Theta Waves Thursdays: what ever happened to Kat?

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000032_00026]Ya. For some reason the nastier characters stick with me; I’m thinking, based on comments from some readers, they stick with you too.

It’s been a while since I did a Theta Waves Thursday, and since I’m working on a new novella, I thought I’d let you Kat fans peek behind the curtain with the reinstated postings.

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Kat’s Cradle: installment 1

Remember, it’s raw and first draft…so grammar and spelling may be wonky

The flare spewed crimson into the midnight sky, losing brilliance in the light pollution of the Western part of the supercity. Even these months after the god had come and gone, leaving a war-torn Earth ravaged by battle, the West still had decent enough energy to reveal how bedraggled the buildings had become with a population who cared about nothing but self-gratification. Kat watched the semen-trail of light as she sat propped against the cold stone of an alleyway wall. How fitting that the flare be blood red and not orange, and how wickedly fucking suiting that the better parts of the devastated city steal the light from her single shot. The western half of the city always got the best anyway, leaving the dregs to squabble over the rest, why should a mere apocalypse change anything. The more things changed; the more they stayed the same it seemed.

She hadn’t planned to shoot a flare off here in the shitty, God-forsaken affluence of New Earth; it was simply the place her baby had decided to die, and so she marked it, thinking it a fairly monumental occasion for an HIV infected assassin. Here, swimming in enough blood to make Kat seriously afraid for the first time since she’d been a newly bleeding virgin about to give it up to a swarthy john her father had brought home. Cocooned in the smells of coffee and toasted bread and expensive perfumes, her tiny package had opted to squirm from its tethers deep in the lining of its home and float in the blood originally harbored to nourish its new flesh. Decided to screw itself prematurely free between her legs and leak onto the blackened pave of a back alley.

If she understood poetry at all, Kat would call it justice.

As it was it just hurt like a bitch. More than the pain of the beating she’d taken by The Beast’s horsemen, of burning nearly to death in that cell He’d put her in as punishment for disobedience. It hurt more than taking half a dozen gunshots in the back as she sprayed His men with fire so the little spitter bitch, theda, could save herself from martyrdom. So that together with the Pale Rider, the two of them could try to save the dregs of humankind from boiling in a soupy mess of fire and brimstone. Fools; both of them.

The miscarriage hurt, sure, but she’d live. For long enough, at least. Kat chuckled to herself as she stared at the flare’s reflection in the pool of viscous fluid that collected on the asphalt between her legs.

“Couldn’t stand the though of me being your mama, issat it?” she said to the puddle. “No worries. I don’t blame you little frog.”

Kat pushed herself to a squat and pulled at her pants, hiking them up over her bloody thighs without bothering to clean the mess.

“Better you don’t see what I’m going to do anyway.”

She didn’t exactly think she’d stay alive long enough to worry about hygiene at this point. What was a little blood to a former general of The Beast’s army? She’d bathed in plenty during her tenure, took pleasure in the bloodletting and carnage because she was good at it. It was a strange thing to take pride in, but she had done so.

She stared down, waiting for the last of the light to drown in the depths of the tarry pool. Only when it had gone fully black did she turn on booted heel and stagger to the mouth of the alley. She almost looked back over her shoulder, and but for the little squirrel in her chest that threatened to send into the weakness of a bawling fit, she would have. But a general, former or not, did not bawl.

She had things to do. Things that she couldn’t count on the Pale Rider and his little spitter lover, Theda, to take care of. They had their paltry little jobs to do, and Kat had hers, self-imposed though it may be. She just had to find the strength to begin again.



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Thea Atkinson is a writer of character driven fiction.

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