Sam Miguel
20-03-2004, 10:18
I wondered if anyone could give me constructive advice on this short-story. I would very much appreciate it. Thank you. Sam.
Please Don’t be Dead, George!
by
Sam Miguel
Tongue poised loosely between lips for added concentration, Annie spooned out the last forkful of cat-food into George’s bowl, and then sailed over towards the door.
Perplexed by the manner in which she’d been transported away from her kitchen worktop, Annie had forgotten just how cold it was outside for January.
The wind rustled through the creaking boughs of the tree, whipping the leaves into a frenzied dance. “I must prune that in the summer,” Annie promised herself as she bent to place George’s bowl on the ground.
“George, where are you!” Annie cried out desperately, but her words just disappeared on the breeze. She hadn’t seen him for three days, she realised as she checked the ornamental sundial.
What if something had happened to him? What if he’d fallen ill?
True enough, occasionally George could go missing for a day or so, but never for this long. Annie sobbed gently as she scanned around looking for positive signs.
But there was nothing: just the snow and the trees. She thought she could hear something; but it was only her wind. A shiver came from nowhere. Annie turned around towards the house.
Her bare feet crunched on the snow, which was extremely odd, but she’d got a rare complaint and the specialist had warned her that little could be done to alleviate the problem. “Try walking barefoot on snow,” was about the only practical advice he could give her.
“What if there isn’t any snow?” Annie asked quizzically at the suggestion.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t help you,” the foot specialist had shaken his head sympathetically.
Painfully, Annie made her way back to the house. “George come home!” she whispered to herself softly as she peered out through the kitchen window. The bowl was still there, which was hardly surprising.
Where could he be? Annie pondered as she sat knitting later that evening in front of the crackling fire, slowly thawing out her peculiar feet.
Tearfully, Annie made herself a nice cup of hot cocoa, to make the readers feel sorry for her. What if George is really ill? Annie’s mind worked overtime as she relaxed with her drink, sipping away contentedly even though it was burning her lips.
“I do hope he comes back. I miss the little mite so much!” Annie shouted out in total despair as she stood up and pounded the wall with her fists.
“Be quiet y’ noisy old bugger!” came back the muffled voice of Mr Morphew, her grumpy old neighbour.
With this, Annie pulled herself together, realising that she might be overdoing it. Whatever will the readers think? she wondered.
Annie went to bed, slept, and then got up the next morning.
She’d dreamed a lot during the night, Annie reflected as she tended to her morning ablutions. She’d dreamed about George and imagined that he was missing her as much as she was missing him. She’d even dreamed about the foot specialist. Annie was at a bus stop and he came up to her and asked her how her feet were. At that point she’d woken up sharply, and the dream had been lost forever.
As soon as she’d finished in the bathroom, Annie liberally applied ointment to her sore lips. Noticing that the snow was still there despite the sudden temperature surge, Annie took off her carpet slippers and scuttled off outside. She went over to inspect George’s bowl. Her heart sank. It hadn’t been touched.
She felt the tears well up in her eyes, but burst out laughing in a psychological attempt to cheer herself up. She even told herself a few jokes, in an effort to lighten her mood.
And for a while at least, it worked.
Annie decided that this paragraph should be sharp and to the point, and so she picked up George’s bowl and briskly made her way back to the house.
The unusually warm weather had made the cat-food go off. Annie grimaced at the smell as she washed the bowl in hot, soapy water and then dried it with a clean tea towel.
It was even warmer that evening Annie observed as she ventured out into the garden wearing her duffel coat and thick thermal under-padding.
Perspiring heavily, she put George’s freshly filled bowl down by the clothes pole, convincing herself that he would catch a whiff of it on the warmer air. He’ll be back! she managed a weak smile.
Wait a minute! Annie’s smile dissolved instantly. What if he’d been mowed down by a juggernaut and all his little insides had been forced out of his body? What if he’d been sliced in two by the Newcastle to London express?
Annie steeled herself as she went upstairs and into the bedroom to introduce a fresh setting for the story.
She made her way over to the window which was located within a white UPVC frame. She thought she could see something horrible out there in the dark, but it was only her reflection on the glass.
She cupped her hands and pushed her face against the window to block out the reflected light. Annie peered out hard into the dark, dark night.
What if the mishap with the juggernaut had proven fatal? Annie shuddered as she gazed out over the lawn. What if the emergency surgery after the railway accident had been unsuccessful?
“Please don’t be dead, George!” Annie made herself say to give the title of the story more credibility.
She stared into the distance. What was that? She flinched causing her to smear ointment from her lips all over the glass. There, by the clothes pole! Why, It was George! And he was eating away to his heart’s content.
Annie just stood there by the window gazing adoringly at him. She watched as he ate, hardly daring to move for fear of putting him off. She wanted him to savour every last morsel. He ate and he ate, until, finally the bowl was empty.
