05-08-2010

Start Fiction:

Frank Alberts stood over his dead dog and wept. Brutus had been the best do he ever had, was ever going to have. How someone could shoot such a calm and friendly dog was a mystery. And though Frank was as calm and friendly as his dead dog, something festered inside, causing a slow but steady building rage. It terrified Frank, mostly because he felt almost no control over it.

Sucking the running snot back up his nose, wiping the excess on his sleeve, Frank turned away from his dead dog and headed for the workshop. He needed supplies, tools, equipment; he needed answers. A wheelbarrow would act as his gurney, his fishing knives and tools would serve well his surgical equipment. A crude and probably mutilating autopsy was in store, but the answers Frank needed started with the slugs inside his dead dog.

As Frank reached the workshop, Mary Alberts stepped out of the house and called to him to no avail. Maybe he didn't hear her, or maybe he was ignoring her, as he entered the open doorway. Mary would have none of that nonsense and headed to the workshop, hands still on her hips. She didn't know Brutus was dead, and she probably wouldn't care once she fond out, either. When Mary Alberts called her husband, she expected that her husband, Frank Alberts currently, should come to her; that's the way it was, and she wasn't about to let that change. Not even once.

Mary reached the workshop and stood in the open doorway, hands still on her hips. Frank was throwing tools and other things in to his wheelbarrow. She didn't say anything, but just watched. His selection of tools was odd, even for Frank; his behavior was even more erratic. There was a look on his face that Mary Alberts had never seen on him before, a look of determination. She didn't like it, that and Frank didn't notice her.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Mary said. Frank didn't respond; not a break in his stride. Mary stepped into the workshop, hands still on her hips. "I'm talking to you," she screamed. Frank turned and grabbed the wheelbarrow, and headed towards Mary with his head down. She raised her foot, placed it on the front of the wheelbarrow and stopping Frank. He looked up, stepped around the wheelbarrow and shoved Mary to the ground. Frank returned to the wheelbarrow, went outside and headed back to his dead dog.

End Fiction.