He never could talk the dog into the house.
She would sit in the snow, her black eyes knowing him the way ninjas knew their victims in the movies he watched late at night. And just like he never saw the ends of those films, he never saw her when she would dash silently through the barely open sliding door to whatever safety she felt compelled to steal. He had tried baiting her with treats. No go. He had tried a bait-and-switch with her leash. Not having it. She just stared at him like a cop. He would sit with the cold air filling the house, deliberately averting his eyes from the open glass lest she be there, stalking her opportunity. When he did gamble, her face was reliably there long enough to register the movement of her black coat, more a shadow of the dog than the dog really. Eventually, he would find a way to forget the duel and keep his attention occupied and she would invariably appear coiled on the bed, barely acknowledging his presence, a satisfied sigh.
River of Blood, a novel about anarchism, atheism, racism, violence, family, and corruption.
Chrysalis, a growing collection of very short fiction.
Unless noted, all pics credited to Skitz O'Fuel.