The little dog was curious.
What was that smell? It had no experience with it. Was it food? Maybe- but it didn’t smell like the food in the dish, the dry stale chunks that it learned was all it must eat when in the warm place. Not from the trashcan, always full of fascinating morsels, but from the cold metal dish on the floor. Only eat from the cold metal dish.
Day two of my vacation. Day three should put me in Eugene Oregon and the company of my sons for a camping trip. Currently having a burger in Cheyenne WY and treating my butt to a seat not crafted by Nissan.
The coffee sat.
Steam rose from its surface, he could still smell it where he lay on the floor.
He was numb, except for a terrible tightness in his chest. Also he was paralyzed.
At least, this is what he had heard being paralyzed was like. Nothing on his body was listening to his commands to move. It felt like being wrapped up in a tight moth’s cocoon, somewhat comforting but a bit tough to breathe.
Tough to breathe, that brought him back to the present. What happened? One minute he was making coffee. Rinsing out a cup, pouring it…
The next there was this flash of white light inside his head and he was staring up at the ceiling from the vantage point of floor tile. Read more
Sorry for the lateness, my internet access is limited these days. It was pointed out to me that there was no longer a link to my “Drunk Dial” entry from St. Patrick’s Day 2008 and some folks still wanted to listen. In fact, the story is a good one for those who haven’t heard it. Enjoy!
And here is the story that I sent in on that fateful evening from Hawaii. For the record, this was hastily scribbled onto a scrap of paper and phoned in with minutes left on the contest. My muse was Guinness and Bushmills. It sounds as if I’m channeling Tom Waits as well.
Dan – St. Pats drunk dial entry