100 word stories. Post all you like, maybe we'll dip in and use yours?
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Poppet’s gaze fixed on a point just over John’s right shoulder, pupils dilated, black discs eclipsing the gold corona of her irises. Her body tensed, hackles raised. Her needle claws dug into John’s thigh. He shifted slightly to dislodge them, if only for a moment, and went on reading his book, resisting the nagging urge to look at the bare wall behind him. There was never anything there, just a cat being a cat. He continued to read, Poppet continued to stare, and the thing in the wall continued to whisper, jagged, alien words; cosmic truths, uttered just for her.
Good stuff. Cats do like to stare.
Good stuff. Cats do like to stare. Gotta be at something, right?