An Orange Cat Oracle of Absurdity Story

The Oracle sat beside the South African pothole with the patient expression of a cat waiting for reality to admit it had made a mistake.

Behind the Orange Cat Oracle, the sea rolled steadily against the shore. The waves seemed to be discussing something important, although nobody could quite determine what. Every so often one wave would arrive with great confidence, only to retreat moments later as if it had forgotten its argument.

The Oracle paid the waves little attention.

Today was about the pothole.

Not merely a pothole. A consideration. A possibility.

A disagreement between the road and the universe.

The road claimed to be solid. The pothole maintained that certainty was overrated.

In the pothole in the road lay a puddle of water coated with a shimmering oil slick. Colours drifted lazily across the water’s surface. Blue slid into purple. Purple wandered into gold. Green appeared briefly, thought better of it, and became something that had never quite committed to being a colour at all.

The Oracle adjusted its towel-cloak.

The towel-cloak adjusted itself back.

An understanding was reached.

“Ah,” said the Oracle.

The colours shifted.

“You again.”

The pothole remained silent.

This did not concern the Oracle. Many of its most meaningful conversations occurred with things that refused to speak.

A beetle wandered toward the edge of the puddle, peered inside, reconsidered its future, and immediately left.

The Oracle nodded. “Wise.”

The sea applauded with a slightly larger wave. The Oracle ignored it. Oceans were forever trying to participate in lectures.

“You believe this is neglect,” said the Oracle, glancing in your direction without actually looking at you. Cats rarely waste a perfectly good direct stare when a sideways one creates so much more uncertainty.

“You think this happened because of weather. Budget cuts. Heavy trucks. Delayed maintenance. Meetings.”

The pothole darkened slightly at the mention of meetings.

The Oracle shuddered.

“Particularly meetings.”

A long pause followed.

The kind of pause that had clearly been trained by professionals.

“No,” said the Oracle at last. “That is merely what the road wants you to think.”

The road remained silent.

Which was suspicious.

Roads that have nothing to hide usually complain immediately.

The Oracle leaned closer to the shimmering water. “You see, tar remembers being liquid.”

The road looked uncomfortable.

“The ground remembers being story.”

Far below, something ancient shifted in its sleep.

“And cats…”

The Oracle paused.

Cats enjoy pauses. They are one of the few creatures that understand the importance of proper punctuation.

“…cats remember everything they never experienced.”

A gull landed nearby, considered this statement, then left before it became responsible for understanding it. The Oracle watched it go. “Another wise decision.”

The morning sun climbed higher. Heat shimmered above the road. The countryside stretched away in all directions, green and gold beneath a brightening sky. Somewhere in the distance a vehicle hit another pothole and produced a noise normally associated with regrettable life choices.

The Oracle dipped a paw into the water.

The colours immediately reacted.

Blue became tomorrow afternoon.

Purple became a forgotten dream.

Gold became the sound of a tin opening in another room.

A strange green colour became an apology nobody had accepted.

The Oracle listened. Not with his ears. Cats possess several methods of listening. Most of them are deeply impractical.

When the paw emerged, droplets fell back into the puddle. One landed with a faint meow.

The Oracle pretended not to notice.

“South African potholes,” he said solemnly, “are not holes.”

The sea paused.

The wind paused.

Even the gulls seemed prepared to hear the explanation.

“They are invitations.”

The colours beneath the surface swirled slowly.

The pothole appeared pleased.

The road appeared nervous.

“When enough forgetting gathers in one place,” the Oracle continued, “the world becomes thin.”

A ripple crossed the water.

“Promises are forgotten.”

Another ripple.

“Maintenance schedules are forgotten.”

A deeper ripple.

“Budgets are forgotten.”

The colours drifted lower, as though sinking into impossible depths.

“And eventually,” said the Oracle, lowering his voice, “reality starts misplacing its edges.”

The pothole no longer looked shallow. It no longer looked entirely attached to the road. For a brief moment it seemed impossibly deep. Not deep in the ordinary sense. Deep in the way that old forests are deep. Deep in the way that certain questions are deep.

Deep enough that you suspect the bottom may simply be somebody else’s problem.

The Oracle peered into the water.

His reflection looked back.

Then the reflection blinked.

The Oracle had not.

“Ah,” said the Oracle.

“There you are.”

The reflection immediately returned to normal. Or at least normal enough for a reflection.

The Oracle settled back onto his haunches.

“Most humans think the colours are oil.”

A pause.

“Reasonable.”

Another pause.

“But also Incorrect.”

The colours shimmered.

“They are categories.”

You stared.

The Oracle stared back. Then looked disappointed.

“Humans always think I mean colours when I say categories.”

The Oracle pointed toward a patch of blue.

“That is the colour of naps you have not yet taken.”

The blue drifted lazily across the surface. The audience, which had somehow appeared without anybody noticing, began making notes.

One listener looked particularly interested.

