TB, it's at the end of the third Kinkaid, London Calling.

I look forward to reading it when it's out.

Actually I guess I can paste in part of the story as a drabble. But there is more though this is probably the best part:

"In the great way-back-when we had other things to worry about than killing each other. No not food – stuff you could eat pretty much grew everywhere. And for treats there were grubs, and spider monkeys; we’d stumble on the occasional hidden newborn wildebeest or zebra with no adults around.

“But the problem was, a lot things liked to eat *us*. Cats – there more kinds of cats, and a larger number than you could believe, most of them a lot meaner than anything you have today. Some of them moved in packs.” The shudder, if faked, was Broadway quality acting.

“We could do without men more easily than women, cause y’know fewer men doesn’t have to mean fewer babies, but fewer women does. So we men took the brunt of it – outer perimeter, point, watch – whatever you want to call it. The women would fight if a cat got past us of course; but everyone made damn sure we did most of the dying.”

Phillip was positively glowing. “The ancient original matriarchy!”

For the first time since he began the story The Immortal smiled. “I dunno that I’d call it a matriarchy exactly. If the men got eaten by cats, the women died in childbirth. And decisions were mostly made by people, men and women both, who’d lived long enough to prove their opinions were worth listening to.“ The smile faded. “Anyway, there wasn’t any point in arguing who was in charge. We knew who was in charge – the damn cats.”

One of the arguers stirred: “Sounds awful.”

The Immortal nodded. “Thinking about it now, that seems ‘bout right. But not only awful. Sometimes there was a kind of thrill in the danger. You go to horror movies and ride roller coasters for that now. And you’ve got to understand, with our world view, these all powerful alien creatures who ruled our lives – we didn’t look on them the way you look on animals now. They were gods, gods and demons. Sometimes things went well, and we worshipped our gods with our spears; mostly we worshipped them with our bodies. We needed no altars for our sacrifices. The gods came to us, without invitation.”

If you want to read more, the whole thing is posted at: [link]

Very nice, Typo Boy. I particularly liked the last two lines:

We needed no altars for our sacrifices. The gods came to us, without invitation.

It's their worldview in a nutshell.

And decisions were mostly made by people, men and women both, who’d lived long enough to prove their opinions were worth listening to.

Ah, balance.

And as someone with a half-grown kitten suckling on her left hand even as she types, I'd rather have the cats in charge than the people, most days.

And as someone with a half-grown kitten suckling on her left hand even as she types, I'd rather have the cats in charge than the people, most days.

You really might want to follow the link and read the rest of the piece (about the same length as what was already posted). I'd be curious to know whether what you just posted is a coincidence or if my story is doing what I wanted it to.

[link]

TB, pure tongue-in-cheek coincidence, I promise. Wasn't linking anywhere with the Farrowit sucking in my hand.

Oh I know you had not followed the link. There was some foreshadowing intended, and I wondered if it might have put the thought in your mind.

I think I'll just post the rest of the piece. You'll see why the comment was startling:

=============================== The Immortal nodded. “Thinking about it now, that seems ‘bout right. But not only awful. Sometimes there was a kind of thrill in the danger. You go to horror movies and ride roller coasters for that now. And you’ve got to understand, with our world view, these all powerful alien creatures who ruled our lives – we didn’t look on them the way you look on animals now. They were gods, gods and demons. Sometimes things went well, and we worshipped our gods with our spears; mostly we worshipped them with our bodies. We needed no altars for our sacrifices. The gods came to us, without invitation.”

Phillip broke the hush. “But what about war? What does this have to do with war?”

The Immortal’s gaze slowly came back into focus. He was returning from some place very far away. “Well just because we worshipped the creatures didn’t make us love them killing us. The idea of giving a god unconditional worship – that’s new. We never thought the gods were on our side. They ruled because their power let them – we defied or tricked them when the chance came. And the chance did come because of a luxury, almost a child’s toy – a little thing you call the bow. “

“Not good for much d’ya see. We made them from softwood, elm I think. They could kill birds for a treat; we’d let kiddies to play with them sometimes – no use otherwise. Then someone got the bright idea of making one from yew wood. “

His back straightened, voice deepened. “No kiddies toy that. You could kill anything with it – cat, dire wolf. Even a boar would die if you put enough arrows in it. And you could kill them from such a distance - most of the time you needn’t die yourself to finish them.”

“To start with we just used use them to make guard duty easier. You could protect the tribe and still live! But why stop there? We could send out hunting parties to find those demons and slay them in their kingdoms. Kill the great herds they lived on too. We didn’t need so many of the things; so why leave our demons a chance to feast and grow strong again?”

Phillip’s eyes brimmed with horror. “The Holocene extinction? You were responsible for the Holocene extinction?”

The Immortal chuckled. “Not me by myself. Not just my tribe either. But all of us humans together – sure. “ His tone sharpened. “Would you rather be cat food?” Then he softened again. “Maybe you would. Maybe we all would. “

“Because, after a while, we grew bored - and more than bored. We felt empty – especially the men. There was a cat-shaped hole in our spirit. We weren’t protectors anymore. We would still separate out from the main tribe into hunting parties; it was a habit by then. But regular foraging provided all the tribe needed. Hunting parties had become just an excuse to avoid our share of the regular work; the boar and venison and such we brought in were tasty but did not really make up for that.”

“And then one day we ran into a hunting party from another tribe. We did the usual. They shouted friendly insults; we shouted friendly insults. But something went sour. The insults grew less friendly. One of them hit home and somebody shot an arrow. Somebody else shot an arrow back and before we knew it, there were dead on both sides. We managed to declare a truce (the very first one) and both sides dragged bodies home. And even as we mourned the dead, in the old style, the mourning for a sacrifice, I knew that it was not the last time groups of men would kill men. (The women might have decided otherwise. But we had the bows.) “

“Even today men prey on men. Men prey on women – very occasionally the reverse. Rich prey on poor; we even make up races to divide into and find another way to prey on one another. We’re still filling that cat-shaped hole, still trying to get back to the garden.”

In the Garden (100 words without the title)

Fenced in on a base of bare dirt: orange rinds, coffee grounds, apple cores, and eggshells. Remember, oh food, you are dirt and to dirt you shall return. Carefully collected detritus does what comes naturally. It rots.

It’s a perfect landscape. Chiaroscuro, color, even scent artfully composed for my enjoyment. Someone thought about how to arrange this garden before they left. It had not been tended for a while before I found it, but no harm came from the neglect.

I don’t water. I don’t weed. I don’t deadhead the roses.

I will feed it good dirt.

In The Garden

I always thought I'd meet Jesus in a garden. Not the Garden of Eden; nothing so specific. Just me and Christ, chilling amongst the roses. I think it stems from going to church with my grandma when I was a little girl. I don't know the title of it, but my favorite hymn's chorus went: And he walked with me/And he talked with me/And he tells me I am his own/And the love we shared/As we tarried there/None ever/Has ever/Known." Grandma would slip my sister and I peppermints, and we would draw on the programs.

I don't think of Jesus much nowadays; I never go to church and Grandma is dead. But whenever I unwrap a round red-and-white mint, I smell my grandmother's Youth Dew, hear that hymn, and walk around in the garden.