Clara the Cat Climbs a Cloud E-Book

Kelly Johnson

• Herausgeber: Kelly Johnson
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 96

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In Clara the Cat Climbs a Cloud, a gentle and dreamy tabby cat named Clara longs for something more than the ordinary garden life her fellow felines embrace. Unlike the others, Clara is captivated by the sky, enchanted by the clouds she imagines are kingdoms, creatures, and stories waiting to be discovered. Despite the skepticism of friends and neighbors, Claras unwavering belief in magic and wonder guides her heart. She listens to the whispers of the wind, dreams of castles made of mist, and imagines herself leaping from cloud to cloud. With her amber eyes always turned upward and her soul tuned to the quiet songs of the sky, Clara knows deep inside that the clouds are more than just vaporthey are invitations. When the moment is right, she believes the sky will call her to join its dance, and shell be ready to follow her dreams, one pawstep at a time.

Leseprobe

IMPRESSUM

Clara the Cat Climbs a Cloud

Author: Kelly Johnson

© 2025 Kelly Johnson.

All rights reserved.

Author: Kelly Johnson

Contact: 903 W Woodland Ave, Kokomo, IN 46902

Email: [email protected]

Disclaimer

This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Clara’s Dream

Chapter 2: The Whispering Wind

Chapter 3: Meeting Nimbus the Cloud Kitten

Chapter 4: The Magical Vine

Chapter 5: Climbing the Sky Ladder

Chapter 6: The Cloud Castle

Chapter 7: The Cloud Garden

Chapter 8: The Storm Trouble

Chapter 9: Clara’s Gift

Chapter 10: Back Home with New Dreams

Title: Clara the Cat Climbs a Cloud

Author: Kelly Johnson

Chapter 1: Clara’s Dream

Clara was no ordinary cat.

From the moment she first opened her amber eyes to the world, there was something different about her—something quietly wondrous. While other kittens tumbled and pounced with endless energy, Clara would often sit apart, her gaze lifted toward the sky as if she already knew her heart belonged somewhere far beyond the garden gate. There was a spark inside her—not of mischief, but of magic. A yearning to explore, to discover, to dream. And oh, did she dream.

She was a small, fluffy tabby with fur patterned in soft swirls of cinnamon and cream, like a cup of warm chai stirred just right. Her paws were dainty, her whiskers long and twitchy, and her ears perked at even the gentlest sound of birdsong or breeze. But it was her eyes that truly set her apart—deep, warm amber eyes that gleamed with wonder and imagination, catching the light like polished stones tucked in a treasure chest.

While the other cats in her little corner of the world chased falling leaves or lounged in patches of sun, Clara’s thoughts often drifted to the skies. She didn’t dislike naps or the occasional playful chase—she could wrestle a dust bunny with the best of them—but something in her soul pulled her elsewhere. She longed for something more than the garden’s hedges and fences. Something big, something bright, something hidden just out of sight.

Every morning, as the dew still clung to the blades of grass like tiny stars, Clara would climb to her favorite spot: a cozy windowsill just above the garden gate. The humans who lived in the cottage had lined it with patchwork quilts, soft pillows, and a faded old teddy bear who leaned forever to one side. From this perch, Clara had the perfect view of everything—roses unfurling, bees bumbling lazily from bloom to bloom, the garden path twisting like a ribbon—and most importantly, the sky.

Oh, the sky.

To Clara, the sky was a living thing, vast and mysterious, painted in a thousand shifting hues. It wasn’t just blue—it was turquoise and indigo and golden peach, all at once. It changed with the hour, with the weather, with her own mood. And above that ever-changing canvas drifted the clouds: soft, silent travelers who never stopped moving, never stayed in one shape, and never explained where they were going.

To Clara, the clouds were stories waiting to be told. They were never just clouds—not to her. They were floating kingdoms made of sugar and song, mysterious lands of moonlight and magic. Some looked like castles with soaring towers and spiraling staircases, and Clara would imagine brave little knights made of fluff patrolling the parapets. Others resembled cozy cottages nestled in the sky, with warm, golden windows and tiny chimneys puffing out trails of dreams. And sometimes—on the most magical days—they took the form of creatures: fluffy bunnies the size of mountains, curled-up kittens snoring softly through the atmosphere, or enormous whales gliding silently between the stars.

Clara imagined what it would feel like to leap into those clouds. Would they be cold and wet? Or soft and warm, like freshly baked bread wrapped in morning sunlight? Would her paws sink through them like fog—or bounce, springy and sweet like pillows made of whipped cream?

She wondered if the clouds knew she was watching. If they waved to her with every curl and twist. If they changed shape just for her.

Sometimes, Clara would reach out a paw, stretching high into the air as if she could pluck a cloud from the sky like a petal from a flower. And though her paw always came back empty, her heart never did.

The older garden cats didn’t understand. “Chasing clouds again?” they’d purr, yawning lazily. “Nothing up there but wind and water, little dreamer.” But Clara would just smile, her eyes shining. She knew better. She knew that somewhere, high above the chimney tops and treetops, beyond the reach of even the tallest birdsong, something wonderful was waiting. Something just for her.

And on the day this story truly begins—the day the sky shimmered with golden mist and a single glowing vine unfurled from the heavens like an invitation—Clara would finally discover that her dreams were more than stories.

