Cablemaw begins as the spare lead you keep because it might fit something one day. Add a few retired chargers, a telephone cord and an adapter of mysterious origin, and the pile becomes suspiciously warm with personality. In this fictional bestiary, clutter is its own form of electricity.
The creature is low, broad and surprisingly quick. Braided cables make up its muscles, rubber cords wrap around its belly and four plug-shaped feet keep it steady beneath furniture. Its enormous mouth is lined with blunt connector ends. Two tiny indicator lights blink whenever it thinks nobody is looking.
Cablemaw does not eat devices. It eats certainty. You can know exactly where a charger was a moment ago and still find only an empty patch of desk. Behind you, the creature will be gently dragging the missing lead into a knot that appears to require three extra dimensions.
Its haunting is most noticeable when you are already late. The shortest cable becomes impossibly tangled. The useful adapter hides inside a coil of obsolete ones. A perfectly ordinary drawer develops the faint, unmistakable sound of somebody stirring a bowl of spaghetti.
For all its nuisance value, Cablemaw is a proud collector. It arranges beautiful little nests from colourful leads and becomes visibly offended when a visitor describes them as rubbish. Bright orange cables are its particular weakness. It likes to wear them across its shoulders like a ceremonial sash.
The field guide recommends a purely fictional peace offering: one clearly labelled box reserved for imaginary retired cables. Cablemaw will appoint itself curator and spend the evening reorganising its museum.
The truce lasts until someone adds a mystery adapter. Then it has to start the entire collection again. Yum yum.
Leave a Reply