The Remaining Feelings

One so rarely gets a vacation, primarily on weekends. Le Chat never understood why some places have people work on weekends, although he had never personally been religious. So the significance was never for that, although it was primarily his narcissistic parents that reinforced the idea that if you're not religious then working during the week days should be no problem. But what better way to have decompress from your work than on at the end of the week? He could enjoy La Nuit as much as he wanted, and engaging in some of the other projects her enjoyed in his spare time. Even after all these months, he had never completely gotten used to the idea of learning French. When you develop certain kinds of negative associations with them, you never really think of them outside of any other context.

With the British it is different, although socially they were not much better. He had known a British girl in school who was unsure of what to make of him, based on his catlike appearance, and why a cat should be able to go to a human school along with humans. Although she never had any issue with petting Le Chat, that said a lot more about her than the negative things he associated with Blanc and Stephine. She would without realizing shake her booty at the cat outside, walk in a certain kind of way that made it obvious she was shaking her but at Le Chat. The memory was never something that thrilled him, although at times it felt like another missed opportunity to make a friend like the girls of Bonjour and the girl of Hola. He imagined for himself what it would be like if he had met a French-Spanish girl.

The compound word would be something like Bonjola. Just for shits and giggles, at times he considered the idea of changing up the word whenever he would greet the girls in the classroom just to see how confused they would get. Bonjola, Bonjola, sir Le Chat. He was was visited by his pet crow who flew into the window. "A message for Le Chat, a message for La Chat. Bawk!" the crow said. Le Chat walked over, pet and kissed the birdie. After love pecking Le Chat, the bird flew off into the lunar light. "Nevermore! Your story for the Gothic middle grade magazine collection has been ... reJECTed. Good luck next time my friend!"

He tossed the letter into the fire place.

He stoked it grudgingly.

For many months Le Chat tried to make himself submit to places, although after a point it became all to clear that even within the scope of Gothic narrative he would never exactly a perfect fit for anything. He had tried writing science fiction, fantasy, horror, romance, and autobiographies. However to no avail. After a point he began to decide to primarily write his own thing and screw convention. He decided to dump the idea of writing short stories altogether and go ahead and pursue the novel, although the novel had been something that previously had always been a chore.

But whenever his work began to take on an increasing autobiographical quality through magic realistic narrative without a clear plot thread his work became longer and longer. Until eventually the very idea of his character stepping from his novel into his personal life began to take shape. And that was how he met his pet crow. His crow founding living with the scope of the pages to be rather boring. He would wake up Le Chat while he was snoring, and tell him he had a visitor. He would sometimes he visited my little lost children looking for their mothers who died in the revolutions. And so he would direct them to the graveyard in which they were buried. It is to bad indeed, for he wanted to ask them how his little sister was doing after these years in the world beyond this life.

His baby sister La Chat was the only one in his family he had been particularly close to, and they would visit different places that survived the various revolutions, and explore the ruins of earlier time periods. They would see various human girls being taken to the scaffold and have a guillotine blade shot through their neck with a guillotine gun western style.

He always tried blocking them memories out.

She never knew his hatred for himself. An aspect of himself he kept hidden from people he had known, and how his own feelings he made him attempt his own life several times.

But those times were gone.

Only the feelings remained.





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