This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v098) (the September 2011 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This writing also appears in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Wisdom in Broken Hands” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

Order this writing in the book Bleeding Heart Cadaver (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 320 page September-December 2011 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

White Out

John L. Campbell

    Julia was in a white room, filled with white cats. They were screaming, screaming, screaming. She wasn’t sure why, and didn’t know quite how she knew they were screaming. She couldn’t hear them, yet she knew it just the same.
    “Rabbit’s feet,” she said, her own voice sounding strange, disembodied. Snip went the scissors, and another little white cat paw came away from a little white leg. There was no blood, which was odd but perfectly understandable.
    It was just like all the other times.
    Snip, snip, snippity. The little white paws dropped into neat, little white piles at her feet. She didn’t know what happened to the cats she snipped – they just vanished from sight, only to be replaced by more cats.
    It was a big room, with no exits. The white cats ran hither dither, but couldn’t get out. Snip.
    Julia looked at the scissors. They were the dull, rounded-end types used in pre-schools. A fairly blunt instrument, but they were doing a fine job. Snip.
    She floated away from a neat little pile of paws – she always floated when she was snipping – her bare feet skimming furry white backs. It tickled her toes. She saw a big group of white cats huddled in a corner. They didn’t arch or hiss, they just stared at her.
    <>ISnippity, snippity, snip snip snip.
    “Rabbit’s feet, rabbit’s feet,” she sang, and snipped some more.
    Julia wasn’t worried about the cats. She did this often, and every time the cats ended up okay. They had never screamed before, though. But then, since she couldn’t really hear them, they might not really be screaming.
    Ssssssnip!
    She had been snipping rabbit’s feet – oh, she knew they were really cat feet, she just called them that – for the last eleven days. Every night she would snuggle under the covers next to Paul, pull the blankets up to her chin, and wait to be in the white room. For eleven days she had gone there. When she awakened, she always felt as if she had slept too hard, and the fingers of her right hand ached from holding scissors made for a smaller person. But even so, she felt great for the rest of the day, and that made it all worthwhile.
    Julia floated away from the corner and the pile of paws.
    “Rabbit’s feet,” she said thickly, and a stringer of drool slipped through her lips and dropped onto her cotton nightgown. Uh-oh. That was okay too, though. Paul teased her about drooling in her sleep, complaining that her pillow was always damp when he stole her side of the bed in the morning after she had risen to get ready for work.
    She floated, her toes sliding through soft, white fur. Why didn’t they stop screaming? Didn’t they know it was okay? Each cat would have its paws back tomorrow, so that Julia could start snipping all over.
    She could see only a few remaining cats now. That always meant she would be waking up soon. Julia drifted down to one that was trying to hide. Silly cat, she thought. It’s a big empty room, where do you think you can hide?
    Snip, snip, snip, snip.
    The screaming had stopped. Good kitties. Now there was a pounding noise. This was new, and she wondered where it was coming from. “Rabbit’s feet!” she yelled.
    Sergeant Raymond Sherman stood away from the door and kicked. The frame splintered, and his younger partner Francis rushed through the doorway. Sherman followed right behind.
    “Rabbit’s feet,” said Julia happily, and lifted another tiny pink finger. A hand, wrist and arm came with it. Francis Taylor noticed that the finger was smeared with blue paint. Fingerpaint.
    Snip. Off came the finger, and Julia let the little hand drop back to the tiled floor with a smack. In those first moments, both officers quickly took in the scene in the main playroom at the Merry-Time Preschool, and Sergeant Sherman promptly fell against a brightly-painted wall and vomited through his hands, unable to take his eyes off the drooling pre-school teacher. He had dropped his daughter off in this very room earlier this morning.
    The younger man was repulsed, but free of the deeper, emotional trauma which was destroying his partner. He pulled his pistol.
    “Rabbit’s feet,” grinned Julia, and reached for another tiny hand.
    Francis shot her three times.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...