten.
How come I can hear you?
Because I am yours.
Mine?
Yes. Yours.
No, my Dream is a dark cloud with yellow moon eyes.
Hmph! He is not your Dream! He is your mother’s.
But, how do I know that? That you are my Dream.
What a silly question! Because you want me.
I’m not sure if I want you. Right now, I only want Time. I need Time. Perhaps if I had my Time back, I would want you.
Then I will wait until you have Time.
Won’t you get hungry? Or lonely?
Yes.
Won’t you fade away?
Only if you no longer desire me.
I’ll be back. I’ll try to be quick.
…
The kitten was already asleep. I could not tear my eyes away from that wisp of a cloud and my feet refused to turn me away. Before I realized it, I had reached down and cradled my Dream to my heart. She barely weighed more than a feather and I was afraid that she would float away if I loosened my grasp.
Foolish girl, your arms will tire.
You’re lighter than air. You’re not a burden at all.
Rocking waves, pale sands;
Shoulders low, rough hands.
I hear the water before I see it. The steady lapping of waves against sandy shores. Oak trees thin out and soil gives way to white sand, and suddenly, I stand before a great lake that mirrors the night sky and yellow moon above. A wooden row boat lies on the beach. The breeze carries the scent of loneliness and incense. A figure stands on the moonlit beach, her long dark hair a spiderwebbed veil over a sodden white dress. My mother is softly smiling down at her Dream, giving his wet nose little kisses. His eyes are crescent moons and deep purrs resonate through his large furry frame, which seems to swallow the entire upper half of her body. My mother barely looks up when I approach, unbalanced in the soft sand.
Mother, where is my Time?
My Dream here ate that little bird up in one gulp. Isn’t that right, my precious?
Dream mewls happily. Closer now, I see that there are rust colored stains on his mouth and crimson feathers between his teeth. I am trembling from anger, or pain, or frustration, I don’t know. Some kind of emotion that makes me want to sink into the sand or throw myself into the frigid waters. Some gnawing emptiness that robs me of breath.
Why? Why would you let your Dream take my Time?
Because I want the best for you.
The best for me? You never asked if I wanted him.
Did you not want my Dream?
I thought I did. But he demanded too much from me and although I adored him, he only wanted my Time.
Then would you give your Time to your Dream? If she asked that of you. If she needed it to live on.
My mother’s words make me stop and look down at the white kitten in my arms. She has been silent, cowering in the presence of the larger Dream. My tears have wet the top of her head and I hastily kiss them away. Her fur is velvety soft and smells of honey and sunshine and warm biscuits. I look up at my mother and for the first time, I see her. I see someone who thinks they do not have any time left. Someone desperate to see her dreams live on even after she has run out of Time.
And suddenly I realize that Time was— no, is — not real. Not tangible. Something that had flown in the caverns of my mind and sang songs that only I could hear. For suddenly I hear a familiar tune. Perched in the shadows of the trees lining the lake, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of little red canaries. In the dark, they seem to merge with the shadow of the foliage. But they are obvious once I look for them.
This realization must have shown in my eyes because my mother smiles. It does not reach her tired eyes.
Do you see how much Time you have, now that you know where to look?
Were they always there?
Yes, if you put in the effort to find them or knew where to look.
Can you still see them? Can you still find Time?
… Not quite. As the soul grows older, its windows become clouded over with the residue of countless tears and countless sights. I can no longer count the number of birds in trees, much less differentiate them from the leaves.
I am silent, for much longer than it takes me to think. In that stretch of time, those notes of a song I thought I had forgotten, I try to imprint the image of my mother into my mind. Then, I walk towards the rowboat and gently set Dream on the seat. She watches me with eyes like the open sky. I begin pushing the boat towards the water, grunting with the effort as my feet slide into the loose sand. A pair of hands lands next to mine and the boat becomes lighter. As the boat becomes buoyant on the surface of the water, I swing my legs inside and reach back to pull my mother in. But she has retreated to the banks and sits down next to a cat with fur like the night sky and eyes like the moon. The cat steps into her lap and she strokes it under the chin with one hand as the other waves to me. Tears cloud her eyes, but her lips are upturned. She shouts something to me as I drift farther and farther away and points her finger downward.
