R is for Roar

Dorian Cat loved sitting at the window to watch the birds. She sat on a brown bench that had been salvaged from an archives’ junk heap. The pigeons perched on the building across the alley, cooing and fluttering over the workers that passed beneath them.

Every so often a crackling sort of murmur sort of clicking sort of gurgling sort of rasp would exit her throat at the birds, her eyes wild.

A city lion.

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