The pot


This is one of my most favourite tales. I wrote it in collaboration with my friends Migue and Avelino. Each of us, wrote a little paragraph of the tale: the first and the last one are mine, the second is by Migue and the third by Avelino. It was a nice experiment of collaborative writting. I hope you’ll like it.

Rosa

                                                                                     ****************

The second time Mark heard a noise from downstairs, he decided to go and find out. Mark was alone. Outside it was almost dark, when a thunder fell down in the garden. As in a horror movie, the soft light hanging over his red, favorite armchair turned off. He went to his desk, took a candle from a drawer and lighted it on. A tempest started throwing down pieces of ice mixed with rain. It was a nightmare…for sure!. He even thought to go and take his security blanket (he kept it since his childhood). But he didn’t do anything. He looked downstairs. Everything was quiet. A soft touch on his feet made him realize the cat was already at home. “Clancy, is it everything fine with you?”. Mark took it into his arms. It was wet. Then, he discovered the reason of everything: the cat broke the clay pot on the table in the kitchen.

The clay pot Maggie loved so much, which was a gift from her mother. In it, she used to put always the fresh flowers of the day. The clay pot that she cared as the most precious treasure she ever had, until the day of her tragic accident. Since then it had been an empty clay pot.

That could be the reason of everything, of the noises at night time, of the objects moving now and then. That could even be the reason of the storm, today, of the rain and the wind. The clay pot was broken. Suddenly, another strong and terrible thunder scared me, and Clancy who jumped away from my arms looking instinctively for a more secure place. The floor started to tremble, and with it, my grandmother`s huge cuckoo clock swung and whimsically fell down to its right side, flattening Clancy, who didn`t breath again. I couldn´t believe my eyes. “Maggie” – I thought – “what a mood!!”. “

 But, please, don’t be sorry for the cat…Do you know why I couldn’t believe my eyes? Because that day I understood cats really have seven lives. Clancy was absolutely flattened like Tom in the “Tom and Jerry” cartoons, but as him, when I removed the cuckoo clock, it escaped running as a possessed miaowing in an almost human terror cry, while the little mechanical bird started a no stop song going out and in its little door frenetically.”

It was too much! His heart started beating more and more. He knew he was going to have a panic attack, as usually happened after a great fright since an accident occurred to him on a lake during his adolescence. Mark had been always too emotional and, after his mother, Maggie took care of him so tenderly till she died. He rushed throughout the stairs and reached the kitchen to take a paper bag, put it on his face and breath closing his eyes. It was the first thing Dr.Floyd (a white haired psychiatrist) told him describing what to do during a panic attack to calm himself. His head was hurting, spinning…but seated on a chair, a woman was caressing the cat. He was just able to see her shoulder as she was looking at a window. On the table, the pot was integer and so blue at the light of the dying day. A branch of red roses in it completed the picture. The man was breathless. His heart stopped for a second…”I’m back for you, my darling. I will never leave you alone”.

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