I look down at the boat and see bundles upon bundles of cloth wrapped containers nestled between the seats. A feast of biscuits and cakes and sandwiches, a bounty of cut fruit and dried meats. And a little basket of white cream and small dried fish. I look up to see my mother still waving. I look up to see the yellow moon watching us both.
Shrinking form, dark oaks;
Red wings, lilting note.
Steady hands, smooth strokes;
Blue skies, gliding boat.
~ END ~
A Dream
Slate waves, granite skies;
Stone walls, cobbled lies.
Wooden boat, hewn oars;
Sodden dress, rain pours.
Empty bowl, dry crumbs;
Tired eyes, idle thumbs.
Warm sun, rainbow swirls;
Shrill laugh, plastic twirls.
Faces blur, souls known;
Children laughed, orbs shone.
Sharp eyes, midnight tail.
Wide eyes, crimson trail.
Endless rooms, glass walls;
Footsteps echo, long halls.
Heavy bags, dense books;
Dragging steps, strange looks.
Heads turn, nervous glance;
Glass eyes, awkward dance.
Shadowed leaves, damp breeze;
Starry paths, breaths freeze.
Twisting tails, deep purrs;
Moonlit eyes, soft furs.
Soft meadows, bright moon;
Time taken, lost tune.
North star, ever bright;
Eyes tire, endless night.
Cloud fur, ocean gaze;
All hers, dreamy haze.
Rocking waves, pale sands;
Shoulders low, rough hands.
Shrinking form, dark oaks;
Red wings, lilting note.
Steady hands, smooth strokes;
Blue skies, gliding boat.
Project Statement
For me, writing is creating a different world where the reader can find temporary shelter from reality, yet see a reflection of the real world and real struggles within that realm. To be able to escape from reality and come back out wielding new tools to face our realities. It’s also just a very self indulgent way of spilling my thoughts onto paper, for sometimes I feel as though there are much too many in my head.
In this novella, I wanted to create a character who has no direction in life and a vessel in which some readers may see themselves in. I certainly could relate as I was at a crossroads while writing this story. I was about to graduate college and it felt like being thrown out of a home I had only just settled into, which is exactly what I did to the protagonist, who has to leave everything she was familiar with in order to pursue her dreams.
I was very much inspired by Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities where the reader is given a tour of places of pure imagination and the story of Alice in Wonderland where the world beyond the rabbit hole is a metaphor for the world inside the mind. Both of these works marry the vibes of surrealism with incredibly detailed and fantastical worldbuilding.
I am a lover of symbolism and allegories! And as such, there are plenty in my story. A little recap for those like me who forget very easily: a young woman lives in a tower isolated by the endless ocean. Her only visitor is her mother, who can sometimes be kind and sometimes very stern. One day, the girl’s mother leaves behind her pet cat. The girl tries to feed her mother’s dreams, but grows tired and unmotivated. Her mother never seems to care about her, only the cat who she is meant to treat as her own. One day, she leaves the cat starving and it steals away her pet canary. The cat dives behind a door that has only ever shown itself in the girl’s dreams and she follows, determined to get her canary back. To get her time back. The chase ends with the girl finding her own cat to care for and she sails away into the great unknown.
The cat represents the mother’s dreams that she wishes her daughter to carry on. The girl’s canary represents time and she treasures it above all else. The worlds are based on the stages of life that young adults go through. Childhood, the teens, and adolescence. Each stage is a different world, the aesthetics inspired by the vibes of how those periods of life feel. Each stage is also represented by a different time of day, inspired by the three horsemen that appear in the fairy tale, Vasilisa the Fair. They are the White Rider of dawn, the Red Rider of Noon, and the Black Rider of night.
For this story, I want to tell it through an omniscient narrator who often chimes in with their own thoughts and feelings, a very Lemony Snicket move. However, the perspective changes and we realize that the viewer was us all along and simply viewing the dream has turned into being the dreamer.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my words. I hope this story meant something to you or left you feeling something. If so, I have succeeded at my job! Have a wonderful rest of your day and I hope you keep following my journey as an aspiring writer.
With Love,
Christina <3
