photo by K.S. Brooks
Wilbur the chipmunk loves raspberries. Unfortunately, the best berries are on the bush up by the woman’s house.
That is also where the cat lives. The cat does not eat raspberries, but he would like to eat chipmunks.
Wilbur thinks he is too fast for that old cat, but the cat has a new strategy…
In 250 words or less, write a story incorporating the elements in the picture and/or the written prompt above. Do not include the prompt in your entry. The 250 word limit will be strictly enforced.
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Cat crouched low next to the raspberry bush. It took all her self-control not to leap at the striped thief eating her raspberries. Usually by now she would have leaped at the intruder. But Wilbur always whisked away and ducked into places too small for Cat to climb.
Last time he taunted her from one of his many hiding places and called her a slow fat old cat that couldn’t catch a turtle. Oh, how she ached to flex her paws, flick her tail, even twitch a whisker, but that would spoil the plan. So she waited patiently for Wilbur to gorge himself on ripe raspberries.
It felt like hours before Wilbur began to eat slower. With his mouth stuffed full of more tasty treats, the chipmunk began to waddle out of the briars. Cat’s heart pounded with anticipation, but she waited for just the right moment to spring the trap.
Finally, she flicked the tip of her tail, knocking over the stick that held the can. Down went the tools carefully balanced on chairs and branches. All around the raspberry bush things crashed to the ground.
Wilbur jumped and dashed toward an escape hole only to find it blocked. He jig sawed around the bush finally spotting one unblocked path. Blinded by fear he fled—right into cat’s jaws. Sweet red juice blended with blood in Cat’s mouth. Revenge really was delicious, even better than last week’s turtle. She’d have to season her catches more often.
Oh raspberry, sweet raspberry, how I love you. The bursts of flavor as I nibble through your tender skin, the feel as my teeth slid into that skin. It is only now that I can enjoy your sublime goodness, free of those who would try to capture me and take away my moment of freedom.
The cats are all napping, confident that I would not dare sneak out of my den and perch here in the open, but they are wrong. The season of the berry is upon us and I must devour as many of these precious globes of goodness as I can.
Wait! What is that I see coming this way? It is not one of the dreaded cats, but just what is it? Oh no! A dog! When did they get a dog? Why did they get one of those horrible creatures? If I duck down maybe it won’t see me. I can’t give up now for it will be another year before they are back. I must finish up as many of these tender sweet fruits as I can before he finds me. Oh just one more. How can I give up my raspberry delight!
As Wilbur sat high in the raspberry bush, the cat walked over to a nearby pine tree. He gave a peculiar high pitched cry.
At the prearranged signal, a huge eagle dove from the pine tree. It effortlessly snatched Wilbur from the bush and circled overhead.
The cat watched the circling eagle and smiled as only cats can. Here comes dinner, he thought.
The eagle landed by the smiling cat and released a shaken but unharmed Wilbur.
“Go ahead, kill him,” said the cat. “Let’s eat.”
In a flash the eagle leapt on the cat. It’s huge talons crushing the helpless cat’s throat.
“What are you doing!” the cat gasped.
“Wilbur made a better deal,” replied the eagle.
“A whole cat is a much better meal than half a chipmunk.”
German born, my maternal four-times-great grandmother’s parents immigrated to Texas. They fought for Texas’ independence. Three-times great-grandmother and the Texas Republic were born the same year, 1836.
Gams at ninety taught me fae magic starting the day I was born, 1946. She sprinkled Faerie dust in my face so I could see and understand them and others.
“Little pixie, we maken Gampapa aphrodisiakum,” giving me a smile. “Magic Faeries, come, help cook! Fine raspberries red today Squirrels help pick. Now nestled in hearth’s hot-hot fire, in a kettle of water they sit stuffed in a stone jar. Come, the juice you free, every bit.”
Well strained, then for every pint she measured a half-pound sugar, plus a bit more for Fae luck. “Sweet Faeries, bringen to top ze bitter foam whilst once over it boils.”
Raspberry sugar boiled full. Grams swung kettle from the fire skimming away that bitter foam.
Like honey, thick and rich the liquid cooled. She chanted, “Measure for measure into my raspberry syrup Faeries und I stir Grampapa’s finest mondschein, adding some for good luck.”
Faeries stirred the brew well barely able to wait for Grams to bottle her moonshine brandy. Faeries picked first, Squirrels second. The rest in the cellar she put hidden.
Opening a bottle, winking at me said, “Brownie love-dust a small pinch. Each pinch fills Grampapa with desire.” She added eight pinches und two for good luck.
They loved like teenagers until death did them part. Musta been Gram’s Raspberry Delight.
