July 31st WSEIJM

A Short Excerpt From...

Savannah WWIII

Amy coughed. Once she started, she could not stop. The pain racked at her ribs, burning inside of her like fire. She cried out unable to stand the unbearable pain that radiated through her, but stopped at her legs. She spit out a metallic tasting liquid that came up with the coughs and started coughing again. The coughing fit died down and she relaxed, letting her head fall to the side. The light that surrounded her came from a fire that sat not five feet away. She could not see the fuel or where it might have come from. Then again her head hurt so bad and her eyes where watering so much that she could barely see the red liquid that seemed to be splattered around her.  She waited, trying to will herself to sit up, but her body screamed not to yet. “Help.” Amy’s voice came out raspy and dry. It hurt to speak. “Help.” Her voice cracked and she tried again. “Help me, please. Is there anyone there?” There was no reply. Amy slowly prepared herself to sit up. One of her hands wouldn’t move. Pain shot through the other when she tried to put weight on it. Amy growled and pulled herself up using her abs. She couldn’t help the tears, it was hard to take the pain, the kind of pain she imagined someone felt when they were shot. All around her she could see nothing but dirt and gravel and chunks of cement that trapped her feet, beyond that was darkness. She looked up and could barely see a pinprick of light hanging there. Twelve. The number popped into her mind, making her head hurt worse. She wondered what twelve had to do with anything then wondered if she had fallen from the pinprick of light. No, she decided, it was too far, she would have died. How did she get there then? Where ever there was? She tried to remember what had happened before she woke up. Where was she? Her head started to work again. 

Carefully, she started to wiggle her feet out from the broken pieces of cement and rock. The boulders tore at her skin, but she kept going wanting only her legs and feet to be free. With a cry, she yanked them out the rest of the way and watched the blood start to ooze down. Luckily, the jeans had protected most of her legs, and she still had shoes. Amy tested her knees and ankles. She gritted her teeth as she moved the right one. Okay, she had her body back, now where was she? She used the rocks to lean against and scoot up to stand straight. Amy limped over towards the fire. It seemed like it was coming through the wall, through a hole, maybe a gas fire, like the ones in science labs, only bigger. She looked up and down the wall and saw a bit of a painted letter hidden underneath a layer of rock dust and soot. With her good hand, she scraped off the film. Underneath, the words SCAB Phoenix, Arizona Elevator Shaft 3 appeared, undamaged by the whole scenario. Now she knew where she was.

“Why am I here? What’s SCAB?” She whispered. She looked down at the floor and realized it was metal, and saw the huge cable in laying in the middle. It didn’t seem long enough to reach the pinprick light, so she assumed the rest was still handing up there somewhere. On the other side of the words, opposite the fire, was a ladder that must have broken off and fallen to land and stay on the other side of the shaft. That wasn’t going to be a way out, so the only way to escape would be to go down.  She scanned the floor, looking for an escape hatch into the elevator cab. She found one, already open, but half blocked off about two feet from where she woke up. Amy put her back to the rock blocking it and shoved. The rock screeched as she pushed it across the metal and out of the way. She sat on the edge of the hole, unable to see down, knowing undoubtedly there were rocks under her and that it would hurt a lot when she landed. Amy put her feet through the hole and let herself fall through. She concentrated on landing on her unwounded ankle and hit the ground with a thud. She cried out, unable to cry quietly anymore and sat on the lumpy, slightly squishy floor. The pain faded away and she realized that the drop hadn’t been as long as she expected, or as rocky. A dreadful stench filled her lungs, making her cough. She reached out, trying to figure out what she had landed on. Her fingers tangled up with something... Hair like. She followed it to where it came from and reached out to touch it. Skin. Amy screamed and jumped away, but only landed or more lumpy, squishy human things. They weren’t things, though, she realized. They were actually humans. She screamed again, trying to find the wall, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to jump back through the hole. Her back hit the a wall and a hallow echoing thud filled the room. She screamed, scared by the wall, then realized what it was, a door. She screamed again, “Let me out. Let me out. Please, let me out!” Amy clawed at the door. “Let me out, let me out!” She cried, “Please.”

