Cat under an old moon: picture prompt

An old moon hinted at the winter dawn, its soft white luminescence sufficient for the cat to see by. Well, cats can see in the dark anyway, can’t they? I glimpsed him from the kitchen window as I stood there peering idly out, sipping my camomile tea with hopes of sleep.

A blue-black landscape, edged with white. And the black cat.

I thought back to the sight of my neighbour earlier in the day. I had just pulled in to the weedy drive with my overladen truck, all my worldly goods transported to this, my new home in the woods. She was in her snow-blanketed garden, standing over a silver dish which glinted in the late sunlight. She ignored my arrival as she lit something in the dish. It blazed briefly with a blue flame, died. She nodded.

I slid from the car, stretching after the long drive.

‘Good afternoon,’ I called.

She turned as if noticing me for the first time. Young, pretty, wearing tall, old-fashioned boots, and a heavy cape over her shoulders decorated with silver, rune-like patterns. An artist, it seemed.

‘Good afternoon.’ Her voice sounded older than she looked. Perhaps a cold. The glance she gave me was cool, eyes narrowed. Perhaps against the glare of the snow.

I expected her to approach, to introduce herself. She smiled, folded her cape closely about her and moved indoors.

Good start to the neighbourly relationship. I shrugged and began to unload.

Despite the arduous day, I had been unable to sleep. The old house creaked around me as if a high wind blew, and sussurrations seeped through the wooden boards, wordless whispers. Finally, I had given up and come into the kitchen to make tea.

Which is when I spotted the cat under the cold, old moon. A black cat.

And dancing beside the cat, engaging it in fluttering conversation, were fairies. It was then that I understood.

Not an artist then.

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