Sparky woke up and felt for his covers. They’d come loose, and his shoulders were cold, and we couldn’t be having any of that. Damn. They weren’t coming. His fingers pulled with his eyes shut in the close darkness of his bedroom, and he felt the weight of a presence at the foot of his bed. Ah. That was the problem. His dog Stella was lying at the foot of the bed.
“Here, girl. Here. Come to Daddy. We’ll warm up together if you move, girl. Let Daddy pull up the covers. Come on, baby. Thaaat’s it…”
He lifted the covers to let her snuggle close, but last time he looked, Stella’d never worn gossamer gowns and she didn’t smell like heaven on earth and she didn’t have arms to stroke his chops and…
“Holy shit.” His eyes popped open, but still, he couldn’t see…
“You told me to come to you and warm up with you, did you not, Sparky?” A gossamer-gowned female with a sensual, throaty voice, stroking his hair… hmmm. Sensual, yet creepy.
“Ah. Who are you? Because obviously, you’re not Stella.”
“I am the Ghost of your very personalized Christmas Future,” the female said, stroking him again. “If, that is, you don’t change your ways.”
“My ways?”
“Your evil ways. You didn’t expect that Cartoon-Characterized-You would take all the heavenly flak for your dog day ways, keeping your authors under hell’s heat lamp all the time, did you?”
The gossamered creature reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, then nuzzled close to Sparky. “Mend your ways with your poor writers, or I’ll be visiting nightly. Forever. Baby.”
Sparky stared at her, this gossamered female with the body of an angel and the head and face (and now he could smell even the doggy breath of) …
“Stell-aaaaaaaaaaaah!”
--Robin S.
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3 comments:
The ghost of Blanche Dubois risen from the dead to possess a dog. I dreamed of my doggie this morning but it wasn't as romantic as this.
Ergh! I didn't see that coming and I love how we follow his slow realisation.
Nice. Creepy, but nice.
--Bill H.
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