Dark stories, tales of whimsy and random brain droppings.

The Writer

Doug leans back in his Lazyboy and stretches his arms over his head with laced fingers. Gracie seizes the opportunity and slinks on to his lap, circles twice (counter-clockwise) before curing up in a ball with a satisfied sigh.

The story isn’t finished yet. It probably won’t be. Damnable November.

“Screw this. No tale is gonna beat me,” he mutters to no one in particular.

He makes a loud random noise, shakes his jowls and sits forward with a plop. The dog looks up momentarily. He drags over the TV table with the laptop, picks up his coffee mug and drains it. The java is cold and thick.

With a hunched posture, Doug plucks away at the keyboard in his signature three-fingered Muppet-fashion.

Chapter Thirty-Seven.

Photo by kbowenwriter

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