The Oracle pointed.

“You.”

The listener froze.

“You need more sleep.”

The listener nodded nervously.

“Blue is following you.”

The listener immediately appeared concerned.

The Oracle moved on.

“Purple represents dreams that were almost remembered.”

The colour brightened.

“Entire adventures disappear into purple.”

The Oracle became thoughtful.

“I once dreamed I was elected mayor of a city populated entirely by sardines.”

The audience waited. The Oracle waited. The audience continued waiting.

“That’s all I remember.”

The audience nodded. That sounded exactly like a purple dream.

Gold drifted across the surface.

“Gold is possibility,” said the Oracle. “Things that nearly happened.”

The colours danced.

“Conversations you almost had.”

Another shimmer.

“Journeys you nearly took.”

A third shimmer.

“Biscuits you considered eating but didn’t.”

Several audience members shifted uncomfortably.

The Oracle noticed.

“Gold is always listening.”

Nobody thought about biscuits after that. At least not openly.

Then there was green. The green arrived reluctantly. The Oracle narrowed his eyes. The audience narrowed theirs. The pothole appeared to narrow itself, which raised several concerns.

“Ah yes,” said the Oracle.

“Lizard regret.”

The audience recoiled.

A few listeners moved their chairs.

One quietly packed a bag.

The Oracle approved.

“Caution is appropriate. Nobody fully understands lizard regret.”

A pause.

“Not even lizards.”

The green faded slightly.

The beach seemed relieved.

The Oracle stood and began pacing around the pothole. The towel-cloak fluttered behind like the banner of a very small but extremely confident kingdom.

“This raises an obvious question.”

The audience leaned forward.

The Oracle enjoyed this.

“Why South Africa?”

The countryside stretched toward distant hills. Heat danced above the tar. The air itself seemed uncertain whether it was atmosphere or metaphor.

The Oracle smiled.

“Because this country South Africa accidentally possesses excellent portal conditions.”

Pens moved rapidly.

“First, there is heat.”

The sun looked pleased.

“Heat softens certainty.”

The Oracle gestured at the road.

“Leave enough tar beneath enough sunshine and eventually reality starts taking afternoons off.”

The audience nodded.

That sounded entirely plausible.

“Second, there is distance.”

The Oracle swept a paw toward the horizon.

“Roads stretching across veld. Roads winding through hills. Roads leading toward places that may or may not remember being destinations.”

The sea rolled in agreement.

“Distance encourages wondering.”

The Oracle sat again.

“And wondering is extremely dangerous.”

The audience wrote that down immediately.

“Third,” said the Oracle, lowering its voice, “there are snacks.”

The applause was immediate.

Several gulls appeared from nowhere. One arrived carrying half a chip. Another seemed prepared to negotiate.

The Oracle waited patiently for calm to return.

Eventually it did.

Mostly.

“When heat, distance and snacks combine with sufficient neglect, the barriers between worlds begin to loosen.”

The pothole glimmered.

The colours deepened.

Blue.

Purple.

Gold.

Green.

Then something shifted beneath them. The audience fell silent. The colours slowly parted. Not completely. Dream dimensions consider clarity vulgar. But enough became visible.

Soft hills stretched beneath a lavender sky. Rivers of sunlight wound through vast valleys. Endless cushions drifted across distant plains. Elegant shadows with whiskers moved lazily through fields of warm grass.

And high above it all hung a golden sun.

Purring.

The audience stared.

The Oracle nodded.

“Feline Dream Dimension Seven.”

A listener raised a trembling hand.

“There are six others?”

The Oracle looked alarmed.

“Goodness, yes.”

The audience waited.

The Oracle considered explaining.

Then visibly decided against it. “Best not.”

Nobody argued.

The colours slowly closed.

The vision faded.

The pothole returned to being a pothole.

Or something extremely good at pretending.

The Oracle turned toward the sea.

“Humans call them potholes.”

His tail flicked.

“Cats call them doors that forgot their hinges.”

The audience immediately wrote this down. The Oracle approved. Then he began walking away.

After several steps the Orange Cat Oracle stopped.

Without turning around: “If a cat ever invites you to look into a pothole…”

The beach fell silent. The waves paused between opinions. Even the wind seemed curious.

The Oracle glanced over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with ancient amusement. “…decline politely.”

A pause.

“Very politely.”

Another pause.

“Preferably while backing away.”

The audience nodded enthusiastically.

The Oracle smiled.

“Especially if the cat claims to know shortcuts.”

A gull fainted.

Nobody checked on it. Experience suggested it would recover eventually.

The Oracle continued toward the shoreline, the towel-cloak fluttering behind him.

The pothole remained perfectly still.

The colours remained calm.

The road pretended everything was normal.

Yet somewhere beyond the sea, beyond the horizon, beyond the dreams of ordinary cats, something had just blinked.

And on a quiet South African road, the pothole waited patiently for its next visitor.

The End