MICRO-FICTION: Doggone Christmas

Doggone Christmas

By Peter O'Brien 

She had been warned, “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.” That didn’t make her any less anxious when the time came. Claire laid in bed, tossing and turning from the moment her mother turned out the light and closed the door. For hours she tried to relax her mind enough to dream about the morning, like some kind of mental shortcut. As she began to drift off there was a sudden thud in the living room. She knew he had arrived and slipped easily into slumber.

The morning light came through her window, filling the room. It wasn’t snowing, but a slight breeze caused loose flakes to flurry around. “CHRISTMAS!” Claire exclaimed. She raced to her bedroom door. At the end of the hall she could see the lights from the tree reflecting off the wall. With each step on the cold wood floor her excitement continued to build. She got to the end of the hall and slowly peeked around the corner. 

The living room made her dreams pale in comparison. The tree was covered in tinsel that was not there the night before and piles upon piles of boxes wrapped in the most exquisite paper and bows lay strewn about the room. Amidst the presents, lying under the tree, was her dog. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. His eyes were wide open and a putrid white puddle was spilling out of his mouth. In front of him the tree stand was bone dry.

Copyright © 2011 Peter O'Brien

(Previously Unpublished)

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