Written specially in response to this weeks Sunday Scribblings prompt - 'Fable'
Let me tell you about Mable. Everything I am about to impart is, I should point out, merely hearsay. However it is said there is no smoke without fire and although that is a somewhat theatrical aphorism it gives you an idea of many people’s view on Mable’s famously fabled existence.
No one was sure how old Mable was. A diminutive being; she seemed to grow smaller as the years passed. She loved nothing more than to curl up into a ball on a sofa before a crackling log fire. Folk with whom she shared the rest home could not help noticing that when she relaxed she often gently stroked her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her eyes would sometimes slowly narrow then just as slowly, open again. And as they did, a hint of green was sometimes seen, or so I'm told. Often an enigmatic expression crept across her lips as if she knew something the others didn’t. Some even say that whenever she dozed, she emitted a soft, quiet purring sound.
I have even heard, and this stretches even my imagination, that during a conversation about the sighting of a mouse in the lounge, Mable was seen to twitch and become alert, and a hint of a dribble of moisture ran down her wispy whiskered chin.
Occasionally on dark winter nights Mable retired to her room earlier than the rest of her fellow residents. On such nights there were often reports of a silver haired cat sitting in the branches of trees and bushes surrounding the home, staring through gaps in the curtains and blinds. Folk found themselves eerily drawn to its luminous eyes which seemed to look deep inside their souls. It would hold its gaze unblinkingly for several minutes; the eyes of the onlooker captive. Then it would slink off and creep around the hedgerows and borders.
Mable died, as will we all. It is said that she left all her worldly goods to a cat’s home. Coincidence? Maybe. But people love a fable, and thereby hangs a tail!