The Writer Goes on Guard

Scooter’s ears pricked forward, and I could see his fur glinting in the sparse light shining through my window. I set my journal down carefully, very aware of the pen rustling upon my bedsheets.

I slipped out of the bed, bypassing the fact that I had no slippers on my feet. From the side of my bedroom door, I grabbed an old fire poker.

There’s a fireplace in my room, but I obviously hardly ever use it. Well, I guess now the poker has gained a purpose.

I slunk forward, treading cautiously upon the wood and unconsciously making decisions where to step. I know exactly what boards creak and what pressure makes them groan.

I can walk around this house as well as I can recite ‘Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.’

I raised the poker in my hands as I walked out into the hall. The carpet stretched underneath my feet, so I had no problems with walking forward now.

I came to the bureau in the hall where I kept all my family pictures.

There was a dark figure standing there, holding one of the frames.

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