1) duffel bag 2) bulldog 3) fear of nakedness
Today's lightning-fast story concept, thanks to Jamin's random-keyword-selecting skills...
Remember folks, these are mere stream-of-consciousness "word sketches." No proofreading, no revising, no prolonged thinking here. Nastyfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Spike?!?! WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!!!?!????” Peter shrieked as he recoiled in terror, bracing himself on the doorframe before almost falling back out onto the front porch.
He had just walked in the door, only to see the forbidden white-grayish blur of his meaty bulldog’s body darting across the kitchen.
Peter couldn’t think. For a moment, he thought he was going to have a heart attack, his chest pounding and making his head feel like it was going to explode. The blurred image of his naked bulldog flashed across the screen of his memory until it reached the terrifying level of a Francis Bacon painting come to awful, nightmarish life. Trying his hardest to resist the horrifying image from clawing its way into his mind’s eye, Peter steadied himself and tried to replace the image with images of turtlenecks, tuxedos, and spacesuits—ANYTHING to crowd out the gut-wrenching recollection of his unclothed canine.
Yet, in all of this vicious, hellish mind-war, Peter knew he had to cover Spike somehow. He couldn’t get anyone else involved, he knew. He must somehow, someway GET SPIKE COVERED without looking at him. Trembling like a freezing Chihuahua, Peter managed to make his way toward the closet under the stairs and began tearing through it until he found, at last, his oversized adidas duffel bag. Ripping it out from underneath the pile of junk, he fell back against the wall with a house-rattling thud. He rummaged through the rest of the closet mess until he found, at last, his winter gloves—thick and puffy and Thinsulate. He frantically tried to cram his hands into each, trying to hold onto the duffel bag at the same time, until, exasperated, he remembered the Velcro straps, which he frantically ripped loose. Finally having smashed his trembling hands into the puffy gloves, Peter rounded the corner to the kitchen and listened long enough to hear the clicking of Spikes toenails against the linoleum in the kitchen. Summoning up every ounce of would-be courage he could, Peter turned and shouted into the front dining room, “Spike! Here boy!” and like a bolt of lightning turned back into the hallway and pressed his back up against the wall. The sound of Spike clickety-clacking across the kitchen floor became suddenly muffled by the carpet of the dining room: Peter’s dreadful cue to make a mad dash for the kitchen. Clambering through the hardwood floor of the hall like a drunken, enraged orangutan with FEAR written all over his pathetic face, Peter aimed straight for the Snoopy-shaped doggie treat jar, obliterating jars and pots and everything in his path. Shattering the heirloom Snoopy jar over the kitchen counter and spilling the treats all over the counter, Peter frantically clutched a handful of Snausages, threw them into the duffel bag, smashed his eyelids shut as painfully tight as possible, fell to his knees, and spread open the duffel bag.
And against all rational thought and with a voice quaking with terror Peter summoned the naked dog into the kitchen.
As the nightmarish sound of the clicking toenails and jingling collar grew louder, Peter cringed as he held the opened, Snausage-filled duffel bag as far away from himself as his stretching, trembling arms would allow.
Remember folks, these are mere stream-of-consciousness "word sketches." No proofreading, no revising, no prolonged thinking here. Nastyfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Spike?!?! WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!!!?!????” Peter shrieked as he recoiled in terror, bracing himself on the doorframe before almost falling back out onto the front porch.
He had just walked in the door, only to see the forbidden white-grayish blur of his meaty bulldog’s body darting across the kitchen.
Peter couldn’t think. For a moment, he thought he was going to have a heart attack, his chest pounding and making his head feel like it was going to explode. The blurred image of his naked bulldog flashed across the screen of his memory until it reached the terrifying level of a Francis Bacon painting come to awful, nightmarish life. Trying his hardest to resist the horrifying image from clawing its way into his mind’s eye, Peter steadied himself and tried to replace the image with images of turtlenecks, tuxedos, and spacesuits—ANYTHING to crowd out the gut-wrenching recollection of his unclothed canine.
Yet, in all of this vicious, hellish mind-war, Peter knew he had to cover Spike somehow. He couldn’t get anyone else involved, he knew. He must somehow, someway GET SPIKE COVERED without looking at him. Trembling like a freezing Chihuahua, Peter managed to make his way toward the closet under the stairs and began tearing through it until he found, at last, his oversized adidas duffel bag. Ripping it out from underneath the pile of junk, he fell back against the wall with a house-rattling thud. He rummaged through the rest of the closet mess until he found, at last, his winter gloves—thick and puffy and Thinsulate. He frantically tried to cram his hands into each, trying to hold onto the duffel bag at the same time, until, exasperated, he remembered the Velcro straps, which he frantically ripped loose. Finally having smashed his trembling hands into the puffy gloves, Peter rounded the corner to the kitchen and listened long enough to hear the clicking of Spikes toenails against the linoleum in the kitchen. Summoning up every ounce of would-be courage he could, Peter turned and shouted into the front dining room, “Spike! Here boy!” and like a bolt of lightning turned back into the hallway and pressed his back up against the wall. The sound of Spike clickety-clacking across the kitchen floor became suddenly muffled by the carpet of the dining room: Peter’s dreadful cue to make a mad dash for the kitchen. Clambering through the hardwood floor of the hall like a drunken, enraged orangutan with FEAR written all over his pathetic face, Peter aimed straight for the Snoopy-shaped doggie treat jar, obliterating jars and pots and everything in his path. Shattering the heirloom Snoopy jar over the kitchen counter and spilling the treats all over the counter, Peter frantically clutched a handful of Snausages, threw them into the duffel bag, smashed his eyelids shut as painfully tight as possible, fell to his knees, and spread open the duffel bag.
And against all rational thought and with a voice quaking with terror Peter summoned the naked dog into the kitchen.
As the nightmarish sound of the clicking toenails and jingling collar grew louder, Peter cringed as he held the opened, Snausage-filled duffel bag as far away from himself as his stretching, trembling arms would allow.
posted by ckoelle at 4:46 PM
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