The Tale of AJ the Alley-Cat
In a small town, the morning dew clings to everything—windows, gutters, even the litter swept against the curb.
A cricket sips from a nearby puddle.
Then a black cat zips past on a bike, cart full of fresh fish rattling behind. One flops loose and hits the pavement with a wet slap.
The cricket leans in. Sniffs.
YUCK!
It hops away.
From the shadows of a nearby alley, an old, broken-down cat stares.
He hobbles over and snatches the fish off the pavement.
One bite. Two. Gone.
BELCH. Loud enough to turn heads across the street. They wrinkle their noses. AJ grins.
He looks down. There’s nothing left.
His stomach growls. Still hungry.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his paw and scans the street.
Where did that biker go?
AJ limps past boarded-up shops and broken windows, following the scent of fish.
He reaches a farmers market—bright tents, slick vendors, fish laid out like gold.
He steps up to a stall. “FRESH TROUT – $5,” the sign reads.
He digs in his pocket: two coins, a button, lint.
The vendor doesn’t speak, just waves him off. AJ tries another. Gets a glance and the flick of a paw.
He leaves with nothing but more hunger.
But the scent lingers. So, he follows it further.
It leads to an old tuna-packing factory, sealed behind a tall metal fence.
Inside, scraps rain from buckets into barrels. Below, stray cats fight for the bits that miss.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. The gate signals.
It slowly opens.
The black cat rolls out, cart empty and cash in hand.
He bikes past AJ. Strapped to his back: a fishing pole.
AJ stares... an idea begins to form.
He turns and moves fast, faster than he’s walked all day.
Back through alleys he knows by heart.
Past a forgotten yarn shop, once his favorite.
He digs to the bottom of the bins and pulls out a half-used spool of strong thread.
Next stop: PawDepot.
Crooked broomsticks and snapped curtain rods pile near the trash out back.
He tests each one with his paws. One bends just right.
Perfect.
He gets to work: looping, tying, wrapping thread down the stick.
By dusk, it’s finished.
His very own fishing pole.
Later, at the pond.
AJ lies on the bank, the pole resting across his thighs. His eyes are closed.
He dreams:
Fish after fish.
Vendors jealous.
New shoes.
A full belly.
YANK.
AJ jerks awake.
The line pulls. He reels. Fast. Desperate.
He leans back, digging in, paws burning.
The line keeps going. Keeps giving.
He doesn’t stop. The reel doesn’t either.
But nothing bites.
Only an endless, tangled mess unraveling behind him.
The dream slips away, thread by thread.
By sundown, he sits in silence.
Staring at the line. Then the pole. Then back again.
What now?
An idea sparks.
He snips the line and begins tightly wrapping it around sticks and stones.
One spool, then another.
The thread keeps coming. The more he reels, the more it spins.
A rusted machine, half-buried, hums awake.
No directions. No explanation. It just spins.
AJ feeds the thread in. Spools roll out, smooth and ready.
He works through the night.
The next morning.
The farmers market stirs.
AJ appears. He sets down a cardboard box and fills the table with his homemade spools.
A folded sign reads: “FISHING SPOOLS – $2”.
A line forms. Coins flash.
Near the back, the black cat waits.
AJ leans back and smiles.
The End
This short narrative piece is based on a screenplay that I wrote at university in 2019, and recently re-worked. It explores what it means to be overlooked, to be hungry—not just for food, but for a shot. And what you create when no one is willing to give you one.