Le Chat Méchant? — Not My Wednesday, It Isn’t

Naughty as she may be at times, this is not a portrait of the cave cat Wednesday (who happens to be sleeping it off on the bed at the moment anyway.  Sleeping what off?  Well, that’s for her to know, but suffice to say that this is her normal afternoon nap time).  The picture, however, is just too much fun to resist posting it here as well as separately on Facebook.  It comes to us courtesy of The Bram Stoker Estate, also via Facebook.

White cats, black cats, otherwise not a huge amount has been going on at the computer cave.  I did finish a new story last Wednesday (the day of the week, that is, not the cave cat) and have been doing minor corrections the last few days in preparation to sending it, later this evening, off to the mercies of my writers’ group — and assuming it survives that next Saturday, from there to market.  Other marketing in the past half week has included five poems and five pieces of fiction, three of the latter reprints.  This isn’t as active as it might seem as I’m trying to make up for a comparatively fallow week following my return from WorldCon.  Other than that, there’s been the one acceptance from Chamberton, (plus the AIRSHIPS & AUTOMATONS sale at the start of the month) and proofing a short zombie story for another anthology which has been delayed for a bit, but which the editor is tying to get back on track.  And the receipt of the DAILY SCIENCE FICTION print anthology.

So it’s September, the days grow short, the nights demand blankets be put on the bed, a lazy kind of month in some ways.  But “The Naughty Cat” would demand attention in any season.

 

(For more on the cave cat Wednesday, incidentally, including several portraits, just click on the entry for “Wednesday” under “PAGES” in the far right column.)

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  1. Love the painting of the Absinthe Kitty! It’s present, not absinthe.

    I thought I would get a copy of DSF Year One but Nupe!
    Good luck with the story.

  2. But will be “absinthe” soon enough when its owner comes back.

    (“Willie, feeling full of sin,
    drank up all his father’s gin,
    Poppa came home to get plastered,
    said, ‘You dirty little ba–aaad boy!'”)




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