July 29th WSEIJM

The Science of Deduction

Chapter Two

Chapter One can be found on the Short Story of the Month Page

The cab slowed to a stop at the red light. Camie glanced at Sherlock who was staring out the window. 

"So you're on the forensics team?" Camie asked.

Sherlock glanced at her then back out the window. "I'm not. I am a Consulting Detective. When the police are out of their depth, the consult me."

"Hello, freak. Lestrade invite you?" Sally raised the yellow tape so Sherlock could walk under. She stopped Camie. "Who is this? A girlfriend of yours?"

"A colleague. Doctor Camie Greer."

Sally put her hand on her hip "Doctor of what exactly?"

"Deduction and psychology." She smiled. "I was invited, too."

Sherlock smirked as Sally let Camie through. Camie took a deep breath. "Have fun on your date last night?"

Sherlock laughed at took Camie's arm. He lead her to the doorway and nodded at the guard.

"That was quite good." They walked across the wide marble floor around the indoor fountain. 

"Really, you think so?"

"Course. It was brilliant." Sherlock lead Camie up the stairs of the abandoned hotel. Blue crime scene lights lined the steps. "What gave it away?"

"She smelled like man." Camie let go of his arm as they reached the top. Police men and investigators in blue containment suits hurried every which way. 

The man from Sherlock's apartment, Lestrade, was waiting. Sherlock pulled two pairs of while gloves out of his pockets and handed a pair to Camie. "Where is it?"

"In the ballroom. I can give you ten minutes before you are questioned." Lestrade started walking down the hall. 

"Good - wait, questioned?"

"Yes, the whole team seems to believe that you murdered her."

"I'll just have to proved them wrong." He glanced at Camie behind him who had taken off her coat and put her hair up. "Ever seen a dead body?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to see more?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?"

Lestrade opened the doors and let them in. A man laid in the middle of the room, sprawled out with a pool of watery blood around his head. "Victim's name is Mark Bitterpool, age twenty-three, works as a personal assistant at the national bank. Found this morning by two women and a retailer looking to buy this place."

"Why do you think I killed her?" Sherlock never took his eyes off the body. Lestrade sighed and went back to the doors. He shut them as Sherlock and Camie watched. Written across the door in red was SHERLOCK. "Hmm. Interesting. When was she killed?"

"About twenty-four hours ago."

"Good. I didn't do it. I was stuck inside all day bored. As Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned back to the body. "Now, Miss Greer, what do you think?"

Camie gave Sherlock her coat, who immediately gave it to Lestrade. She picked up both of the dead man's hands and looked them over. "Detective Inspector why did you think he was murdered?"

Sherlock smiled at her and Lestrade only stared blankly. "Sorry, what?"

"Do you think this man was murdered?" Camie stood up.

"Er... Yes, I do."

Camie peeled off her white gloves and took her coat from Lestrade. "Then you are partially correct. Bitterpool killed himself."

"What are you talking about?"

Camie pointed at the door. "Look, letters on the door written in blood. A cut on his wrist, his right wrist because he was left handed. How can I tell? There are ink smudges on the side of his palm. When he wrote, his hand dragged across the paper. Never see a lefty without it. But, if he's left handed, how come there's no blood on his hand from writing Sherlock? Conclusion. He was kidnapped on his way home from work, the murderer force Bitterpool to cut himself and write Sherlock on the door with a paint brush. As soon as bitter pool was done, the murderer slit Mar's throat, took the knife and the paint brush, and bathed Mark in bleach to kill any biological evidence."

"That's brilliant."

"I'm not done yet Detective Inspector. Now a man like this on his way home from work would have had a coat, a briefcase, and a smartphone at least. Look at the ground. It's covered in footprints. You told us not to contaminate evidence. I think your people should also take that advise. If people had been more careful, you might have noticed footsteps leading to the fire place. You will find all of Bitterpool's missing processions in there."