Suddenly George twitched, and then he turned around and scurried off towards the fence in that characteristic way that hedgehogs do.
END
Please Don’t be Dead, George!
by
Sam Miguel
Tongue poised loosely between lips for added concentration, Annie spooned out the last forkful of cat-food into George’s bowl, and then sailed over towards the door.
Perplexed by the manner in which she’d been transported away from her kitchen worktop, Annie had forgotten just how cold it was outside for January.
The wind rustled through the creaking boughs of the tree, whipping the leaves into a frenzied dance. “I must prune that in the summer,” Annie promised herself as she bent to place George’s bowl on the ground.
“George, where are you!” Annie cried out desperately, but her words just disappeared on the breeze. She hadn’t seen him for three days, she realised as she checked the ornamental sundial.
What if something had happened to him? What if he’d fallen ill?
True enough, occasionally George could go missing for a day or so, but never for this long. Annie sobbed gently as she scanned around looking for positive signs.
But there was nothing: just the snow and the trees. She thought she could hear something; but it was only her wind. A shiver came from nowhere. Annie turned around towards the house.
Her bare feet crunched on the snow, which was extremely odd, but she’d got a rare complaint and the specialist had warned her that little could be done to alleviate the problem. “Try walking barefoot on snow,” was about the only practical advice he could give her.
“What if there isn’t any snow?” Annie asked quizzically at the suggestion.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t help you,” the foot specialist had shaken his head sympathetically.
Painfully, Annie made her way back to the house. “George come home!” she whispered to herself softly as she peered out through the kitchen window. The bowl was still there, which was hardly surprising.
Where could he be? Annie pondered as she sat knitting later that evening in front of the crackling fire, slowly thawing out her peculiar feet.
Tearfully, Annie made herself a nice cup of hot cocoa, to make the readers feel sorry for her. What if George is really ill? Annie’s mind worked overtime as she relaxed with her drink, sipping away contentedly even though it was burning her lips.
“I do hope he comes back. I miss the little mite so much!” Annie shouted out in total despair as she stood up and pounded the wall with her fists.
“Be quiet y’ noisy old bugger!” came back the muffled voice of Mr Morphew, her grumpy old neighbour.
With this, Annie pulled herself together, realising that she might be overdoing it. Whatever will the readers think? she wondered.
Annie went to bed, slept, and then got up the next morning.
She’d dreamed a lot during the night, Annie reflected as she tended to her morning ablutions. She’d dreamed about George and imagined that he was missing her as much as she was missing him. She’d even dreamed about the foot specialist. Annie was at a bus stop and he came up to her and asked her how her feet were. At that point she’d woken up sharply, and the dream had been lost forever.
As soon as she’d finished in the bathroom, Annie liberally applied ointment to her sore lips. Noticing that the snow was still there despite the sudden temperature surge, Annie took off her carpet slippers and scuttled off outside. She went over to inspect George’s bowl. Her heart sank. It hadn’t been touched.
She felt the tears well up in her eyes, but burst out laughing in a psychological attempt to cheer herself up. She even told herself a few jokes, in an effort to lighten her mood.
And for a while at least, it worked.
Annie decided that this paragraph should be sharp and to the point, and so she picked up George’s bowl and briskly made her way back to the house.
The unusually warm weather had made the cat-food go off. Annie grimaced at the smell as she washed the bowl in hot, soapy water and then dried it with a clean tea towel.
It was even warmer that evening Annie observed as she ventured out into the garden wearing her duffel coat and thick thermal under-padding.
Perspiring heavily, she put George’s freshly filled bowl down by the clothes pole, convincing herself that he would catch a whiff of it on the warmer air. He’ll be back! she managed a weak smile.
Wait a minute! Annie’s smile dissolved instantly. What if he’d been mowed down by a juggernaut and all his little insides had been forced out of his body? What if he’d been sliced in two by the Newcastle to London express?
Annie steeled herself as she went upstairs and into the bedroom to introduce a fresh setting for the story.
She made her way over to the window which was located within a white UPVC frame. She thought she could see something horrible out there in the dark, but it was only her reflection on the glass.
She cupped her hands and pushed her face against the window to block out the reflected light. Annie peered out hard into the dark, dark night.
What if the mishap with the juggernaut had proven fatal? Annie shuddered as she gazed out over the lawn. What if the emergency surgery after the railway accident had been unsuccessful?
“Please don’t be dead, George!” Annie made herself say to give the title of the story more credibility.
She stared into the distance. What was that? She flinched causing her to smear ointment from her lips all over the glass. There, by the clothes pole! Why, It was George! And he was eating away to his heart’s content.
Annie just stood there by the window gazing adoringly at him. She watched as he ate, hardly daring to move for fear of putting him off. She wanted him to savour every last morsel. He ate and he ate, until, finally the bowl was empty.
Suddenly George twitched, and then he turned around and scurried off towards the fence in that characteristic way that hedgehogs do.
END