Fiction flashquake |
Emily scooped up her dog’s feces, then dropped them in the paper bag. "Good girl, Tasha. One quick stop at the store, then we can go home." Shivering in the winter night, she and her Afghan hurried to the 7-Eleven two blocks away. Near the store’s entrance, Emily wound Tasha’s leash around the bicycle rack. While she placed the scoop between the rack and the store’s wall, music pounded through the windows of an approaching vehicle. Headlights shone on Emily and her dog. Emily put the bag down, then turned to observe two young looking guys in a Honda Civic. The passenger raised a beer bottle to his lips. Neither of them stepped out of the car. Inside the store, Emily was paying for milk and bread when Tasha began to bark frantically. Emily froze. Her dog didn’t behave this way unless she felt threatened, and strangers who came too close threatened Tasha. Grabbing her purchases, she heard the sound of screeching tires. Tasha stopped barking. Emily spotted the Honda racing out of the parking lot. Oh God, not Tasha! Afghans were a rare breed, especially in this neighborhood. She rushed outside. Mercifully, Tasha was still here; her stance alert, eyes focused on the road. "It’s okay, girl." Emily stroked her long silky coat. She untied the leash, then bent down to retrieve the paper bag, but the bag was gone. |
© 2002 by Debra Purdy Kong HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact the Author |