"Is there anything else you would like to tell me Doctor Greer?" Lestrade looked away from the fireplace. He couldn't hide the look of annoyance on his face. He had just realized that he had yet another Sherlock to deal with.

"Yes, there is one more thing. There will be more murders. More perfect murders. Why, you ask?" Camie looked straight at Sherlock. "Who ever did this wants Sherlock's attention. They're trying to send a message."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock also. "Is she serious?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, wiping the surprise off of his face. "Course she is. I think we're done here. Don't forget to check the fire place. 

When Camie came back from the restroom, she found her Sherlock laying on the couch, eyes closed, fingertips touching, and one sleeved rolled up. Three skin colored nicotine patches laid on his skin. She sat in a chair by the fire and picked up the violin laying on the ground. She glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be lost in thought then slowly started playing. Camie stared off into space thinking about Sherlock. Maybe it would work out and she wouldn't be so lonely anymore. He was just as smart as her. She's been craving for someone who could understand her, actually see the connections. All those nights, sitting in the dorm alone because her roommates thought she was a freak, studying a major that she invented. Professor Young was nice, he offered to pose as the Professor teaching her made up classes for almost eight whole years. He was handsome, but he could never quite keep up with her. Sherlock could. Camie could feel it. Maybe she found a friend. 

Camie's phone vibrated in her coat pocket. She abruptly came back down to Earth and stopped playing. She couldn't remember is she had kept playing that whole time. The text was from Rosalie, wondering where she was. Camie thought about running home, but then remembered she had no cash and her Oyster card was at home. 

"Sherlock, could I stay the night?"

His eyes flashed open. "Yes. I might need you. John's bedroom is down the hall."

Wow.

Long time since I wrote this. Hope you enjoyed some Sherlock fan fiction!

~Snowie

July 28th WSEIJM

Waiting For November

January 1st

The thing about politicians is that they can speak for hours without really saying anything. When I was younger, I was sure my grandpa was a politician in a former life. He could talk for hours to my grandma out on that old porch swing. My grandma would daze off every now and again, looking off into the ever expanding field of corn bright green against a rich blue sky. In the end, both of my grandparents would fall asleep in their chairs. Grandma did this because of boredom. Grandpa slept because he had run out of things to say about nothing in particular. 

I lived in a small town where everybody knew everybody and their business. There was one stop light, a courthouse, 3 churches, 1 grocery store, and one school split between three buildings. Entertainment came in the form of sports and television. If you lived in Harling, you were destined to stay there. I was desperate to leave. My grandfather was a Collins which made me a Collins by blood. We were probably the most famous people in Harling. The reason for that being that I was related to half of the town. The men of my family always ended up like my grandpa. They would farm for 80 years, have sons of their own, sit in rocking chairs watching corn grow, and make their wives fall asleep as they talk about nothing in particular for hours upon hours. If I stayed in Harling, I would end up like my mom: part time job at the green house, with an endless supply of cleaning and caring to do for the rest of my life. I can't cook, or do dishes, or even fold laundry. My three brothers can do it better than I can. I knew I had to get out. This wasn't the life for me. 

I tried to put this into coherent thought and make words come out of my mouth right when I told Grandpa. Everything still came out all jumbled up. 

Grandpa smiled. "You need to work on speaking your mind, Annie. I'll give you some advise."

I sat back in my chair by the fireplace, ready to zone out the moment he started talking about nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, Grandma smiled and started rocking back and forth in her rocking chair again. The fire spit little orange embers into the chimney. Grandpa cleared his throat. "Find yourself a project."

"A project?"

He nodded. "A project. Not a school project and it can't be easy. Pick any topic you like, analyze it, learn about it, then try and pick out something you dislike about it. Then try and change it."

Grandma laughed. "This was an assignment your Grandfather's sixth grade teacher gave him."

"It was the fifth grade."

"No, Honey, it was sixth. I have the proof." Grandma waved a knitting needle at him. I smiled at the two of them and sat back listening to Grandpa start up about local politics and who should have been state senator. After awhile, I heard him move on to complain about voting and the President. I tuned out. 

