Friday, July 4, 2014

Prompt: What do you do when you inherit something that you don’t want? Part 2

Chimes jangled overhead as she pushed open the door and felt the welcome rush of almost-cold air. She nodded to the giant who sat behind the counter, bald, muscled and tattooed. He nodded back over the car magazine he held. She walked down the aisles, remembering past visits, and pulled plastic bags and packages off shelves and hooks, dumping them on his counter, along with a Diet Coke. “I’ll take a 5-gallon drum, too.” He looked up with eyebrows cocked. “For the dog.” He shrugged. She paid cash as he swept the junk food into a plastic bag for her.

“Think this’ll tide you over for the next 110 miles,” he joked.

“Oh, it’ll be a lot farther than that,” she muttered. He shrugged and went back to his magazine.

Hauling the five-gallon drum from the porch, she didn’t bother to look around before tossing it one-handed into the back of the truck. She climbed in and opened a tube of Pringles, holding one out for the dog. “That’s all you get, though. Don’t look at me with that tone of voice.” Her lips twitched at the old joke. She tucked the bag under her seat. The rest were for barter. She just hoped it would be enough.

“Next stop 47 miles,” she obligingly read the sign aloud, then started counting second. “Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen…three, two, one!” The “one” came out as a shout as she jerked hard on the steering wheel and punched her foot on the gas. The dog braced all four paws on the seat and somehow stayed upright.

You had to surprise the open gate, or it could block you for days. Such a prima dona pain in the ass.

Aren’t they all? She grimaced again, as the truck’s engine disappeared in front of her, then the cab entered the gate, and the world disappeared from the rear-view mirror.

"You enjoy that, don't you," growled the dog. His body had stretched until his feet touched the floor, and his muzzle had widened to reveal curved tusks jutting from his upper and lower jaws, crossing each other so that his mouth could no longer comfortably close. His rich brindle coat was now iridescent, with a mane from his crown down his back, to the four whip-like tails that curled against the seat. He reached out with his arms and clicked his six sharply curved claws against the dashboard in annoyance.

Dogs in house:
Houdini, Brindle

Martine Kraft, Fragile Mind

Time writing
30 minutes

July word count

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