The Short Stories of...

At least he presumed it was reality. Perhaps this was the unreal world, and the dreams were not dreams, but real life, filtering in to his mind through his sleep. As he faced this door now, he felt as daunted and dwarfed by it as he had done in all those recurring night visions. The door seemed to tower over him, standing up to him, pushing its chest out at him, grand, dominant, macho. The character of the great and powerful oak it once was, still seemed to be within it.

In his previous confrontations with the door, he had been too overawed to turn the bronzed key with the mysterious swirls on the end, which jutted out of the lock. The `dreams` had always ended with him touching the door and feeling quite distinctly its warm moistness. But now, as he had strayed - or was he magnetically pulled? - off the track and in to the open woodland that he seemed to recognise, he felt more inquisitive than fearful. The door, bordered with ivy like a thousand sharp tongues, was in the side of a large hill. He touched the door - just like before; distinct warm moistness lingered on his finger ends. His fingers continued their journey to the beautiful, luring key. Only now did he see its sheer beauty. So perhaps he was a little forceful and enthusiastic by the way he violently lunged at the key and twisted it to the right. It deserved more respect, but he could bear the intrigue no longer. The nights of frustration must be resolved. He was scared no longer - more desparate. Desperate to see beyond the door. To open this door was to open his mind, to free himself from a confined, emprisoned existence.

He pawed at the door and it swung heavily open. He purred with delight. Unlocked. He was about to see what lay behind the great, towering, moist door of his dreams...

He saw: a door. A great, towering, and probably distinctly warm and moist door. He stood, quizzical, feeling small, and he pondered, stroking the whiskers on his chin, contemplating the implications. It was another barrier to his discovery.

"An identical door!" he howled and cried out as he tip-toed towards it. Identical - except for the drawings on this door. Etched in blood red. But a faded blood red, like old, bad blood. He grew frustrated trying to decipher what the drawings meant. His eyes, glowing in the dark, were drawn instead to the key which once again he was desperate to turn. He saw it was all black and white - he would turn the key, go through, and be fulfilled and satisfied. He had really landed on his feet here, he thought, wandering off the track to this hill, with its doors, that entranced him so. Finally, the prey his life needed would be caught behind this door. He turned the key, clawed at the door, and stepped through in to the darkness.

And the drawings on the door shook - with laughter? - as the door slammed behind him.

The drawings were the letters of the word `curiosity` running downwards. Attached, was a head, arms, and legs - quite clearly female. Built upon the deliciously curving letter `C` was a woman`s face. The letter `U` was divided to form a rounded bosom, the `R`, a flat, circular stomach...followed by the `I` and `O` playing their parts, swirled upon by the wild `S` and `I`. The `T` doubled to form long, straight legs, and the upside-down `Y` was drawn as the skeleton upon which were painted slender, perfect feet.

And beside the womanly word, lay the drawing of a rigid, lifeless, male cat.

And behind the door, now laid a rigid, lifeless, and finally fulfilled body and mind - female laughter ringing in his deaf ears.