So I found this site that gives you writing prompts. So each Wedsnesday I'm going to try to do one of them...Here's todays...
One day you wake up to find your dog/cat waiting for you at the side of your bed, sitting on your briefcase. Cocking its head, it tells you, in perfect English, that you won’t be going to work today. Why won’t your pet let you go to work, and what happens?
Pale light filters through the curtains landing painfully on shuttered lids. Cracking open the heavy lids, squinting against the light, I groan and roll away from the torturous rays that awoke me. As the last remnants of sleep left my bleary gaze I reached for the alarm to prevent it from snapping me alert with each cruel high pitched wail. Recognition tickled the back of my mind; I'm not alone. My hand smacked against the bedside table as I gasped, Oliver, my adorably dim-witted Labradoodle sat atop my leather briefcase, his tongue lolling out his mouth as he cocked his head.
"Ollie? How'd you get in here boy? Go on, out. Out."
"What do you mean out? Why do you never listen to me?!"
Surely I must still be dreaming. A dog shouldn't talk, especially not English. This had to be a dream. Dogs don't talk, not in this world. Rubbing my eyes I reached out touching his fur. Well he appeared real enough. Ollie sighed, a long suffering sound that didn't quite sound right coming from my dog.
"Yes Christina, I'm real."
"You can't be. Dogs don't talk."
"We talk all the time, you humans are too self absorbed to listen."
"I'm going crazy."
"You are not crazy. Now listen to me. You can't go to work today. Not today."
"I'm guessing because I said so wouldn't work?"
"If I'm going to take the day off because my dog told me to i need a better reason Ollie. Why shouldn't I go?"
"I have no idea okay. Listen. You hear those barks? Dogs across Perth feel something is wrong today. Please. Listen to me."
After a quick internal debate I decided to stay home. Either I'd be safe or i was crazy and needed to rest. Acting like Dr Dolittle seemed like a good enough reason to play hookey, It's not like I loved my job anyway. I summoned up my best I'm-so-sick-I-can't-come-in voice and dialed my manager's number and informed his voice mail that I was too busy throwing up to come in.
"Okay Ollie. Done. Now what's going on?"
"I don't know."
Frustrated I yanked the blanket over my head and went back to sleep. Two hours later I was rudely awoken my my housemate's scream. She burst into my room and jumped onto my bed.
"Christina!! You're home! Why are you home? I'm so glad you're home!"
"Woah, what's wrong?"
"They're dead, they're all dead."
"Everyone you work with."
"Your building blew up, bomb, took out the entire block. It's all over the news! I thought you were dead!"
"A bomb? Oh my God. In Perth? Why would anyone blow up my building? Was in terrorism? Who would want to hurt us? Wait, they're all dead? Everyone?"
Sobs bubbled up my body as I thought of everyone I worked with. Sarah, the quiet one with a crush on Aaron the IT guy. Jessica, the bitch with an irrational grudge against me and Peter my gossip queen of a best friend. All gone. Even, Mr Andrews, my sociopathic manager with wandering hands syndrome. He might have been a perve but I didn't want him dead.
All gone. How could they all be gone. Hysterical sobs wracked my ribcage as my housemate's arms held me close to her chest. She rocked me like a child, letting me wail against her shoulder as grief curled around my mind, piercing my heart, punching holes of loss into my chest. My dog had saved my life. But many innocents had died today. And for what? One person's darkness?