Torrential rains flooded the garden, and water pooled in the ditch beside the big oak tree in Frisky’s back yard. Frisky had run inside, through the kitty door, when he felt the first droplet of rain. He didn’t want to get his black, furry paws wet! He now sat at the window that overlooked the raspberry patch, ever watchful for a sign of Wilbur, the sneaky chipmunk who infiltrated his yard a month ago.
“I’m going to get that pesky critter if it’s the last thing I do!” he vowed.
Frisky first encountered Wilbur when Sara had shared her breakfast parfait with the little brown creature one morning. Layering it with blueberries, strawberries, yogurt and nuts, topped with fresh raspberries she had just picked and cleaned, Sara noticed Wilbur on the wooden newel, watching her. She took some nuts and raspberries to entice him. She was not surprised when the chipmunk greedily gobbled them up. But she was surprised to see Frisky get jealous and chase Wilbur away!
As Frisky watched the rains stop and the sun come out, he also observed Wilbur creep out of the underbrush and make his way toward the raspberry patch.
“Now’s my chance,” he thought. “I’m going to get him this time!”
Frisky silently hopped to the floor, snuck through the kitty door, and met Wilbur face-to-face on the patio. Wilbur stared at him, threw two raspberries at Frisky’s nose, and scampered away.
Drat. Defeated again. By a creature less than half his size!
Kitty Kitty, horrible name for a tom cat but the lady loved to say it, prowled around the raspberry bush. Vigilance, he kept it constant, prepared for any prey within reach.
He hated the berries but prey loved them, and he knew they wouldn’t resist the temptation. So he paced and prowled.
But Kitty was smart. Prey wouldn’t come to the feast with him prowling and they wouldn’t come if they weren’t sure where he might hide. He walked the same path, made himself a target. Simple really, he let prey know where he was all the time.
Self defeating, not for Kitty Kitty. He left one path opened. A small window of space that would funnel prey directly to him.
A few of them sniffed the air in the distance. He noted their approach and then fall back away from his territory. How much longer till they discovered the open path he wondered.
Two rushed him, small and quick. But Kitty kitty caught a scent from the other path. These two feinted, back the way they had come. He didn’t give chase as he prepared for the meal he knew to come.
Without warning Kitty pounced, an ariel flip that brought him down where Wilbur should have been. He turned and saw Wilbur the chipmunk had rushed past, much faster than expected.
Wilbur stuffed a ripe berry into his maw then scampered off. Kitty Kitty meowed his defeat in the wake of Wilbur’s dust.
Title: Raspberry Rogue
It should have been easy. Write a post about a subject near and dear to your heart. Edit it, publish it, and wait for the erudite comments to fill the comment boxes. No one expected the comment thread to exceed the limits of The Machine. The subsequent explosion destroyed social media as we know it, forcing society into a post-apocalyptic haze of sugar deprivation.
One woman rose to the challenge. One culinary hero, a baker of legendary skill, would not allow The Machine to deprive the new world of cookies. She would be known as Raspberry Rogue, and the minstrels would sing about her confections.
It wasn’t easy to outwit those who had tried to shove “ten pounds of flour into a five pound bag.” Raspberry Rogue would not engage this knight of lost causes. Instead, she pulled the drapes closed, locked the doors, and descended into the cool basement where she had hidden the sugar.
Her secret stash was still there, stacked behind the printed copies of the banned book, “Sun Tzu and the Art of War.” She filled her plastic measuring cup and returned to her stove.
In her kitchen she was queen. Her whisk was her weapon. The result of the day’s endeavor, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with bacon, would sooth the savage beast.
She heard a noise behind her and there he stood, masked, ready to do battle. She was undaunted.
“Good afternoon, friend, would you like a cookie?”
The Bone Eater
The scraping again, of blade against bone, cleaves me from sleep. My tail twitches. The bone eater stalks my nights. Tonight I shall silence it.
I stare into darkness toward the grating sound. I’ve yet to see him, and in the space of the unknown, my imagination has erected a monstrosity.
Yet, sometimes truth is more terrible than the unknown. Dare I take that risk?
He taunts me from the raspberry bushes. I slip through the tangle of brush. My heart beats a ruckus in my chest.
A rustle. I spin toward it and a raspberry cane lashes my face. I flatten myself on damp soil. My breath roars in my ears. Surely the bone eater hears it too.
A shriek. Teeth stained with old gore hurtle toward me and latches onto my leg. I jerk back, but he gouges off a shank of fur.
Twigs splinter. He pounces again. Pain erupts in my side. I suck in my breath but the stench of decay swamps my lungs. A shadow with fangs rips at my underbelly. I kick out, flail. By luck alone, my puny claws pierce his hide, tear from it another shriek—and blood.
I roll away. He doesn’t pursue. He sags into himself.
Dizzy with victory, I drop into a boneless sleep.
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The next morning, I rise triumphant. As I emerge from the brush, I stumble across a dead rodent reeking of the bone eater. Pitiful thing. His last conquest before being himself conquered. By me.