The Unidentified Pancake

By Liz Cox

a saucer of milk

 

Fred and Sandra were taking a stroll along the stone edged path which led around the garden. The sun was shining which was a change, as it had been a really soaking wet February. They were fed up with being inside. It wasn’t natural. They sniffed the air twitching their noses to take in the new scents which had appeared, since they were last outside. Sandra tapped the snowdrops to make them dance. Fred heard a rustling in the grass.

‘It’s that grey mouse which lives under the redcurrant bush. It’ll get him this time.’ He slunk to the ground and waited, claws flexing in and out of his striped ginger paw in eager anticipation. Sandra sat preening nonchalantly pretending not to notice.

            ‘You’ll never get him,’ she grinned with glee, washing behind her sooty ear, ‘he’s far too clever for you.’

            ‘If you’d stop purring, maybe I’d get a chance,’ Fred said crossly creeping nearer to the rustling. He pounced, and a flash of grey sped past his nose. Sandra purred louder.

‘Told you.’

Fred narrowed his yellow eyes and pretended not to care. Turning swiftly on his heel, his tail swishing, he sauntered in the direction of the bird table. It was always good for a fun time. He stopped in his tracks.

‘Hey Sandra, what’s that on the floor?’ All animosity forgotten, he turned to his companion who was following behind him pretending to search for voles amongst the rockery stones but in fact was just enjoying the warmth of the winter sunshine. Sandra turned her slanted green eyes towards him and chirruped.

‘Oh Fred, what rubbish have you found now?  - Can you eat it?’

‘Dunno,’ said Fred, poking a pale disc with the tips of his claws. The disc moved as he touched it. ‘Eeew, it’s all soft and squidgy.’ He pawed it again, and it rippled into folds. He sniffed it and backed away in disgust. ‘Doesn’t smell very good.’

Sandra, by now, was intrigued to see what he had found, but feigned indifference. She padded over in his direction. Sniffing the thing, she drew back.

‘Yes! you’re right, doesn’t smell very meaty.’ She stuck her little black nose in the air and ruffled her fur. ‘Must have been left there by the awful small ones.’ The small ones were the bane of her life.

Fred wasn’t finished. He pawed the thing again. It squelched beneath his foot and skidded across the path. He followed it. This had the makings of a good game. Sandra, watching her friend spread-eagled on the dirt, bent down to touch it herself with her elegant claws. She recoiled in horror.

‘Fred, it’s warm.  Do you think it’s alive?’ She purred gleefully. She was thinking that this could be fun. She stroked her silky whiskers with her soft black paw.

Fred gave the thing a little push with his nose. It didn’t move.

 ‘Don’t think so San. Do you think it’s a jelly fish like those on the beach?’

Sandra shuddered. They had only once ventured onto the nearby sands, where they had been attacked by moving water. Their people had become hysterical when they found them; so much fuss. It was not a memory she cared to dwell on. Fred was becoming braver and stamped his foot right in the middle of the disc. It didn’t move.

‘I think I’ve killed it San,’ he mewed with disappointment. As he tried to withdraw his paw, he discovered that his claws were caught in the thing. He couldn’t dislodge it. He flicked his leg; the thing came with it. He tried to walk, the thing came with him.

‘Here San, stand on the other edge.’

‘Not if you call me San, I won’t. I’ve told you about that before.’ Sandra tip-toed towards the thing. She didn’t like getting her paws dirty, unless it was in the innards of a delicious rodent. Up on the bird table above them, there was a cacophony of chirping and shrieking.

‘What’s wrong with them?’ she said, gazing longingly at the flutter of wings above, ‘anyone would think we were going to attack them.’

Fred also gazed upward licking his lips. This damn thing on his foot was distracting him. He tried to shake it loose, but it swung around in the air draping itself over his foot. It began to tear and fell to the ground with a splat, where it was pounced on by Sandra. She picked it up in her mouth and spat it out.

‘That is so awful!,’ she cried trying to dislodge the last piece from her sharp little canines. ‘Perhaps you’re not supposed to eat it.’

‘What else could you do with it?’ Fred ventured, ‘perhaps it’s a nice cushion?’

With that Fred tried to lie on it, moving his back from side to side in ecstasy. He found it was too slippery and fell off. The birds had now raised their voices and were swooping down on the supine cat, as he rolled on the thing. He raised his paws to fend them off catching a brave little sparrow with his claw. The bird let out a terrified shriek, as it disentangled itself and flew off.  Sandra by now was bored and tapped her white tipped tail on the ground.  In the hope of securing one of the diving birds, she swiped the air.