Grandpa stopped talking and he was watching me. It took a second before I realized he had asked me something. 

"Sorry, what?" I leaned towards him. 

"Have you thought about voting yet?" His voice lowered a little. 

I hesitated. " No, not really. I suppose that if there's someone I like who doesn't seem like a self-centered jerk then maybe."

Grandpa laughed. "You women are always so particular about your politics. Has to be the right one. Macy's the same way. How long since you voted?"

Grandma smiled her old kind smile as if she were remembering a dear memory. "I haven't voted in twenty years. Seems like they just got worse after Roosevelt."

"Why?"

"Well, why not?" She set down her knitting needles and reached for her coffee. "I haven't like anyone whose run for president for more than twenty years. It was a waste of effort filling out a ballot when I didn't want anyone of them takin' that vow."

"Why didn't you like any of them, Grandma?" I sat back in my chair and slouched down. 

"There are things that make a good man and a good politician. They are honest, humble, respectful, they keep their word, listen to the people, intelligent and caring, compassionate and trustworthy."

"Seems like women make much better politicians than men." I started rocking back and forth in my rocking chair. 

"I think you would be a great politician." Grandma sipped at her coffee then went back to knitting. 

"You'd have my vote." Grandpa bent over and picked up today's paper leaving me alone to get lost in though. I remember Grandpa muttering in the background, "She'd be a better politician than all of the crap they put out there today."

A bit on this piece...

Waiting For November is about a small town girl named Annie, who is looking to change the world. The way she plans to do it is though American Politics, only she's not running for president. In less than one year, Annie goes from small town girl to International Revolutionary. In this day by day novel, Annie and her team try to keep everyone in the U.S.A. from voting in November and change U.S. Politics forever. 

So.....

I know, I know, I know! For shame! I've missed "three days". Technically, I have only missed two. I did write one post, but I took it down for reasons to be explained later. Rather than beg for mercy and explain it away, I will do a challenge to make up for it. The challenge can either be a blog challenge or a video challenge. If there are no suggestions, then I guess I won't be doing a challenge. 

~Snowie

July 25th WSEIJM

The Infinite Universe

"Where are we?"

That was the first question I ever heard her ask. Those where the first words I ever hear her speak. It wasn't surprising that she spoke them. It was surprising that those were the words she chose. Not where am I? Not who are you? But where are we?

I didn't even know she was on the TARDIS. I turned around and stared at her. The young girl stared at me. She looked as if she came out of a C.S. Lewis Narnia book. A TARDIS blue bow sat in her hair. The girl's black hair contrasted sharply with her white nightgown. Her eyes wandered around the Control Room before settling on me as if she were more curious than lost. 

"Who are you?" I asked. 

The girl opened her mouth as if to say something before slowly closing her red lips. After a moment, she slowly opened them again. "Well, I don't know. Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"Where are we?" She walked down the stairs onto the main deck of the TARDIS room. Her pale feet were bare on the cold metal. 

I smiled. "Would you like to find out?"

The girl nodded eagerly. I reached out and took her hand. Together we ran for the door. I tossed the door opened and threw her out. Before she could float away out of the air bubble that surrounded the TARDIS, I caught her hand and let her float. She laughed as her raven hair floated and swirled around her head. 

"We're in the sky?" She asked. 

I nodded. "Well, technically we are in at the very edge of the universe near a soon to be super nova. But you see, that's the thing. The longer we stay here, the farther away we get from the edge of the universe because this universe is constantly expanding. Expanding into basically nothing. Here's another thing. The universe has no edge, really, because, well, there is no edge. So we can't be at the edge. You see the universe is like a bubble..." I noticed her face and saw it was only filled with fascination. "Never mind what I said."

"So what your trying to say is that we are basically floating in space next to a star that is about to become a super nova." The girl smiled and pulled herself back into the TARDIS. She didn't let go of my hand as we stood face to face, chest to chest. 

"Nova." She whispered.

"What about Nova?"

"That's my name." Nova kissed my cheek. "Nova."

