Trest has always been a sleepy little town. At least that’s what any of the residents will say. Visitors and relatives from outside never seem to notice too much amiss, though that’s probably because the fetches are shy.
Not that you care overmuch, being a cat. So long as the people keep putting out tuna and offering skritches, you are happiness incarnate. That was, until the purple one appeared.
You’ve listened to the people and you’ve heard it said in secret, quiet places, that it started years ago, sometime in the mid 70s, whatever that means. Children who had been in near fatal accidents coming back…changed. Coming back speaking a different language, hair the wrong colour or texture. Most unsettling is that they smelled wrong. Sounded wrong. They were still decent slaves, but they weren’t the same people.
Then, one fateful afternoon, a child came back not looking or smelling like a child at all. She looked like a 4 ft. tall doll made of bone and smelled of china cups, dusty cupboards and sun dried bones. The next child looked like he was made from twigs. Or yarn. Or burlap and buttons. Hair made of moss and twigs. Oh, some of them are so fun to play with!
But now one of them, one of the best ones who leaves out cream and tuna, has done something a bit odd. It smells like yarn. Delicious, scrumptious yarn, but it looks like a small cat. Black and white. But the big purple fetch wants something from you.
And whatever it wants, it seems rather insistent that it gets it.
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