Random. (sample)

Now, where am I?, Israel thought, looking around.

It was difficult for him to see because of the fog, especially with the buzz of several shots of liquor coursing through his veins. Alcohol lowered your faculties alright. Only way, he mused, a person could actually get lost in this depressing little town.

He could see a boundless darkness ahead of him, with a pale light in the middle of it. It might've been a house or radio mast. Behind him there was a cement structure, graffiti-coated, cracked and dull grey. An entire wall of it. Yes. That would be, let's think, the underpass through which he had come?

Cats have many gods, he thought, though he couldn't immediately tell what that meant or why he'd bother to think it up. Eventually he decided that it was the liquor speaking. Wandering alone in the night drunk can make you think bloody stupid things. Random things. He squinted, trying to get his bearings and - because it was the appropriate thing to do, adjusted his spectacles and ran his fingers through his hair.

Israel was a young man of no great distinction and even less promise, a completely ordinary, impoverished student of the abstract arts. His face was even, pleasant, rescued from a kind of femininity only by an angularity of sorts, and the sharpness of his jaw line. During the past two days he had developed something of a five o'clock shadow and his eyes, normally keen and intelligent, had become very, very dull and blood-shot.

It wasn't out of the ordinary, either, not for him. In the grand scheme of things, Israel could intellectually appreciate that he had once had a wonderful future ahead of him, and that he had squandered in a number of nasty ways. That's principle for you, after all. No such thing as free lunch. Only free drinks if you knew where to go look for them.

He knew who he was, alright. In fact, he knew himself so incredibly well he was continuously trying to divert his attention away from the knowledge, which quite often led him wondering where he was. Just like now.

Endless darkness to the left of him, endless darkness to the right of him and, unsurprisingly, endless darkness behind him.

This probably wasn't near Tourneur Street after all. He would've known the place, the buildings around Tourneur Street. And it wasn't Shipwane either, because he couldn't hear music and there was supposed to be a kind of a pub in Shipwane where they played that loud, boring, abrasive young-people-music all night. (Though not past twenty-four, Israel didn't particularly feel like a young person and never had in his entire life.)

Israel made his way into the night and toward the light, figuring that it must the Massinger Radio Mast. If that was the case, home wasn't too far away, you just made a right turn once you got into William Haughton and then followed the street until you got to the old railroad tracks, and then it would be easy enough, at least up until next morning when he'd be hung over like a little Greek god.

Cats have many gods but never sacrifice.

Now why am I thinking this nonsense? Cigarette. I need a cigarette. What is that thing moving in the bushes? Damn, I can't see anything. I really need a cigarette. Where is my... there it is.

As he trudged forward, Israel dug out a cigarette from the pocket of his ancient, worn-out long coat. Then he fumbled with his scarf, which had a habit of getting in the way, dug out his Colt lighter and wondered what it was that he had wanted to set on fire in the first place.

Cats. Gods. Now where the hell is that radio mast again? And why is it so bloody dark in here? You'd think there were lights all over. Cats. Gods. Can't see a thing. Cold, too, colder than it has any right to be. Wait. Is that light over there...?

Israel stopped dead on his tracks. Next to the path, on the tree stump - wait, tree stump, path? What had happened to the street? - was a strange, brilliantly coloured cat.

'Meow,' the long-haired cat said and wagged its tail lazily.

And Israel, to his considerable amazement, could understand what she was saying.

'What?' he said.

'Kurrr?' said the Pandimensional Cat and bonked her nigh-omniscient head on Israel's ankle.

---

The Feathertwiddle, by and large, had lost his inspiration. He couldn't write any longer. He would get up in the morning and quickly walk from his Little Green Bed to his ostentatious Writing Table, but once he'd sit down he would always get distracted by the flutter of a butterfly, or the interesting sound the teapot made, or some other fascinating little thing, and then he could not write at single word all morning.

