A/N: Power of the Pen is by far my best work.
It is, therefore, the worst thing in the world for my creativity.
When I finished POTP, once the catharsis wore off, the only thought left in my mind was "…now what?" And it's not an easy question to answer, because ever since then I've felt like my work has been going steadily downhill. Or, if not, it's gone downhill at least a bit and then leveled off somewhere around "decent," or "pretty good." So I've spent a very long time despairing of doing another full length thing, because I always know that it's not going to be as good as POTP.
But then I got this crazy idea from the most unexpected of places (my 13-year-old self), and my muse shot back into my head like he was on elastic (for those who aren't familiar with my muse, he IS male, and I still haven't named him yet :-P), and I found that I could not rest until I wrote this story, or at least posted the prologue so that I could sort out the details, like what the PLOT is going to be. This will still not be as good as POTP, but it is something completely random, and that is what I need. Huzzah for rediscovered muse!
Anyway… welcome to my new story. Hope you enjoy.
Happy is the home with at least one cat.-- Italian Proverb
I am fortunate enough to have a particularly excellent human.
He is brighter than most, thankfully, and therefore did not require a good deal of training. He now knows exactly when to feed me, and how to properly go about brushing me when I tell him to. Other small things, such as always making room on his lap for me when he reads the paper in the mornings, seemed to come naturally to him. And he is particularly skilled at the Scratching Behind The Ears.
He even has excellent taste in women, for which I am most grateful. His fiancée is a sweet woman who, like Randall, recognizes felines as the dominant species. She too has become quite adept at the Ear Scratching.
They say it does not do to become too fond of one's humans, but I am of the opinion that there are some humans worth becoming fond of.
And one must take care of one's humans. Usually it is not an exceptionally difficult task, but on occasion a situation most unusual will arise.
This is a story about one of those situations. My formal name is Belladonna, an overly pretentious title given to me by my human's great-aunt Agatha. It does not suit me. My real name, the name everyone that matters calls me, is Buttons. And I am the proud owner of the human Randall Clements, who was unfortunate enough to lose his favourite aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Morgenstern, on the twenty-sixth of August of last year. They were both found dead in their bedroom, stabbed through the heart.
The first act of the police was to thoroughly question all relatives of the two, and my Randall was unfortunately their greatest suspect. They did not arrest him, not immediately, but we all knew it was but a matter of time. Lilly Reynolds, Randall's fiancée, was nearly beside herself with worry, and Randall could think of nothing to do for himself that could help his situation. He began to think that his only option was to resign himself to hope that there was some justice enough in the workings of the world to keep him from being blamed for a crime he did not commit.
I was not willing to settle for that. He is my human, and I look after him.
Strewn about the house are various journals, newspapers, and magazines which Randall has at one time found interesting, or simply forgotten about. He's an extremely untidy human, but he always puts comfort before beauty, a quality he shares with cats. Yet another reason to be proud of my human. Remind me to recount the story of how I came to live with him sometime.
In his study, on the large round table, I recalled seeing a magazine which had caught my eye as I was hunting out the best patch of sunlight in the room. Returning there now, it took a minimal amount of searching before I found what I was looking for. I required a good deal of patience at this juncture, for as I did not possess the means of carrying it to him, I had to wait for him to find me. Luckily, the table remained an excellent place to sunbathe.
When Randall finally did enter his study, and turned his attention towards me, I rolled off the Strand Magazine which I had been sitting on. Hopefully he would get the hint. If we were to discover the true criminals in this matter, we would need help from the best. And the best, it seemed, was Sherlock Holmes.