The Writer Takes A Bow...Can You Call it a Bow?

I gave a slight scream when I realized someone was clutching my shoulder from behind. As I stepped back, the ball of my heel went slamming into the small raised step that separated the living room with the kitchen.

There was a brief moment of pandemonium; the world blurred together into a small vortex of colors as I tumbled backwards into the living room.

I came to a stop when I hit the edge of the couch. I looked up, and just as I suspected, the couch was empty.

So, he had woken up. This’ll be pleasant.

“Where am I?”

Still a little dazed, I got myself up and tried not to look completely disheveled.

“Temporarily,” I began, my voice shaking, “you’re at my house – I found you half dead out in the desert.”

There was a pause of silence, and I was grateful that the haze disappeared before my vision.

He stood just an inch or two higher than me, and looked like he had just come out of anesthesia.

My dearly loved cat hissed at him, and I gave a nervous laugh.

“Uh, and that’s Scooter.”

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