‘This is much more fun Fred.’ She said, ‘leave that thing alone, it’s so boring.’

‘Fred! Sandra! You wicked cats, I put that pancake on the bird table to feed the birds not you two. Get back in the house, you horrors!’

Startled the cats stopped what they were doing, turning in the direction of the Large Person’s voice.

‘Uh huh, it’s Large Person, we better scram,’ said Fred getting up from his grubby pancake blanket which was now covered in thick ginger fur. ‘I don’t think the birds will want to eat it now.’ He grinned. ‘Come on San, let’s go,’ he growled as he slunk off into the privet hedge, followed by Sandra.

‘Don’t call me San.’

 

About the author

Liz is a member of the Bangor Cellar Writing Group and spends her time working at the 'day job' whilst trying to complete her first novel. In the meantime, she writes short stories and poetry while gazing at the view of Snowdonia from her window.

The Giraffe I Met Before You

The Giraffe I Met Before You

Elizabeth Cox

A cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso

                                               

‘If you must know, it’s not every day that you meet a giraffe under a full moon.

            The circumstances were odd, I’ll give you that,’ Gillian said, spooning up the froth from her coffee and licking it with her delicate pink tongue. Miriam, shifting in her chair, said nothing.

            The girls were sitting in their local Costa whiling away a rainy Saturday morning with coffee, cake and some juicy gossip, when Gillian blurted out this conversation stopper. Friends since school, they met every Saturday, and when the weather was good, they always sat outside so they could watch the passing crowd and intersperse their own opinions on the fashion sense of the great British public – and had done for years. Too many years if they cared to think about it.

            This morning, having already discussed their fellow customers, they were searching for something else to talk about while eyeing up the brown leather couch in the corner. Their favourite spot had been taken over by a group of teenagers who had draped themselves all over, shouting and laughing hysterically. Steam obscured the windows, and the rich aroma of roasting coffee failed to disguise the damp-dog odour of wet coats. A grizzled old man in a black gabardine raincoat struggled to rise from his chair, pulled up his coat collar and ambled towards the exit. As he opened the door a blast of cold air cut through the fug of a wet Saturday morning.  

            Miriam tightened her flower printed scarf closer around her neck, took a deep breath and broke her self-imposed silence. ‘Hmm, that’s a new one,’ she ventured, as she stirred her coffee and looked around the room, wondering why she hadn’t heard about this before.

            ‘No seriously,’ Gillian retorted, tapping her long finger nails on the streaky table, ‘It was a very scary night. Let me tell you about it.’

            Not waiting for Miriam’s response, Gillian leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I was walking down by the canal, you know under the bridge that crosses Rowlands Road. It was a beautiful night, even though David had just dumped me for that red-head who works in the Royal Oak on the High Street. Huh! Why he would want to take up with her, I can’t imagine. Such a scrubber!’

            Miriam nodded, she had also had issues with her boyfriend Gerald and the self-same red-head. ‘I think Bridget is her name,’ she hissed.

            ‘Anyway,’ Gillian continued, picking imaginary fluff off her purple pencil skirt, ‘I was walking along the towpath minding my own business enjoying the full moon, even though it was quite chilly and I was feeling devastated,’ she paused to pull a tragic face, ‘when I tripped over a log lying in my way. An odd log, I might add, seeing as how it was sort of ginger coloured with quite a fetching pattern and little horn type branches sticking out from one end.’ Gillian licked her spoon again, quite aware that she had drawn a small audience from the surrounding tables. Miriam dropped her gaze and stared at her own bright pink fingernails. ‘Go on,’ she said, picking up her cup and taking a deep slurp. Gillian’s coffee was now left to grow cold, as she warmed to her story.  

            ‘As I said’, she glared at Miriam, ‘I was walking along minding my own business, when I tripped over this thing on the path. I have to say, I did let out quite a scream. Anyway things got worse.’ Gillian paused for effect, her eyes wide. ‘The log reared up, and I was looking into two long-lashed brown eyes with tears slipping from the corners. I kept my cool.’

            Miriam snorted at this last statement, ‘When did you ever keep your cool? Did no one hear your scream?’ She laughed looking for support from the other occupants of the café. Now drawn to the women’s table, they nodded in agreement.

            However, not to be deflected from her story, Gillian dismissed their nods with an uplifted hand and a glacial stare. ‘The creature, whom I now recognised as a giraffe, began to make a low moaning sound deep in its long throat.’