"Hello, Nova." I looked in to her eyes and saw they were made from galaxies.

"Hello. I am so very pleased to meet you."

So, a little Doctor Who fanfic for today!

What can I say? I've been watching T.V. shows on physics. 

Thoughts on this fanfic...

• No, It's not an Eleventh, Tenth, or Ninth Doctor fanfic. It's a future doctor and future companion. 

Questions?

• Who is Nova? How did she get on the TARDIS? And why is she so mysterious?
• What is this new Doctor like? And is he cute?

~Snowie

July 24th WSEIJM

Raining Purple

The sky was dark, almost a purply-grey-black color. Rain poured down clanging against the glass of the bus stop. The street wasn’t very busy and anyone who did happen to drive by was paying attention to the road and nothing much of anything else. Way up in the grey sky scrapers that lined the street, the politicians, the lawyers, and the businessmen were complaining about having to run out in the rain to catch a cab home. At the corner a bus made a wide turn and barreled through the puddle. The red double decker showed as it reached the bus stop. The doors swung open with a hiss and the driver stared down in to the little glass shelter. Through the pouring rain ran a girl, her head partly hidden by a black hood and a soft purple scarf. With a white fleece gloved hand, she dropped her coins in to the slot and made her way down the aisle. She stumbled as the bus started forward again and sat down in the window seat. She put her large purple plaid book bag in the empty chair next to her. The girl folded her hands in her lap and bit her bottom lip. The chair squeaked a little every time she moved which under other circumstances, would have been fine, except for the fact that she never stopped moving. She leaned to the left as the bus pulled around the corner absentmindedly hanging onto her bag. The corners of her mouth moved up in a little grin, and the girl glanced around the nearly empty bus. The only other people on were an annoyed business woman who was texting angrily and two teenage girls that seemed to be off in their own little land. One was painting her nails and listening to the other talk about something quickly and quietly. They both burst into a short fit of giggles and started talking excitedly. The girl’s grin grew bigger when she heard their laughter. 

She held her bag as the bus slowed to a stop at the next bus stop. The doors opened with a hiss of steam. A grey fedora appeared and rose slowly. Below it was a man’s face. The collar of his dark grey wool coat was turned up against the rain and wind outside. He held the change for the fare in a black leather gloved hand. The driver waited for him to enter the change and took off right away when the man did. The man didn’t stumble like the girl had when the bus pulled forward. The girl noticed the black slacks and black shoes he wore under his knee length trench coat, how he walked with a slight limp and used his umbrella as a cain. The man stopped by the girl’s seat. He looked down at her and she up at him.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice was rich and deep. He looked just like the others who had come to her two months ago. The girl looked around at all of the other empty seats then back up at him. 

“No.” She took her bag off the seat and laid it on her lap. The man sat down where her bag had been. He put the point of his umbrella between his feet and positioned his hands on top. The man stared straight ahead not saying anymore. The girl looked out the window at the grey-purple-black sky watching the rain fall against the windowpanes of sky scrapers. 

The man cleared his throat. “Hello.”

She looked at him. “Hi.”

“My name is Mr. Thomas.”

“Alice Thorton.” She shifted to face him a little surprised that he didn’t know her name. The others had. Alice stuck out her hand. He shook it. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Thorton.”

“And you, Mr. Thomas.” She waited for him to say more. 

“A young man came into my office this morning asking for me. He gave me a letter and told me that if I ever meet a Miss Alice Thorton. I was to give it to her. I asked him how I would know if it was the right Alice and he told me that I would know when I saw her. He didn’t say anymore, just walked out.” Mr. Thomas stood up as the bus came to a stop. He reached into his pocket and took out a crisp white envelope. Alice took it from him. “Have a good night, Miss Thorton.” He nodded and walked back to the front. He walked down the steps. At the bottom, his fedora fell out of sight. Alice watched him walk across the sidewalk to the shelter. He stood there waiting as the bus pulled away.

