The Writer

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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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