Thursday, 25 August 2011

story 3.5

Tatilla slinked off the table, gracefully easing his way down. Tigers choose their time.

He nonchalantly strolled on all fours to the plains of his domesticated savannah. Flat land, two paces by five paces. As if it were sufficient exercise for a clambering lounging stealth lord of the jungle.

He camouflaged himself behind the couch, all the better to launch a surprise pounce on the intruder. The spread of blue-white-yellow patterned cloth that was the couch protector made a great disguise, providing a sheltered and shadowed effect.

The clattering and chattering at the front door announced imminent presence. Rustling paper sounded promises of mail. Scent of cold cinnamon enticed a different future.

In his tigerish mind he envisioned whirled scrolls of pastry bread coated with custard and cinnamon and sultanas, croissants lavishly enveloped by sliced blanched almonds, madelaines dusted with icing sugar, kouign aman with its layered caramel...

Atilla emerged, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the clear winter light shining through the windows. Mother had returned home, laden, and it was time for tea!

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

story 3.4

The plateau had sharply dropping edges, easily deceiving the unwary to skid off and plunge to their doom.

Tatilla grimly pinioned himself to the surface. ~fool me once shame on you fool me twice shame on me~

Not that falling mattered, as tigers always land on their feet. Majestic, tigers every movement always purposeful.

From this peak vantage point Tatilla surveyed his domain. Prey was scarce today. The land was parched, granite grey and bereft.

The lone tiger perched and scented the discrete minutiae affecting his locale. He twitched his whiskers. He swivelled his ears.

He was not alone!

Was it the impertinent ginger fluff? Was it a birth parent? Was it another family member?

Tatilla's muscles were taut with tension.

Monday, 22 August 2011

story 3.3

The undergrowth 'neath the faux timber was luxuriant. Furry gathering in the windbreaks at the base where wood met ground.

No-one had been here for a while to mark their territory.

Tatilla sniffed tigerishly to scent any remnants of previous ownership. Nothing but last night's moussaka permeated the still air.

He rubbed the roughenned texture of the wooden stands. Yes, yes...the last creature to leave his mark was a dragonish type. The sheer exuberance of the ecstatic careless permanent blue marker was a real give away.

The ground-level held no more interest.

Tatilla prowled and writhed and analysed the best leaping point to attain the heights of the table-top.

One chair was full of laundered clothes. One chair was decisively balanced with used coats lounging on the back. One chair had envelopes, advertising circulars, newspapers. One had been recently vacated, intimidated by the resident pent-up tiger.

Tatilla lept into the empty chair, and lept once more, onto the table-top.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

21 August 2011: excerpt

Today was very exciting. Atilla displayed recognisable signs of intent and purpose.

He was happily playing “roll the ball” with his father - his ball handling skills are improving wonderfully - he can 'catch'/stop the ball and roll it in a chosen direction. Dad was so pleased and called Mom - who was inattentive sitting behind Dad - to look and pay attention to this.

Mom was so pleased with Atilla's skills, she clapped her hands together with joy.

Atilla laughed, and rolled the ball to Dad again. Dad and Mom cheered him on. Atilla laughed his stuttering half-gurgle. He caught the ball, and rolled it back towards his parents.

Dad caught the ball, and Atilla bubbled into unhappiness. Whatever was the matter?

The ball rolled in the direction he had directed.

However Atilla had been looking at Mom when he rolled the ball. Mom wondered perhaps Atilla meant for Mom to catch it.

Testing this out, Mom joined in the game. The formation became a triangle: A, M, D.

M rolled to A. A gurgled in pleasure. A rolled to M. M caught it. A gurgled in joy. M rolled to A. A happy.

And so forth for a couple of rounds. The ball went off-course and was diverted to inattentive D (who was on the computer seeking images of “mantis cocoon”). D perforce rejoined the game.

A couple more times the ball rolled off-course in the same way - A rolls towards M but unstable ground diverts to D. Atilla then began to (seemingly) roll the ball even further to his right, away from the contentious ground, so M had to reach for the ball - unlike previous rounds when the ball rolled directly to her (more or less).

Right now he is asleep in his cot. Bless. He's stirring, so all the best.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

story 3.2

Tatilla snarled at his reflection, a fearsome grimace. His eyes narrowed into slits, his upper canines sneering, his lips drawn into thin lines, his whiskers drawn down in a display of displeasure.

He turned his back to his reflection and stalked away, showing his contempt for his helpless situation. He couldn't stop the twitching of his black-banded tail, swishing side to side. Tatilla stalked majestically to his wooden shelter, and he crouched there among the upright faux-timber.

Occassional suppressed rumblings emanated from deep inside his chest.

A new animal had entered his territory, Tatilla knew it. A fluffy-haired ginger tabby cat was prowling around, marking vehicles and fence posts and trees and houses. The cheek!

Mother, bless her un-tigerish heart, didn't know the seriousness of this presumption. Father did.

"Blast that pesky cat!" he would roar, and blast he did with the water blaster.

*psh!* *psh!*

A stream of water shot from the porch to the fence on the other side of the lawn. And the cat would shoot away from the fence, and the birds and chicks were safe again for the nonce.

Dad's strawberries though were again exposed to the full pillage of the starlings and sparrows.

Monday, 15 August 2011

story 3.1

The magnolia tree was blooming full of pink-purple flowers. Mother snarled and sneered at the pesky moth-plant vine which threatenned to strangle the trees.

She said there wasn't much she could do about it this year. Atilla hoped she'll feel better about it next year.

There were many unusual occurrances so far this year, so far as he had been told about.

Mainly to do with the weather. Plum tree blossoming and leaving in early winter. Warm spring-like picnic weather in winter. Snow in Auckland!

Dad was pleased about the snow. He was disappointed that all he saw was hail.

Atilla was disappointed that the wild weather meant he still didn't get to the playground. Mother said she didn't want Atilla to be blown over by the Antarctic polar wind.

It was a real shame, as this could have been the opportunity to use the tailwind and set the world record for going over the bar on the swings.

So here he was, a caged tiger prowling his territory. Growling at the outside world which he is cruelly deprived from enjoying. Pouncing at perceived prey.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

10 August 2011: excerpt

It was lovely to have a few hours to be with husband. Lunch for two, a walk on the beach, a nap.

Sitting down across a table, seeing husband as a person, experiencing smiling and relaxing.

I really enjoyed the time away from being a mother.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

2 August 2011

- baby pulling faces at me,
- parents,
- husband,
- sunny day,
- lavender,
- sleep,
- game time,

6 best:
saw - baby pulling faces at me,
taste - crumpets buttered with love,
touch - baby-soft skin warmed by sleep,
heard - burblings from baby/ SIL,
did - hugged husband,
smelt - warm clean bathed baby.

2 August 2011: excerpt

7mo Atilla pulled a face at me this morning.

Husband held Atilla on his lap, and the grown-ups were chatting away. Then all of a sudden Atilla's lower lip extended towards his right.

I was very taken aback. I stared.

He did it again. I remonstrated reflexively.

Husband twisted his head down to look at Atilla. The babe was the picture of innocence.

'Who, me?' his wide-eyed gaze protested maternal accusations.

We ignored Atilla for a bit.

Atilla pulled his lip again, and the tip of his tongue stuck out for good measure.

Well, I thought, not every baby can do that controllably.

"Well done Atilla," I congratulated him.

It's a shame we didn't have a camera ready. No saying when I'll be privileged to be targeted by a baby making faces at me.