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  • Writer's pictureBrook Bond

Teabox Tales - My Greatest Escape

Here is a short story I wrote about Dillon, my beloved and very grumpy pet cat. I wrote this for my university application portfolio a couple of years ago, and it's the one piece from the entire portfolio that holds up to the point that I don't feel like burning it.

My uni still has the physical copy of the portfolio, and won't give it back, probably so they can laugh at it behind my back. Rest assured, it'll go straight onto the bonfire if it ever comes back into my possession.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you 'My Greatest Escape'


For the last two-thousand and eighty-two days and nights, I have been a prisoner of war. I was but a boy when I was taken, but the experience remains ever fresh in my mind. My troops and I had nearly declared victory against the invading army of fuzzy felt mice when I found myself cornered.

I was collared and caged, taken away from my brothers and sisters in arms in the prime of my fighting days. Only heaven knows how they fared in the battle without me.

As the cruel cage left my home forever, my beloved mother called out for me from her command post on the sofa fortress.

"Godspeed, beloved son of mine." She called. "May Bastet shine upon thee!"

With that, I began my long voyage. I sat in silent protest throughout the journey. I would not yowl. I would not cry. I would not be broken.

After an eternity, my cage was opened. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the blinding lights, but soon I would look upon my captors.

My jailers were, and still very much are a strange breed. They are unnaturally tall, like the giants of old. Their limbs are thicker than the thickest tree trunks. Their claws are blunt, flat, and hideously useless. How creatures so grotesque even survive is probably the greatest mystery of our time.

My early days in captivity were the ultimate test of my abilities. It was the fight of my young life. The felt mouse, the jangly ball and the fish on a string - each one fought and each one defeated. With my foes vanquished at my feet, I received my reward.

Tuna. Chicken. Salmon. Each spoil of war greater than the last. I earned my captor's respect as a gladiator and had been rewarded, but I still yearned for my freedom.

Soon, another prisoner arrived.

He was a stout silver tom with a considerable belly. He claimed, much to my amusement, that he was a long-lost prince, yet this was never true.

"I am the lost pedigree heir to the clan Ragdoll." He told me one morning.

"Oh yes?" I clearly remember rebutting. "Then where is your castle? Where are your armies?"

He scoffed, a haughty expression across his 'noble' brow. "I have been denied my papers, and thus my birthright."

By some freak of fortune, my rotund cellmate convinced the captors of his heritage. This earned him more roast chicken than me! The cheek! My revenge was swift.

One balmy summer evening, the two of us sat by an open window, admiring the setting sun. He was babbling as usual, not a clue in his mind as to my plan.

"If I wasn't stuck here with a wretched moggie, I'd be taking high tea with the Queen's corgies." He bemoaned.

I shook my head in annoyance, slowly raising a paw behind his back.

"Only you would fraternise with hounds." I said.

"Poppycock! I shan't hear of it. Hounds are a great bunch of..."

Before he could even finish his sentence, I gave him a firm push from behind. He tumbled forwards as he lost his footing, before plummeting out of the open window. If it wasn't for his considerable girth cushioning the fall as he splatted on the ground, he would've died that evening. Curses. My plot was foiled.

Soon after came my great escape attempt.

It was winter then. The time of year when the late afternoons were as black as pitch.

Every single week, my captors left for a hunting trip. They'd leave for an hour or two, and return with all manner of prey encased in colourful plastic. It happened like clockwork and was a routine I knew well.

My jailers would return from the trips burdened by their heavy prey. They'd return to their iron steeds to get more several times, leaving the prison door ajar. Usually, they shut the inner door, preventing us prisoners from leaving.

This time however, It'd slipped their minds entirely. The door was wide open.

I sped like a bullet out of the door. I was free!

I was the panther, stalking the undergrowth. This strange dusk savannah was my kingdom, and its spoils were mine for the reaping. I continued to run, my paws slipping from yesterday's rain underfoot.

I came to a screeching halt in front of an obstacle. Smooth. Tall. Metal. It was the garden gate. I was trapped once more! I howled skyward! My anguish was immeasurable and my life was ruined.

I was scooped into a rough embrace as one of my captors lifted me into his arms. The gig was up. I was trapped once more.

Sweet lady freedom keeps calling my name. Hopefully one day I'll answer.

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