ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
The dog has to go.
Thursday I crawled into bed and didn't crawl out until Monday, when I had to or else. The baby was with her grandma, who was nearly as sick as I was, but who also had the distinctive benefits of a helpful work-from-home husband and the long-term visit of her little brother, who's fresh from prison.
Monday was doctor day.
I got out of bed when I couldn't sleep anymore, even though I was not awake in the least. My head ached in the vice-grip kinda way and it took a good two minutes of steaming to ungunk my eyes enough to see. That's not typical. Since I was up I wandered through the house, trying to coax a breath through my nose.
"It's story time! Let's sing and play games!"
The dog.
I knew the sound of it from three rooms over and reluctantly rose from the warmth of the sofa to investigate.
It giggled. "Got my nose!" and it giggled again.
The dog has always had something of a mind of its own, but this was more peculiar than usual.
"It's learning time! Ruff ruff! I love you! Let's sing and ply games! Teeheehee!"
Until I was halfway to the dog, when it said "Bye bye!" and fell silent.
Halfway was far enough to continue, so I peeked into the baby's room.
The dog was in the middle of the room. All alone. Not touching a thing.
The baby was at her grandmother's and probably not awake yet. Husband was sleeping soundly, the dogs still in the room with him. And judging by the sounds of carpet being shredded two rooms over, the cat was secured in the office.
I hated that dog. Back through the house and to the warmth of the sofa.
"Teeheehee! It's learning time! Let's sing and play games."
The dog has to go, though that thought was closely followed by the fuzz of a memory.
Boy.
Why would I think of a boy? I'd recently discussed hauntings with a minister, and I knew the boy who used to sleep in that room had been frequently plagued by night terrors. My own sweet Emmagen had startled us awake by screaming in the night, pointing at corners and muttering hysterical toddler nonsense.
The dog had to go.
Boy.
Funny, how they seemed connected. Fuzzy, you know? It wasn't the meds, because they've been gone for more than a month now. I'm detoxed. Maybe it was upper respiratory infection, the pain of the fever and aches and vice-grip head, the misery of shallow breathing and blowing out blood and not sleeping for more than an hour at a stretch, regardless the company or time of day.
The baby came home last night, and after a bed-time routine I took the dog with me, on the way out. He went through his entire repertoire of sentiments before I turned him off.
"Bye bye!" and I laid him on the kitchen table.
If he said anything else, I never heard it. If there were any night terrors, they didn't wake me.
Maybe he's making up for his previous misbehavior. Maybe after a shot of antibiotics and another of steroids I was so flooded with relief nothing else mattered. Maybe it was because husband was there.
Maybe after a Z-pac and a round of prednisone I'll be able to make the connection.
But in the mean time, the dog has to go.
Thursday I crawled into bed and didn't crawl out until Monday, when I had to or else. The baby was with her grandma, who was nearly as sick as I was, but who also had the distinctive benefits of a helpful work-from-home husband and the long-term visit of her little brother, who's fresh from prison.
Monday was doctor day.
I got out of bed when I couldn't sleep anymore, even though I was not awake in the least. My head ached in the vice-grip kinda way and it took a good two minutes of steaming to ungunk my eyes enough to see. That's not typical. Since I was up I wandered through the house, trying to coax a breath through my nose.
"It's story time! Let's sing and play games!"
The dog.
I knew the sound of it from three rooms over and reluctantly rose from the warmth of the sofa to investigate.
It giggled. "Got my nose!" and it giggled again.
The dog has always had something of a mind of its own, but this was more peculiar than usual.
"It's learning time! Ruff ruff! I love you! Let's sing and ply games! Teeheehee!"
Until I was halfway to the dog, when it said "Bye bye!" and fell silent.
Halfway was far enough to continue, so I peeked into the baby's room.
The dog was in the middle of the room. All alone. Not touching a thing.
The baby was at her grandmother's and probably not awake yet. Husband was sleeping soundly, the dogs still in the room with him. And judging by the sounds of carpet being shredded two rooms over, the cat was secured in the office.
I hated that dog. Back through the house and to the warmth of the sofa.
"Teeheehee! It's learning time! Let's sing and play games."
The dog has to go, though that thought was closely followed by the fuzz of a memory.
Boy.
Why would I think of a boy? I'd recently discussed hauntings with a minister, and I knew the boy who used to sleep in that room had been frequently plagued by night terrors. My own sweet Emmagen had startled us awake by screaming in the night, pointing at corners and muttering hysterical toddler nonsense.
The dog had to go.
Boy.
Funny, how they seemed connected. Fuzzy, you know? It wasn't the meds, because they've been gone for more than a month now. I'm detoxed. Maybe it was upper respiratory infection, the pain of the fever and aches and vice-grip head, the misery of shallow breathing and blowing out blood and not sleeping for more than an hour at a stretch, regardless the company or time of day.
The baby came home last night, and after a bed-time routine I took the dog with me, on the way out. He went through his entire repertoire of sentiments before I turned him off.
"Bye bye!" and I laid him on the kitchen table.
If he said anything else, I never heard it. If there were any night terrors, they didn't wake me.
Maybe he's making up for his previous misbehavior. Maybe after a shot of antibiotics and another of steroids I was so flooded with relief nothing else mattered. Maybe it was because husband was there.
Maybe after a Z-pac and a round of prednisone I'll be able to make the connection.
But in the mean time, the dog has to go.
Literature
Ouroboros
It was obvious that Scratch didnt belong.
For starters, his coat colour was all wrong. With the exception of Ned, who possessed a rather handsome coal-black layer of fur, every rat in the laboratory was a sparkling, immaculate white. Scratch was the same dirty grey as the neglected piping runs outside. Secondly, he was young. The others, even Ned, were all quite old. Hyram, the leading rat and often simply called the Admiral, was jokingly said to be immortal.
It was also obvious that most of the other rats did not appreciate his presence. After all, they belonged, and he did not. They had been born and raised in this labor
Literature
Coffee Shop Memoirs
Philosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outsi
Literature
The kidnapping
He'd put the forty-watt bulb in deliberately. Its dull glow filtered through layered fumes and added just the right touch of atmosphere.
Three thousand bloody words.
He swore and sucked hard on the spindly, hand-rolled cigarette. The raw, bitter kick at the back of his throat nearly made him choke and he spluttered, swallowing the reflex and the smoke and holding his breath until red lights danced in front of his eyes.
In the corner the girl cowered, limbs crunched tightly against torso, her weeping muffled.
The cigarette dropped into last night's coffee mug with a faint hiss. Grunting heavily, he reached around the desk, fumbled another
Suggested Collections
Conjunctivitis sounds like a grammar mishap.
© 2011 - 2024 tricksyriver
Comments1
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
write more!