Alice looked down at the letter. The stationary was thick and creamy, very expensive stuff. On the front in blue ink written in cursive was Miss Alice Thorton. She looked around the bus again wondering if anyone had noticed Mr. Thomas talking to her. Nothing had changed. Alice carefully opened the letter knowing what it would contain and already hating it. 

July 23rd WSEIJM

The Running Begins

Mom and Dad are dead. James is dead. Ramen is also dead. Ramen killed them and I killed Ramen. Just last night I had given Ramen a bath, fed him, and petted him until he fell asleep in his kennel. Yesterday morning, he ran three miles with me. A week ago, he went hunting with me and my dad. What had happened? Did Ramen have rabies? It was unlike any rabies I had ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of dogs with rabies. My dad was the only vet in Mason County, Alabama. I worked for him in the summer and I was planning to go to college and become a vet next fall. I was going to take over dad’s business. People around here always needed vets. 

Mikey clung to me, he had finished crying. Now, we both sat against the wall staring at Ramen. 

“Why can’t I go get Daddy?” Mikey asked. 

I felt a lump in my throat and almost couldn’t answer. “Daddy and Mommy are sleeping. Just like James. We can’t wake them up.”

“Is Wa-men sleeping, too, Jelly?” I smiled a little. At four years old, Mikey still couldn’t say Julie or Ramen. I ruffled his blond hair. 

“You know it.” I went back to staring at Ramen. It wasn’t rabies. I hadn’t seen any bites when I gave him a bath. If not rabies, then what? A mental disorder that suddenly appeared? What was new? What had been changed in Ramen’s life recently?

Nothing. 

I stood up and felt the drying blood crack on my skin. I needed to get this off. I needed a shower, desperately. This wasn’t deer blood or wild boar blood or fish blood. This blood was human and dog blood. I carried Mikey down the hall and into the kitchen. I tried to call the police again, but no one picked up. There was no way Ramen could have cut the lines. There was no way a dog was smart enough to do that. I wasn’t smart enough to do that. Something was seriously wrong. I set Mikey on the counter. “Wait right here. Don’t move.” I grabbed a box of cereal and handed it to him. “Eat this. I’m going to go talk to Mrs. Davis. I’ll be back in a minute.”

From behind me through the glass door, there was a high pitched whine. I turned around slowly. Mrs. Davis’s golden retriever, Boxy, stood at the door, his tail was wagging. And, everything would have been perfectly normal if there wasn’t blood trailing down his front.

This has to be a nightmare.

Boxy growled and barked at us. He back up and pounced at the window. The door rattled, but the glass held. I grabbed Mikey from the counter and he dropped his cereal. He started crying again. I ran downstairs to the basement and locked the door. Above us, I could hear Boxy howling and barking as he slammed himself against the glass over and over. 

I set Mikey down on the washer and turned on the lights. But, the lights wouldn’t turn on. I cussed dad’s fondness for cheap lightbulbs and ran to the boxes of camping gear. I found a solar lantern and turned it on. The light was flickering ever so slightly and I knew there wasn’t much power left. I opened the curtains on the windows to let more light in. 

Quickly, I ripped open boxes of camping and hunting gear. I changed quickly in to my green pants and hiking boots with a new shirt and my mom’s old army jacket. I helped Mikey change and found two duffle bags. I filled one with clothes and the other with freeze dried food and water. I had no idea what was going on. I just new that I needed to run. Upstairs, there was a crash like breaking glass. It was breaking glass. Boxy had finally broken through the window. Mikey had started crying again and asking me what was happening. I screamed shut up at him. Luckily, he did. 

I opened dad’s gun case, thanking god that Dad trusted me enough with the code. I pulled out my shotgun and put it in the carrying case. I stuffed as many boxes of bullets as I could in with it and slung it over my shoulder. Next to my father’s gun was my mothers and beside that was my bow and arrow set. I was better with those than I was with the gun. Number one in the county, and when you lived in a county of backwoods country folk who lived off of what they hunted, being number one was a huge bragging right. 

But, bragging rights didn’t matter when the world you know is falling apart.