At midday he would make himself a small lunch out of peanuts and white blocks and paradoxes and mathematics, and eat it, making all the appropriate gurgling noises to show his appreciation of his own conceptual cookery. But still he couldn't write, and then he'd get tired so quickly with all the chores. He would eventually pace around the Writing Table, once or twice, just to show himself that he was appropriately concerned about it, and finally go off to do more important things. One has to earn a living, even when one is a highly respected conceptual Feathertwiddle.

At night, he would go to bed and worry about not having gotten anything done all day. Then, after an hour or two of rolling about, he would get up, sneak very quietly back to the Writing Table and sit down. He would take up the pen and stare at the parchment in front of him, all in vain. No words would come. His places wouldn't feel real, his characters wouldn't say clever, insightful things, or act themselves out, and in general he would feel very unhappy with everything. He'd always throw the piece of parchment into the rubbish bin in the end, before finally going back to sleep in the Little Green Bed.

It seemed to the Feathertwiddle that his remarkable genius, so sparkling and creative and compelling only six months ago, had up and deserted him. He didn't like the idea one bit, particularly since he felt genius was a fixed personality characteristic and it just wouldn't do to have it run away on you without proper permission, preferably in triplicate.

The Grey Teddy Bear, the Eight Cataract Spider and the tiny Emperor of the Cupboard all agreed, but none of them could figure out what was wrong.

'You've obviously lost your inspiration,' said the Grey Teddy Bear calmly, sipping a cup of hot vanilla tea.

'Well, yes, yes, but where has it gone?' answered the Feathertwiddle and turned imploringly to the Emperor of the Cupboard. 'That's the most important thing, isn't it? If I'm to get it back, I mean.'

'Squeak,' said the Emperor.

'If you ask me, it's all going to hell anyway,' rasped the Eight Cataract Spider and menacingly waggled her own tea cup with one of her spindly, thin claws. 'Things are bad these days. The times are tough. The omens are ill.'

'Is that why they've all decided to stay home and skip work, then?' said the Teddy Bear. 'Because they're all quite noticeably absent.'

'Oh, mock you away. Look, in the old days when the land was pure and life was rural and simple, all the people were taller and better and smelled nice. They had higher brows and healthier morals and there was none of this television and tabloid rubbish around, and everyone killed their own food.'

'Oh, there she goes again,' said the Teddy Bear, adjusting the loose bits that hung from his frayed seams. 'O god of confusion, spare me from another lecture!'

'And they all had good manners and nice houses and everyone went to church and paid homage to Her Sadistic Majesty the Queen of Eating Males and every Sunday there'd be a nice little tea party with scones and serviettes and none of this stupid Tupperware around,' the Spider went on in her creaky voice.

'Look, do you even remember how it was back then? The smell was awful, everyone was dying of the plague, and whenever they weren't fighting each other, they were burning someone for heresy. It didn't get much better later on, either. Look at what they did to poor young Mr. Keats,' argued the Teddy Bear.

'Oh, yes, yes, of course, but you see, they did it with style,' croaked the Spider from her shadows and emptied the cup.

'Squeak!' said the Emperor of the Cupboard.

'I hear it too,' said the Feathertwiddle and went to open the door. 'Peculiar, don't you think? Who could it be at this hour?'

Outside, Israel was just recovering from the shock of having to knock on what was a large door-like construct on the side of a colossal, ancient oak tree. Later on he admitted to himself that he hadn't been prepared for it to actually open, either. I mean, he'd been given directions by a talking magic cat.

'Hello, stranger. Come on in,' said the Feathertwiddle amiably and gestured behind him. The door opened directly to the Twiddle Kitchen.

'Squeak!' said the Emperor and jumped up and down.

'Howdy,' said the Teddy Bear and tipped his tea cup.

'Oh, wonderful, it's food. Er, I mean hello there, fine young specimen of New England meat!' said the Spider and clacked her massive chitinous mandibles together.

There was a pause.

'O holy motherloving hell,' said Israel.