They were a map.

And the clouds were calling her home.

Clara’s heart swelled with a longing so strong it made her tail twitch with excitement. “Imagine what it would be like to climb up there,” she would whisper to herself, her voice barely more than a soft breath against the glass. “To bounce on those clouds, to chase the wind, to dive through the mist and feel the sky wrap around me like a cozy blanket.”

But the other creatures in her world didn’t quite understand her fascination. Whiskers, the tough gray alley cat who prowled the neighborhood streets with a confident swagger, often looked at Clara with a mixture of disbelief and mild amusement. “Clouds?” he would scoff, flicking his tail dismissively. “They’re nothing but water vapor and air, Clara. You can’t climb them or catch them or play on them. They’re too high, too soft, and too far away. You’re better off chasing mice or hunting down the next meal.”

Even Pippa, her best friend and a tiny, sprightly sparrow, chirped with a hint of skepticism whenever Clara spoke of her dreams. “Clouds are just mist and fog,” Pippa would say, fluttering her wings nervously. “They float far above us where it’s cold and thin. You’re a clever cat, Clara, but the clouds aren’t made for playing. You’d be safer chasing bugs in the garden or exploring the hedges.”

Yet, despite the murmurs of doubt and the endless warnings from older cats and cautious birds and the garden’s rustling whispers, Clara’s belief never wavered. It wasn’t stubbornness exactly—it was something softer, quieter, and far more powerful. She knew, in the secret place where true knowing lives, that the clouds held more than just weather and water. They were keepers of wonder. Watchers of dreams. Their snowy shapes were not empty or idle—they were doorways to hidden worlds, just waiting to be found by someone brave enough to look.

Clara could feel it. Deep in her chest, like a quiet song humming beneath her heartbeat.

Every time she gazed up at the sky and saw the clouds drifting like lazy ships on a sapphire sea, her imagination took flight. Her thoughts danced with the clouds, sketching vivid scenes in the air—entire kingdoms floating on silver winds, where the towers were made of crystal mist and the meadows were spun from stardust. She pictured kind, glowy-eyed creatures with fur like fog and wings like falling snow, living high above, whispering stories to the wind.

To most, those drifting shapes were just clouds.

To Clara, they were promises.

And whenever the wind curled through the trees or brushed her whiskers with the scent of distant rain, Clara didn’t just feel the breeze—she heard it. A voice, light and wild, threading its way through the leaves and calling her name. It was a summons, she was sure of it. A beckoning from beyond. As if the clouds were inviting her to find the way, to join them in their ever-moving ballet across the sky.

So, day after day, Clara returned to her perch on the windowsill. Her favorite place in the whole house.

She would settle there in the early morning, paws tucked beneath her and tail curled like a question mark. Her eyes, wide and golden, would scan the sky, watching as the first rays of light painted the clouds in shades of coral, rose, and honey-gold. It was in those moments, just before the sun had fully risen, that the magic felt strongest. Like the sky had opened one sleepy eye and smiled just for her.

And Clara would stretch out her paws as far as they could go, reaching toward that glowing world above. Not because she thought she could grab it—but because some part of her believed, maybe, just maybe, if she reached long enough and believed hard enough, the sky might reach back.

To others, it may have seemed silly—nothing more than kittenish daydreams. The older cats in the neighborhood would chuckle gently and say things like, “Clara, clouds are made of water, not wishes,” or “You’re better off chasing butterflies than chasing the sky.”

But Clara never listened.

Because Clara didn’t just believe in the sky. She trusted it.

She trusted the way it wrapped the world in endless blue. She trusted its quiet patience, the way it held both sun and storm, light and shadow. She trusted the way the clouds never stayed the same—how they reminded her that anything could change, that anything was possible.

Sometimes, when the wind blew just right—high and clean and cool—Clara was almost certain she could hear laughter. Not the laughter of birds or squirrels or children, but something softer, gentler. A sound like giggling mist, like the clouds themselves were playing a quiet game across the sky. She imagined them tumbling over each other like kittens in a pile, tagging sunbeams and chasing shadows, full of joy and mischief.

And when she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the clouds beneath her paws—cool and springy, like pillows made of moonlight. She pictured herself dashing across them, tail streaming behind her like a comet, her laugh echoing through the wide open sky as she chased the sun across a sea of blue. There would be no fences up there. No walls. Just wind and wonder, and the thrill of going wherever the breeze decided to carry her.

At night, Clara’s longing deepened.

When the stars came out, blinking gently above like shy fireflies, she would press her nose to the glass and stare up at the moonlit sky. The clouds, so bright and full during the day, became quiet travelers in the darkness—slow and thoughtful, slipping across the moon like old ghosts with stories to tell.

She would watch them for hours, barely blinking, wondering what they whispered to each other in the silence of the night. Were they sharing secrets? Was there a gathering high above, where cloud-creatures told tales around invisible fires? Did they dream, too, those clouds? And if so, what did they dream of?

Sometimes she imagined floating castles that only appeared in moonlight, drifting silently across the stars. Or cloud-libraries where books were bound in thunder and the pages glowed with lightning. Or gentle cloud-foxes curled up in bowls of stardust, dreaming alongside her.

Clara didn’t need proof. She didn’t need to convince anyone.