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
