Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

Quickly, before the fear could stop him, Danby hurled his furry bulk against the door of the cat carrier, landing in the floor of the backseat with a solid thump. He sprang back up on the seat, and launched himself into the air with a heartfelt snarl, landing precariously on Julie Eskeridge’s right shoulder, and digging his claws in to keep from falling.

The last things he remembered were Julie’s screams and the feel of the car swerving out of control.

When Danby opened his eyes, the world was still playing in black-and-white. He could hear muffled voices, and smell a jumble of scents: blood, gasoline, smoke. He struggled to get up, and found that he was still less than a foot off the ground. Still furry. Still the Eskeridges’ cat. In the distance he could see the crumpled wreckage of Julie’s car.

A familiar voice was droning on above him. “He must have been thrown free of the cat carrier during the wreck, officer. That’s definitely Merlin, though. My poor wife was taking him to the vet.”

A burly policeman was standing next to Giles, nodding sympathetically. “I guess it’s true what they say about cats, sir. Having nine lives, I mean. I’m very sorry about your wife. She wasn’t so lucky.”

Giles hung his head. “No. It’s been a great strain. First my business partner disappears, and now I lose my wife.” He stooped and picked up Danby. “At least I have my beautiful kitty-cat for consolation. Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

Danby’s malevolent yellow stare did not waver. He allowed himself to be carried away to Giles’s waiting car without protest. He could wait. Cats were good at waiting. And life with Giles wasn’t so bad, now that Julie wouldn’t be around to harass him. Danby would enjoy a spell of being doted on by an indulgent human, fed gourmet catfood, and given the run of the house. Meanwhile he could continue to leave the occasional ball on the stairs, and think of other ways to toy with Giles, while he waited to see if the police ever turned up to ask Giles about his missing partner. If not, Danby could work on more ways to kill humans. Sooner or later he would succeed. Cats are endlessly patient at stalking their prey.

“It’s just you and me, now, fella,” said Giles, placing his cat on the seat beside him.

And after he killed Giles, perhaps he could go in search of the building contractor that Giles bribed to keep his dirty secret. He certainly deserved to die. And that nasty woman Danby used to live next door to, who used to complain about his stereo and his crabgrass. And perhaps the surly headweighter at Chantage. Stray cats can turn up anywhere.

Danby began to purr.

Kaaron Warren’s first novel Slights was published in 2009 by Angry Robot Books and released in North America early in 2010, followed by Walking the Tree and Mistification . Her short story collection The Glass Woman contains the award-winning story “A-Positive”, now a short film from Bearcage Productions. Her award-winning short fiction has appeared in Poe, Paper Cities, Fantasy Magazine and many other venues in Australia and around the world. Her story “Ghost Jail”, which first appeared in 2012, was reprinted in The Apex Book of World SF and “The Blue Stream”, her second published story, was reprinted in Dead Souls. Warren lives in Canberra, Australia, with her family.

Warren writes about the story: “I was angry when I wrote ‘Tiger Kill.’ I began writing it because I was so disgusted to read that tiger’s penis was used as an aphrodisiac. I wondered at the kind of person who would kill an animal like a tiger for the sake of better sex. I researched aphrodisiacs and found there were so many. I also researched the habits of tigers, which is where the idea for the hunter came from. I wanted to show a scene of complete barbarism, in a wealthy, privileged setting. I also wanted to talk about women being used as belongings in that environment.”

Tara’s gown was so tight she couldn’t breathe. Karl would make her leave the dress on, later, when she would lie back and take it.

She followed him into the dining room.

The only other woman at the table laughed like a man and didn’t cringe from their crude talk. There were seven men at the table. It was the only table in the room.

Tara noticed the thickness of the linen tablecloth, wondered what it would be like to sleep on. It was changed after every one of the thirty courses. Cutlery and plates didn’t clang when collected. A distraction was performed in the corner of the room as the table was cleared each time; a naked woman bending over backwards to grasp her toes; a dwarf gulping beer from a glass taller than he; two children kissing and touching each other intimately; a cat forced somehow into a large bottle, with just enough room to turn around around aroundroundround; a naked man with idiot eyes and an enormous penis which reached, engorged, almost to his fat, pink, hairless nipples, his swollen breasts; a woman with festering cuts who held her arms and legs for display like a fashion model, showing maggots at their chewing work; a tall, oiled, hairless girl scoring herself lightly with a sharp blade till she shone with a thin coating of blood; an old man stamping weakly, a foot in either of two transparent buckets, stamping wine grapes; a man, drawn and gray, dancing a jig, his raised arms revealing hairless armpits, his shrivelled genitals thumping against his thigh, each leap a day less to live.

All these distractions so the diners would not notice that linen leaving. She fingered the material under the table, wishing her knees were bare so she could feel its texture there.

In an avuncular gesture, Karl gave her a ginger lolly, dug from the corner of his coat pocket. To gum her mouth, keep her silent on this important night.

As they talked around her, mouths full of octopus legs, lettuce soup, deep fried salt and pepper periwinkles, china tea, wine, she thought of the story of Little Black Sambo, such a racist story now. Little Black Sambo begged his mother to make pancakes for his breakfast, and she agreed, if he would run to the stall for butter. “Oh, yes,” he agreed. Such a treat.

But on the way back he was spotted by the man-eating tigers. They chased him up the tree, and the sun melted his butter all over their heads. This made them angry, so they ran around the tree faster, faster, around, around aroundroundround, trying to make Little Black Sambo dizzy, fall off.

But it was so hot and they ran so fast, the lovely butter yellow fur of them began to blur, as they ran faster. They ran so fast they turned into butter which Little Black Sambo took home to his mother.

“Such lovely butter,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” he said, as he sat down to his plate stacked high with springy, hot pancakes.

Tara had loved that story as a child; had always wished for that plate of pancakes to be hers. As the next course came out on a sizzling hot dish, she wished again for those pancakes.

Karl took her plate and piled it with the gray flesh. The other woman had not smudged her lipstick. She seemed to suck the food in without using her lips or chewing. Tara watched the woman eat the meat and did not ask what it was.

“Like it?” the men asked Tara one by one. She had not swallowed the single mouthful she had taken. It sat on her tongue. She smiled around it.

They waited for her answer. It was a trick, of course. If she said yes, the meat would be bear, or cat, or human, the naming of which would make her stomach heave. If she said no, it would only be beef, done in a special way, and she would be the foolish one.