Young Writers Society

Alice gasped for breath, running for her life. Afraid to look back, knowing they were coming closer. At times like this, she really wished she had a weapon or even something to distract the incoming menace chasing her down. It was gaining on her, and Alice knew she had to act quickly before they caught up.
The sound of barking grew ever louder. Those blasted dogs were chasing her down. Well, that was one thing she could call them. Hellhounds was the technical term. Fell beasts crawling from the abyssal pits of who knows where, here to chase her down and end the chase. Permanently.

See, the problem was that Alice was more of a cat person. She was convinced that all great wars and the world's most prominent conflicts could be traced back to that one issue: cat people versus dog people. Hitler was a dog person, Stalin was a cat person, and Alice had it on good authority that the Cuban Missile Crisis was really about cats-or-dogs—not missiles. These particular hounds of hell were chasing her down simply because she'd rescued William—the slim calico currently nestled in her arms—from their clutches the week prior. You can imagine her surprise when she found out that William not only could talk, but was a wanted feline with a bounty on his head.

Alice picked up speed as she scrambled up a slope. The dogs by now were so close she could smell their breath, and that spooked her even further. She rushed as fast as she could, but her thighs were starting to burn and she knew she was slowing down. William craned his neck over her forearm.

"Alice," he hissed, "we must hurry."