Catastrophe

 The phenomenon begins with a whir of wind against an ever-increasing purr. Felines drape long limbs of ancient oaks in a strange and unexpected threat outside your windowpane. Persians, Maine Coons, Bengals—hang from branches like gossamer strands of Spanish Moss. Only… these don Morion Helmets as conquistadores of old. Ready for battle, they are ranked, filed—a midnight mass, staring you down. Then, the attack… the break from stationary to stride, fangs baring serrated blades to draw the blood of revenge. Quick, grab the shutters, fasten the hook closures, dampen the burning candle wicks. The clowder is here.

 

by Keith Hoerner