OTA Flashcards
Paragraph 1
Padding around the cell, back, forth, back, forth, across the dust and blood-stained sand. A clang of metal shocks my ears, as they prick up, hearing a cheer erupt and reverberate the walls around me. Through the roar, I hear the cry of one of my brethren, and a loud thud as they strike the floor.
Paragraph 2
Back to pacing, my tail flicking backwards and forwards. Another blood curdling cry from him triggers my instincts and I bound towards the cell door, snarling as I pathetically slash the rough-hewn wall, my paws becoming bloody. My children. I can hear them; I can feel them. My tail flicks quicker, as panic begins to overwhelm me. Where? Where are they? My thoughts swirl around my head quicker and quicker, as they threaten to consume me, inviting me into the black abyss.
Paragraph 3
Them. Their warmth heating my body. Their fur against my own. Their charming disobedience. Just like their father, with his strong, dark mane and glowing, light fur, the colour of flames. My heart swells with pride watching their hue of power radiate. Just like their father. Just as powerful. The heat bears down on us, as the Savannah glows, the grass imitating our fur. I stay with the children, licking their fur and cleaning their cuts, as they desperately attempt to wiggle from my grasp. A low growl of contented frustration escapes me. A lecture follows on what I had taught them, staying safe, maintaining patience and only fighting when needed. A strong pride is not one of attack but one of patience. And we were strong, with 39 lions, and a permanent aura of dominance.
Paragraph 4
And suddenly I am brought back to my isolation, encased in cold sweat and my heart throbbing in this cold, dank cell that is ‘home’.
A dull quiet has fallen. But there is unease. I can sense the fidgeting above me, with people growing restless and cries for blood surging.
And then I hear the slow trudge of footsteps, and the quiet conversation that follows.
Paragraph 5
‘Where’s the next one been brought in from?’
The other chuckles quietly, ‘the boy or the kitten?’
‘The boy. Which war have we even been fighting this time?’
‘He’s a Dacian. Brutal battle fought too. We lost a lotta soldiers in the battle, and on the journey there too. See, they had to cross an ice river to get there but they were all too damn heavy. So the ice broke and a bunch of ‘em drowned. The battle was pretty bad too. We both lost a bunch of men. But in the end us Romans came out on top as always. And his pathetic self surrendered so we took him. His weakness shall suffer the consequences.’
‘Unless he kills the kitten. Doubt it though. She’s the feistiest’
Paragraph 6
The trudge of footsteps continues, and I hear the familiar clang [DS2] of mental. I rise, my head clouded with thoughts, and I prowl from the corner to the middle of the room, clenching my claws into the dust and readying myself. I hear the click of the lock, as the door swings open and a roar escapes my lips.
Paragraph 7
Quivering with rage, I bellow ‘Where is my family? Where are they and what do you want from me?’
But they refuse to answer me. Fury overwhelms me and my only option is to fight. Slashing, snarling and fighting, a whirlwind of claws, blood and rage.[DS3] But they’re too powerful. Overcome, they shackle me and I’m led away. As my adrenaline ebbs, I am forced to question whether it is anger or desperation that controls me so powerfully.
Paragraph 8
I’m blinded as I ascend from the ground, the sun penetrating my eyes, as the rickety, escalator shakes beneath me. The last few days haven’t been kind to me. My ribs now protrude from my body and my muscles quiver under my weight. And then that familiar roar erupts around me, far louder than I knew possible. Disoriented, I stumble; just as that man does across the Colosseum. I note the feeble piece of metal strapped across his chest and the fear in his eyes, like a rabbit, too stunned to move or even breathe, simply watching.
Paragraph 9
He was like a fish out of water, with brilliant blue orbs and greased blonde hair. Compared to the rest of the audience, the differences were immediate. The Romans had strong masculine physiques, chiselled jawlines, tanned skin and auburn curls. He must have been taken from his home. But where was his family?
Paragraph 10
I shift my gaze to look at their eager eyes staring down on me, ready for tragedy. As I adjust my stance, the feeling of hot mulch greets my paws instead of the dry dust expected. Glancing down, a pool of death glares back, bubbling angrily. To die for others’ entertainment is maybe the most frustrating death of all.
Paragraph 11
My eyes follow the bleeding trail, as all sound drains into silence, and a wave of horror washes over me. Grief. Humiliation. Disgust. Despair. They all threaten to embrace me, in their loving arms, just as death had done my children. A sickening pile of lions sat in front of me, with my 2 children on top, blood trickling from their wounds, that I had once so lovingly cleaned. Flies swarmed around them, delighted by the delectable feast they had been granted. Once dominating, now a gift for parasites.
Paragraph 12
Grief overwhelms me, and I stagger. My pride. My cubs. Adrenaline returns and courses through my veins. I turn to the pathetic man, attempting to steady a sharpened stick. I roar, readying my stance. What could he do? He was a mere man against a queen of the savannah, the provider of the pride and the soul of its survival. I watch him tremble, the feeble weapon shaking in his hand.
Paragraph 13
And then the screeches return, forcing me from the drowning silence of my thoughts and instead my ears are pounded like assault knives. People begin to throw things at me and the man, angry at the lack of blood spilled, their simple minds already wandering. Is this what my children have died for?
Paragraph 14
Their anger pummels me, blow after blow. With each angry scream, I am pushed further to the ground until I collapse. There are jeers at my weakness, which I too question. But I am not able to fight.
‘Where’s our final battle? What is this?’ These outraged cries surround me like a storm.
Paragraph 15
I look to see a man staring down at me, face a blotchy red and book and quill in one hand. He shakes his head with frustration, angry at me for not entertaining. How was I to inspire his next novel if I didn’t sacrifice my life?
‘What are you going to do Aquinas? This pathetic kitten won’t even lift a paw,’ I hear. My eyes flick back to the angry man. He stares at me, and then begins to angrily point at the slave, screeching ‘go, go!’
