Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

Squeak nudged cat on the paw. 'Get rid of it,' he said.

Cat glared at the newcomer. 'Sod off,' he said. 'Go on, beat it. Gods; thish ish so humiliating.'

'Not just for you,' said Gaspode, as the new cat trotted away shaking its head. 'If some of the dogs in this town see me chatting to a cat, my street cred is going to go way down.'

'We were reckoning', said the cat, with the occasional nervous glance towards Squeak, 'that maybe we ought to give in and see if, see if, see if-'

'He's trying to say there might be a place for us in moving pictures,' said Squeak. 'What do you think?'

'As a double act?' said Gaspode. They nodded.

'Not a chance,' he said. 'Who's going to pay good money to see cats and mice chasing one another? They're only interested even in dogs if they jus' pander to humans the whole time, so they certainly ain't going to watch a cat chase a mouse. Take it from me. I know about movin' pictures.'

'Then it's about time your humans got it sorted out so we can go home,' snapped the mouse. 'The boy isn't doing anything.'

'He's useless,' said the mouse.

'He's in love,' said Gaspode. 'It's very tricky.'

'Yeah, I know how it ish,' said the cat sympathetically. 'People throwing old boots and things at you.'

'Old boots?' said the mouse.

'That'sh what's always happened to me when I've been in love,' said cat wistfully.

'It's different for humans,' said Gaspode uncertainly. 'You don't get so many boots and buckets of water thrown at you. It's more, er, flowers and arguing and stuff.'

The animals looked glumly at one another.

'I've watched 'em,' said Squeak. 'She thinks he's a idiot.'

'That's all part of it,' added Gaspode. 'They call it romance.'

Cat shrugged. 'Give me a boot every time. You know where you stand, with a boot.'

The glittering spirit of Holy Wood streamed out into the world, no longer a trickle but a flood. It bubbled in the veins of people, even of animals. When the handlemen turned their handles, it was there. When the carpenters hammered their nails, they hammered for Holy Wood. Holy Wood was in Borgle's stew, in the sand, in the air. It was growing.

And it was going to flower . . .

Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C.M.O.T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness.

In his head a city was on fire.

He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen.

There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. That's when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep.

At least there was a pen and ink . . .

Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever . . .

He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets.

A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War!

The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen.

Yes! Yes! This was it!