Shh, part 8

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Lenn struggled against currents of howling wind and driving rain so strong they felt like the spirits of speeding buses. Keeping the cat protected was almost too much for him. He tucked the arm cradling the cat further back like an American football player. The darkness was pervasive and water streamed down his face despite the poncho. He couldn't see anything but water. It was everywhere. It covered the ground, the walls and windows of buildings and the air between them. Breathing was hard with the moisture. He coughed often to try to clear his throat.

One carefully placed foot at a time, he moved through the frigid water. In places it went up to mid-leg. The cat shivered against him. He was shivering too. If the cat was meowing, it was so quiet he didn't hear it.

Chilled in a way he'd never experienced before, he knew he had to concentrate on something besides his misery or he'd never move. Nothing to see, no songs coming to mind, he did the only thing he could do and started counting his footsteps.

One.


Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

I love the senses you captured, the coughing, the gusts, the shivering. Counting also is the best idea for when you have to force yourself to move on.

  • #3055 Posted 2 years ago
  • 0

Inspired by (sequel to):

There was no way Lenn could bring himself to stuff the cat into his backpack. Not only would it be u…

Shh, part 7

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