She was reading poetry, or rather she had been. A few more turns had been taken and more poems had been shared. Jax’s voice had not slurred but his eyes were half lidded and her own voice had not slurred through sheer force of will. She was reading poetry from the book Yàn had given her and then, suddenly she wasn’t. She had slipped into a story without realizing it or even noting that the book lay closed in her lap. The words of the story slipped from her honeyed mouth and she couldn’t seem to stop them. Sweetly they fell, pleasant to the ears and of her making, but not. As they fell into the silence of the room she listened to them as if she were not the teller but the audience. She closed her eyes and let the tale unfold, aching for what she knew was coming. 

“There once was a kitten, pampered, lazy and fat who lounged among her fellow kittens and was content to lap her cream and doze in the sun. But the Papa cat was curious, even among cats and he brought home stories and tales of places far away, of creatures the kittens had never seen. This fat little kitten had some of her father’s curiosity and she listened to his tales with great attention and felt a great hunger growing inside her. Her Papa cat took her with him on a journey or two, indulgent little excursions meant to pamper and spoil. But it did more than that, it only made the hunger inside her grow even more. Her Papa thought she was silly and indulged and he purred at her, telling her sweet things as he brought her back home. He told her the world was hers thinking she’d be content to watch it just like the other kittens. But she’d seen things when she walked beside her Papa and the little bits of tale got stuck inside her until she was half mad with curiosity. 

So she left home, wanting to bring her Papa a tale just as he’d brought her so many. She walked and walked until she came to the shore. Mesmerized by the sight she sat watching as the waves lapped at the shore, enchanted by the play of light across the surface. She’d been told that kittens didn’t like water and so she was afraid and stayed away, watching only, just as she had back home. But she saw something then, something that caught her eye and filled that place inside her what was ravenous and empty. A bird, an albatross setting out over the dancing sea, its wings spread wide, not even flapping as it danced above the water. Oh how she wanted that, oh how she yearned. So she moved to the edge of the water and called to the dancing albatross with its effortless freedom. It did not hear her, she was too far away and kittens did not talk to albatrosses. 

But that wasn’t going to stop her, she waited and watched and gathered each feather that drifted in on the waves until she had a full set. She pushed them into her fur, into her flesh transforming herself into an albatross. She moved to the edge of the cliff from which the albatross flew, the pain of her disguise not stopping her at all. When she’d reached the top she called to the Albatross again. This time she was heard and with great joy she joined them, learning all there was to know about being a bird, so much so that she began to forget she had ever been a cat. 

She was so happy, but all things must come to an end. One day, a feather fell. A single feather. That was all it took for the birds to understand just what it was that had flown among them all that time. They turned on her, plucking from her all her remaining feathers and pulling a good deal of fur with it until she was exposed and bleeding. Broken, she was cast out and in her fear, shame and pain she went to the one place she was certain she would be welcome, she went home. She arrived in a sorry state and wondered as she neared that she’d ever left at all. Life had been sweet there, she was certain she would heal there. She had been loved and indulged and would be so again.

Her Papa came to the door, he heard her plaintive mews but he would not let her in. She was not a cat, he told her. She had behaved as no cat would have. If she wanted to be a bird she had best be a bird elsewhere. And then her Papa, who had once told her that the world was her own, shut the door in her face and left her.”

Nicki paused, licked her dry lips and blindly reached for a bottle, her fingers closing clumsily around the neck of the bottle. She lifted it to her mouth, and took a long, long pull before letting it thunk back to the ground. She nodded, not even certain she had a wakeful audience, ready to end the tale.

“But the kitten did not die, as much as she wanted too and she wanders still. She still flies but she doesn’t bother with the feathers, she isn’t a bird after all. But a cat who can fly…”

Her ruined cheek plumped up in a rueful smile, her dimple deepening and nearly as sweet as her voice as she finished,
“that ith a sight to shee….”