Catopolis

Sophocles did get a computer. A few carefully placed technology articles caught Herbert’s attention and put the idea into his head to buy one. Herbert used it twice and promptly gave up on it. At night, while Herbert was at home, Sophocles learned its arcane secrets. After a month of effort, he proudly opened “Sopho’s Stories,” a blog about the news and newspapers where he wrote short essays about the state of journalism and the news media in the modern world.

And yet, despite the now solid financial position of the newsstand, something still bothered Sophocles. For a long time it nagged at him, often in the depths of the night, just out of reach and tickling the back of his mind. Then one evening, while Mr. Snuggles was visiting, it came to him.

They were sitting together on the desk behind the counter, going over Sophocles’ latest story on the computer.

“I think I finally figured it out,” Sophocles said.

“What’s that?”

“That thing. The thing that’s bothered me from the begi

Mr. Snuggles maneuvered the mouse to click the back button on the computer. The home page for “Sopho’s Stories” came up on the screen.

“I’ll bite. What is it?”

“We saved the store, and that’s important, but we saved it by turning it into a novelty.”

“And is that so bad? I mean, isn’t saving the store enough? Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

“No,” Sophocles said, lowering his head. “What I wanted, what I truly wanted, was for things to be the same as they were. I wanted people to care about those little black words on the page. I wanted them to pick up that newspaper, to feel the newsprint, smell the ink, and know that they held the world in their hands, the combined knowledge of sharp, creative minds, working together to bring the truth to the people.

“But I know the truth, now. We saved the newsstand, but we can’t save the magic those little black printed words represent. We can’t save newspapers.”

Mr. Snuggles sat back on his haunches and gave a little chuckle. Sophocles whipped his head around and glared at him.

“Why do you do that? Why do you always laugh at me when I’m feeling the worst?”

Mr. Snuggles shook his head and said, “Sopho, my friend, you are one of the smartest, wisest creatures I know, and yet sometimes you remain blind to the most obvious things.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mr. Snuggles scrolled to the bottom of the “Sopho’s Stories” page and clicked on a blue link labeled “web stats.” A series of bar graphs appeared on the screen.

“According to this,” Mr. Snuggles said, “around 10,000 people, or cats maybe, you can’t tell, have read your last article over the past two days. That’s 10,000 people whose lives you’ve touched, people whom you’ve opened doors for, and with whom you’ve shared wisdom and understanding they might never have discovered on their own.”

Sophocles glared. “I’m well aware of the stats, and while I’m pleased people are interested, I don’t see your point.”

“Sophocles, it isn’t the paper that holds the magic. It’s the words. It’s words that give the paper the magic you love, words that saved your store, and words that will preserve that magic for those who come after us.”

Mr. Snuggles rose and padded over to a newspaper setting next to the computer. He swiped at it with his paw, rustling the pages.

“Without the words, this paper is nothing but a piece of flattened tree. It doesn’t matter whether the words are printed on paper, appear on a computer screen, or, I don’t know, get zapped straight into your head. It is, and always will be, the words that hold the magic.

“What you love isn’t dying, Sophocles. Just the trees those words get printed on.”

Sophocles never forgot their conversation. Through joyous occasions, like the birth of Mr. Snuggles’ and Evette’s kittens the next year, and sad, as when Herbert passed on two years later, that simple conversation stayed with Sophocles and gave him hope.

It was three years after Herbert passed away that Sophocles died. He was 21 by then, and Herbert’s son, who had taken over the shop, found Sophocles curled up on his cushion in the picture window, seeming for all the world like he was sleeping.

Mr. Snuggles realized something was wrong when there was nothing new posted on Sopho’s Stories that next evening. Others noticed as well, and soon emails and comments were blooming throughout the internet, as admirers of the journalism blog wondered what had happened.

When a second night came with no new posts, Mr. Snuggles knew. He raced over to the newsstand, hurrying down the alley, fearing the worst. When he arrived, the bathroom window was closed, so he crept around to the front of the store.

A little light sat in the front window. It hadn’t been there before, and it shone on Sophocles’ cushion. Where the old cat should have been sleeping, there was a framed picture of him in his youth, serious and sitting atop a stack of newspapers. The

London Times, Mr. Snuggles noticed. Beside the picture lay a handwritten note.

“Goodbye, old friend. Take good care of Dad.”

Mr. Snuggles posted the news on “Mr. Snugg’s Place” as soon as he returned home. The word traveled quickly, and within hours a memorial to Sophocles the blogger appeared on a popular social networking site. A few humans tried to puzzle out the mystery of who the respected news commentator called Sophocles was, but every lead came up short.

Cats, of course, knew.

It wasn’t until three days later that Mr. Snuggles found it. He’d missed the message at first-it had been eaten by his voracious spam filter. It was a single email from [email protected] /* */, with the subject “To My Friend.” The date and time stamp showed that it had reached his mailbox at 3:00 AM on the day that Sophocles had passed on.

For awhile, Mr. Snuggles just stared at it, unsure if he even wanted to read it. Finally, he worked up the courage to open it, and inside he found two simple, magic words.

“Thank you”

BURNING BRIGHT by Elaine Cu

Mhari had seen smallcats before but seldom in the wild-if indeed the city’s streets and rooftops and small scattered gardens could be so named. Other than the yellow tom the Woman had thoughtfully provided to relieve Mhari of the heat and madness of her first season, she had seen none close at hand. Yet here were three of them-small, short-legged creatures, with tails too long and heads too large for their barrel-shaped bodies-staring fixedly at her from their perches in the talltree just outside Mhari’s home habitat.

The nearest one-a gray-striped tom-thrust his nose close to the strong wire mesh. His whiskers twitched as he tasted her scent. “What are you?” he asked bluntly.

That was rude by Mhari’s standards, but she knew little of the ways of smallcats. She rose and padded across her climbing gym’s top platform to close the distance between them. “I am a Serval cat,” she said politely, turning in profile so they could see the distinctive black bars ru

If the tom heard her question, he gave no sign. He glanced toward a gray female. “Told you so. African wild cat. Not much of a ru

The third and largest of Mhari’s visitors switched his plumed tail in a