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The Fifth Season (Verse I)

"What is it?"

Marybelle's eyes grew slowly shut, extending the smile on her face out past her whisker base. Light puffs of moisture condensed before her nose betraying the morning's frost.

"The Fifth Season," she said.

"I felt it first at Cafe du Monde in my youth, more than two hundred years ago. "

Marybelle hummed as though burdened by the memory. Her tail flicked lightly in time to emphasize some memory in particular. The sun rose slowly now extended by the moon's final exit bow. Marybelle sauntered slowly inside to begin her afternoon nap.

 

The Fifth Season (Verse II)

Persephone's raspberry tongue ran circles around her tiny lips out to the very tip of one cramped little paw. Up then, it went out over her nose and along her tiny whiskers. The sunlight glowed red through her paper thin ears casting orange drooping shadows on the morning grass. Persephone flicked her nose and ran it carefully over the window pane between us.

"Such a curious creature" Marybelle purred.

"I'd ask her to tea, but I think she would make a nervous companion."

 

The Fifth Season (Verse III)

The din of pans and pots rattled overhead. A bare crumb sat on a biscuit, a ladle of broth, a basket of cheese. Persephone's whiskers twittered. She sat on her haunches and enjoyed a morning nibble.

 

The Fifth Season (Verse IV)

A mirror well hung in the hallway of her Tudor mansion, Marybelle's gaze wandered aimlessly over the open parquet floor. Her head snapped to attention and she moved in a stiff but quick pace to the place where a tiny bug ran circles.

"Such a little thing, you'd expect that, after all this time, one would not be so captivated."

"And yet even as I grow weary with age I find that the tiniest creatures still drive me like a metronome's needle.

Marybelle sneezed, and the little one flew away.

 

The Fifth Season (Verse V)

Oh wretched soles of Eastham, collect what tithing you can muster and a few worn out spells. The tempest with all her wake is upon you.

Wrapped in her silk cape, Marybelle cast a spell of protection over her mother and sisters. As the tempest passed overhead, she marked a solitary dove in its eye moving north along the sea wall. Drawing her practiced hand she bid the dove descend and enter in muttering, "What good is a spell of protection if it cannot shelter a dove?"

Out beyond Eastham, in the sea's relentless torrent, a lonely trawler pitched in the waves marking its line for port. Marybelle, with her reaching hand, cast an arm out to draw it near.

To the north, in the village center, the town's crier buried his head in his hands amongst blowing limbs. The village elders cried and cowered in their hostel. Again Marybelle extended herself along the paths and simple cobbled roads even arching out over the town spire.

Being young and reckless Marybelle did not know that in a spell's stretch the line between cast and enchantment blurs with grave consequences for the maker.

Slowly under the tempest's glowering winds Marybelle's silk black cape grew hirsute and white. Her adolescent hands transfigured themselves into feline paws.

Indeed once the tempest passed, the Marybelle of form born from her mother's womb was no more. In her place there appeared the Marybelle we know today, a longhaired white cat.

 

Pretty Words Three

Wonderful whispering waves of vociferous voluptuous verisimilitude underwent undulations urgently to treacherous taters and savory silent sweetness receded recently rendered quite and quite quickly pushed parcels past ovaries over an ossuary newly numbered next by master's mustachioed muster leaving lengthwise location keeping kindling's kind jester jumping jubilantly into industrious ingots. Haste, heaven's hot grasp gripping green fronds of fleece frequently earnest on evenings every dune, disquiet doth creep cresting the core of barren blustering boxes around aspiring aspens.