Raining Dogs
This story is the first part in possibly a series of snippets, posted in response to a Beginnings challenge.
It was a dark and stormy night. Trying to rationalize that it was just a few minutes to the far side of dusk, or that it was more of a soaking rain than a true downpour didn’t relieve Frynn’s sense of foreboding. Since the crack of dawn, Fate had decreed that Frynn’s day would seriously suck, and now it seemed the night too had nothing but suckitude in store for him.
Drenched and miserable - he’d trashed his mangled umbrella after it had fallen prey to a revolving door - Frynn hunched against the rain and slogged along the four blocks toward the bookstore. He was already late for work, thanks to Professor Sarkisian, who’d bailed out early, leaving him to coach a few semi-literate students. But all that was nothing compared to the pain of learning that his lover of two years had been cheating on him for months, and was leaving him to cruise around the world with some Belgian millionaire.
No warning - just Paul missing and a phone call from a guy who sounded like Hercule Poirot on that PBS Mystery series. While Frynn had been speechless with shock, the elegantly accented voice delivered the final insult: “Paul wishes to move his things Thursday morning, so please absent yourself to save all of us from more distress.” The bastard even managed to make it sound as if somehow Frynn was responsible for Paul’s “distress”.
Having gone from disbelief to anger to tears during the course of the day, the storm had brought him back to anger again, and he happily flipped off drivers who sprayed pedestrians with muddy rainwater as they zoomed past. Rage helped. The headlights in his eyes and the squealing tires didn’t. A barely-formed “WTF?” died on Frynn’s lips with the split-second realization that a car was coming right at him.
In the next instant, something hit his back, propelling him across the street, out of the car’s path, then he was on his knees on the sidewalk with a small crowd around him and a whimpering canine nuzzling his face.
“Good thing your dog pushed you out of the way of that car! Thought you were a goner! It was coming right for you - got the license plate if you want to report the crazy fucker.”
Frynn vaguely registered that someone was helping him to his feet and murmured thanks along with an explanation that he didn’t have a dog. He’d wanted to get one when he and Paul had moved into the townhouse, but Paul had been firm; for some reason, Paul hated dogs.
After Frynn assured onlookers that he was fine except for skinned knees, they dispersed, leaving Frynn with the dog who’d saved his life - a damp but lushly-furred, well-groomed Lassie look-alike with no collar or tags. The dog gazed up at him quizzically, ears pricked and head tilted.
Frynn flipped his cell phone open, called the bookstore, then smiled down at the collie.
“Come on, let’s go home.”
It was a dark and stormy night. Trying to rationalize that it was just a few minutes to the far side of dusk, or that it was more of a soaking rain than a true downpour didn’t relieve Frynn’s sense of foreboding. Since the crack of dawn, Fate had decreed that Frynn’s day would seriously suck, and now it seemed the night too had nothing but suckitude in store for him.
Drenched and miserable - he’d trashed his mangled umbrella after it had fallen prey to a revolving door - Frynn hunched against the rain and slogged along the four blocks toward the bookstore. He was already late for work, thanks to Professor Sarkisian, who’d bailed out early, leaving him to coach a few semi-literate students. But all that was nothing compared to the pain of learning that his lover of two years had been cheating on him for months, and was leaving him to cruise around the world with some Belgian millionaire.
No warning - just Paul missing and a phone call from a guy who sounded like Hercule Poirot on that PBS Mystery series. While Frynn had been speechless with shock, the elegantly accented voice delivered the final insult: “Paul wishes to move his things Thursday morning, so please absent yourself to save all of us from more distress.” The bastard even managed to make it sound as if somehow Frynn was responsible for Paul’s “distress”.
Having gone from disbelief to anger to tears during the course of the day, the storm had brought him back to anger again, and he happily flipped off drivers who sprayed pedestrians with muddy rainwater as they zoomed past. Rage helped. The headlights in his eyes and the squealing tires didn’t. A barely-formed “WTF?” died on Frynn’s lips with the split-second realization that a car was coming right at him.
In the next instant, something hit his back, propelling him across the street, out of the car’s path, then he was on his knees on the sidewalk with a small crowd around him and a whimpering canine nuzzling his face.
“Good thing your dog pushed you out of the way of that car! Thought you were a goner! It was coming right for you - got the license plate if you want to report the crazy fucker.”
Frynn vaguely registered that someone was helping him to his feet and murmured thanks along with an explanation that he didn’t have a dog. He’d wanted to get one when he and Paul had moved into the townhouse, but Paul had been firm; for some reason, Paul hated dogs.
After Frynn assured onlookers that he was fine except for skinned knees, they dispersed, leaving Frynn with the dog who’d saved his life - a damp but lushly-furred, well-groomed Lassie look-alike with no collar or tags. The dog gazed up at him quizzically, ears pricked and head tilted.
Frynn flipped his cell phone open, called the bookstore, then smiled down at the collie.
“Come on, let’s go home.”