Snowflakes flight is alike Tomcat purring, lulling they affect the same way. In a moon night Tomcat purring in or snowflakes whirl out is like the same. In a day light snowflakes don’t draw much attention; they remind one of office girls that hurry to a bus stop in the morning. They nudge each other in hurly-burly and brush their eyelashes against men, troubling them. Women eyelashes are alike snowflakes then, they go up and down while snowflakes float but round. Afterwards the snow is lying underfoot in a lacy coverlet. I don’t dare to march on the just fallen snow, it seems blasphemous. One is not to step on a white tablecloth, and I’m waiting for anybody to tread a hasty chain of footsteps.
Thus I follow Tomcat, extremely patient when needed. But it happen Tomcat to carve a way for me in a winter morning; he teaches me to overstep the limits, my grey brother Tomcat. He is running leisurely against me, and he never would stop and rub his furry neck against my leg. He is my brother, that’s enough. Every morning he hurries to me drawing a fresh pass. One never knows which side he crops up next. Only his traces display me my daily course.
Tomcat neglects ladies. But they attract me, unknown creatures in a cloud of snowfall, vanishing in wreaths of perfume. Ladies leave a trail of scent long like Tomcat’s tail when he is marching against me to pass the door. I am holding back my door every morning when we meet.
I open him the door; it’s just a trifle to me, and Tomcat reveals me a day pass. I never tread upon his track on the snow, and never cross it. I walk along the rosary of his pace and always get to an open spot. It seems to me, Tomcat is an astronaut descending to the ground and starting with a scratch his beaded pace to my door. I can imagine Tomcat to advance on the snow in night twilight, he knows his way and I don’t.
I had watched his trace after a sudden shower in summer. People left wet prints and Tomcat left a dry track on a wet pavement. I watched it after every rain, so Tomcat strikes me even more. Не is my brother and I can leave bare traces as well, I believe. But I never glance back at my traces, particularly when in a downpour.
And I don’t pay notice at women in rain, only in a snowfall.
|Mr. Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia. Не is English Department graduate at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated VKSch Higher School, Moscow in journalism, and got a degree at Kazan State Technology University in psychology.
Valery’s writing has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Hulltown 360, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Apollo’s Lyre, The Legendary, The Monarch Review, The Atticus Review, Marco Polo, Unshod Quills in the USA, and in Australian The Fringe Magazine, Skive and Going Down Swinging journals. At the moment he is writer-in-residence at Marco Polo arts magazine, while staying in Russia. He has recently interviewed Gloom Cupboard: http://gloomcupboard.com/2011/08/11/valery-petrovskiy-interview/
Tomcat Tale was originally published August 15, 2011, in Apocrypha and Abstractions.
Copyright © 2011 by Valery Petrovskiy