            ‘How did you recognise it as a giraffe?’ Miriam was sceptical.

            ‘That’s easy,’ Gillian replied, ‘everyone knows a giraffe when they see one.’

            ‘Well, yes, in a zoo or a safari park or in a picture, but not in real life, under the canal bridge.’ A young girl with short blond hair, a dark brown coat and red leggings, now moved closer. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t expect to see one on a towpath in this town,’ she sniggered.          ‘Had you been at the booze?’

            ‘I most certainly had not!’ Gillian could see she was now losing her audience, as odd people left the group and returned to their cooling coffee cups, clearly bored. ‘I tell you it was real. In fact it licked my hand with its long black tongue; felt like my fingers were being rubbed over with sandpaper.’

            A hush fell on the room. All that could be heard was the hissing of the coffee machine and an embarrassed scraping of chairs.

            Gillian was almost in tears, ‘I tell you, I stroked it. Its hair was rough, and it had a lumpy ginger topknot between its ears. It felt like the hairiest of hairy blankets and smelt like one that had been out in the rain for months.’ Her hair had fallen out of the messy bun she normally wore and was hanging around her eyes. Black streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. ‘I tell you! I found a giraffe on the towpath under the full moon!’

            Miriam, sensing her friend’s distress amongst the now hostile coffee drinkers, took her hand and asked gently, ‘What was wrong with the giraffe? You said it was moaning and crying. I didn’t know giraffes could cry.’

            ‘Well,’ said Gillian eagerly, leaning forward, her eyes shining, ‘neither did I, but this giraffe had a large tear dripping off the end of its nose, and its eyes were swollen.’

            ‘How can you tell they’re swollen?’ the girl in the red leggings piped up. ‘Have you seen a giraffe’s eyes close up before?’ She turned to the rest of the crowd and smirked. A few people were beginning to sidle up to the girls again.

            ‘Well, if you look at a giraffe, its eyes are brown and clear, but this one had huge bags under them as if he hadn’t slept for a week. If you were lying on a muddy towpath on your side, you’d be crying too. And it flared its nostrils, snorting horribly, trying to sniff back the tears,’ she added, now indignant.

            ‘Why was it on the towpath?’ Red Leggings persisted; she had her own audience now.

            ‘Well, it had fallen over on its side and couldn’t get up of course.’ Gillian pulled a face at her.

            ‘Did anyone else see it?’ The girl was not going to let go. ‘How the hell did it get there?

            ‘I was the only one under the bridge, apart from the giraffe that is, and I don’t know how it got there!’ Gillian retorted.

            ‘Did you phone anyone? How come we’ve never heard about it? This is a small town you know.’ She was poking Gillian on the shoulder with short sharp jabs.

            Gillian flinched and dropped her gaze. ‘I didn’t have my phone,’ she mumbled under her breath.

            ‘You didn’t have your phone! That’s a good one! Anyway, what happened to it?’ The girl’s flushed face was now within an inch of Gillian’s. Gill gulped, tears began to form in her eyes. Miriam laid a hand on her arm and squeezed it gently. ‘Come on Gill.’ She turned to the girl. ‘That’s enough now.’

            ‘I think you’ve lost it!’ Red Leggings turned towards her cohorts. ‘She’s mad she is, come on lets go.

            The group exited the café jeering, pushing and shoving each other as they left, leaving Gillian and Miriam sitting alone. Miriam shook with laughter. ‘That got rid of them, Gill,’ said Miriam, ‘now we can have that couch in the corner. Well done.’

            Gillian looked puzzled but agreed, ‘Yes, let’s go, before anyone else gets it.’ They gathered up their belongings and moved towards the couch, signalling the barista to pour them two more coffees.

            Miriam went up to the counter, paid for the coffees, and brought them back to the table, where Gillian had spread out their bags and scarves to deter other customers. When she returned Gill was scowling.

            ‘Thanks for the coffee, Mimi, but I have to say, it’s no laughing matter if you must know. I thought better of you. Still, now the others have gone, I can tell you all about the night I met the giraffe under a full moon on the canal towpath.’

            Gillian opened her handbag, took out a yellowing newspaper cutting unfolded it, and smoothed it out on the table. ‘Now,’she said, ‘where was I?’

About the Author

Elizabeth Cox has had a varied career which gives her plenty of experience to call on. She now loves to write poetry, short stories and is working on her first novel.

Published May 11 2016