For Friday Fictioneers


I could have driven my old Dodge, tried to outrun the storm, taken my chances. Shelters didn’t take dogs and I wasn’t leaving them. The officials scared those of us staying behind, telling us to use Sharpies to write our social security numbers on our arms.

The wind’s been howling; the water rising. It’s crashing under the house into the canal.

Between gusts, I hear a motor. My crazy brother-in-law, Jake, boating around like it’s Sunday fishing.

My cell chimes.

“Grab those mutts and get your ass down here.”

I’m grateful. He won’t hear it. He’s saved our lives again.


end 10/9/2016 (3)

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8 thoughts on “Sharpies

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