At the top of the stairs, I heard Boxy scratching at the door. I strung my bow with a hunting arrow. I would only get one, maybe two shots off at Boxy before he tried to maul me, too. And, I would need Mikey’s help to do it. While I was thinking about it, I grabbed my multipurpose hunting knife and hooked it through a loop in my cargo pants. Sitting on the washer was dad’s old camo hat. I can’t remember a day where he had not worn that hat. Now, I had an itching feeling he would never wear the hat again. I put my hair up in a pony tail and put the hat on. I gave Mikey a hug. “I need you to be brave, Mickey.”

Mickey stood at the door, his hand around the door knob. He was trying to be brave, but his whole body was shaking. With a little hand, he pushed his orange hat out of his eyes. 

“Remember what I told you Mikey?” I asked him. Mikey nodded. I drew my arm back, pulling the string to my ear. Boxy barked and scratched at the door. “On three, Mikey. One... Two... Three.”

Mikey opened the door at hide behind it. Boxy jumped through coming down the stairs at me. I let an arrow go. There was a thud as it hit Boxy in the wrong shoulder. Boxy whimpered and slowed down. I pulled another arrow and shot Boxy again at just a few feet away. Boxy tumbled down the rest of the stairs, two of my arrows jutting out of his chest. Before I could feel sorry for the dog, I jumped on top if it, pulling a knife and cutting open it’s throat. 

Boxy whimpered one last time before finally dying. I wiggled my arrows out from Boxy’s chest and quickly cleaned them. I tried wiping some of the blood off of me, but figured it would take to long. I grabbed one duffle bags. I could carry two, but then it would be impossible to shoot anything. I would have to make three trips to the truck and back. I had no idea how many dogs were effected. If all of the dogs in Hanson were affected, chances were all of their families were dead.

Mikey was still hiding behind the door. I coaxed him out and told him to stay close to me. We walked quickly out the door to the garage. I threw the duffle bag of clothes in the back beside some fishing gear and opened the truck. Mikey climbed in the middle. “Wait here. Don’t get out of the truck Mikey. Okay?”

“Okay. Can I have Rufus?”

Rufus was Mikey’s stuffed cat. “Sure. You can have Rufus if  you stay in the truck. Where is he?”

“Bed.” Mikey smiled a seemed to calm down a little. In Mikey’s bed, above James and Ramen.

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

I closed the truck door and ran back inside. I grabbed the duffle bag and managed to attach the gun safely to my bag. I ran back to the truck. Mikey was still sitting in the middle seat. I put the food bag in the passenger seat. “One more trip, buddy. I’ll get Rufus.”

I jogged back inside and grabbed my school bag. I dumped everything out. On the kitchen counter was my dad’s wallet. I grabbed it and his keys. I was about to go to the basement, but mom’s wedding ring caught my eye. I hesitated and grabbed that, too. What else? In the basement, I grabbed more camping things that I wasn’t able to fit in the clothes bag. All that was left now was Rufus. Better get it over quickly. I sprinted into the boys’ room and up the bunk bed ladder. Rufus was sitting there. I ran back out of the room without looking back. 

To my relief, Mikey was still sitting in the car. I opened the truck door and got ready to hit the garage door button and hop in the truck. With my luck today, there was bound to be a dog waiting outside the garage door. Four or five gas containers caught my attention before I hit the button. I threw them in the back of the truck. I slammed my hand against the button and jumped in the truck. No dog was waiting in the gravel driveway. I turned the truck on and backed out. 

Hanson consisted of one road an about forty houses. It was a small, unincorporated town. Everyone hunted and everyone farmed. It was about five minutes drive to Mason City, Mason County’s biggest city. And everyone had a dog or two. I drove slowly, checking each house for signs of life. There were, by the time I left Hanson, I had run over two bloody dogs and had about ten following me. I hit the highway and raced into town. I didn’t meet anyone on the way in. 

This is Part One of the Second "Chapter" in The Day The Dogs Went Wild. Hope you enjoyed it!

~Snowie

July 21st WSEIJM

I hope you guys don't mind a video instead of a piece of writing today.

~Snowie