Searching: Part 1

A bandit raid would be great about now. It’d been months since anything had come close to threatening the troupe and she was starting to feel it. Ferra didn’t count the bear a week ago, even if the adult’s still talked about it over their fires. The confused animal had wandered too close to their camp and been promptly chased off. Ferra, even at fourteen, hadn’t been impressed.

Part of her felt duly guilty to be actively wishing danger on her home. But really, what was the point of training to be a guard when there was nothing to guard against? Her hours of self-imposed training each day felt entirely wasted.

Now that they were safely posted outside the city walls it was unlikely to get any more exciting. The stages were half built and the tents were up. Until they moved on again in a few months Ferra would keep a perimeter and help haul out the occasional drunk and disorderly.

The city’s lord even offered them extra men, which her Aunt, the de facto leader of the troupe, politely declined, preferring to keep security a family matter.

A shadow fell over her perch. Ferra looked up at Nico. “Watch is over.”  He said.

“Was Aren at breakfast?” She asked.

The older man shook his head. “Still not back.” He noticed her slight frown. “Stop worrying over it, he’ll wander in, they always do.”

Ferra stood, readjusting the sword at her hip. “He’s never been a week late.” She pressed. Two months gone and now more than a week late, there was no reason Ferra’s older cousin shouldn’t be back, trading didn’t take that long. Her concern was a little selfish. Aren was the only one outside the guard willing to spar with her, and her only relative in the entire camp who didn’t grumble when she pestered for second and third matches.

Nico put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her towards the camp proper. “Let the actors worry about actors. Go eat.”

Breakfast was packed away but her grandmother snuck her strawberries and a thick slice of brown bread before shooing her away, also not interested in Aren’s absence. Ferra licked the red juice from her fingers as she went about taking Nico’s advice.

She didn’t bother checking the stages where most of the actors blocked their steps or mouthed lines. Instead she turned towards the dicing tables in the camp commons. Aren’s younger brother was currently taking the stage hand’s wages at cards.

“Aren’s not back yet.” She said in way of introduction, standing at his shoulder and looking at his cards.

“Strait to the point as always Ferra.” He glared at her annoyed and flipped the hand, hiding the cards on the flat of the makeshift table. “I’ll tell him his shadow is looking for him when he comes back. Hmm?”

She shook her head. “He’s late. Something might have happened.”

“He likes being late, thinks it’s fashionable.” He said. She glared at the dismissive spin of his wrist.

One of the other men chimed in. “If he’s not here you might actually have to learn some lines Eli. That is what an understudy does, you know.”

The young teenager grinned at them, pointedly ignoring her.

“Eli.” She warned.

“Aren can handle himself Ferra.” Eli rolled his eyes and pushed a substantial amount of silver into the middle of the table. “You two share an unhealthy obsession with sharp objects and sticking people with them, remember?”

She didn’t point out that it wasn’t an obsession and it wasn’t unhealthy. “You are being unhelpful.” Ferra stated flatly instead.

“I’m endeavoring to be. If Aren’s away from this dull little city enjoying himself do you really think I am going to help you ruin his fun?” He looked over his shoulder and smirked, taunting her.

Ferra weighed the benefits of giving in and showing Eli just how far her ‘unhealthy obsession’ with weapons went. But then she would have to explain why she beat the troupe leader’s son into a black and blue mess. She didn’t have the time. Especially if Aren was in trouble.

She met his laughing eyes. “He’s got cards up his sleeve and another stack in his boot.” Ferra said loudly. She enjoyed the way Eli’s smirk froze and then slid off his face. If the men were worried about explaining bruises to the camp masters they didn’t show it. Ferra walked away as the stage hands shoved aside chairs and proceeded to literally shake their money out of the cheat.

Any desire to deal with glib actors entirely shot, Ferra sought a more practical source of information.

This story will continue next week. Thanks for reading all. 

Flash Fiction: Lady Assassins

Two very young women waited on a roof as the sun went down.  The younger groaned and flopped back so she laid belly up next to the older.

“This is so not what I imagined.” The younger said picking at a strand of dyed yellow hair and pulled the split end apart.

The older glanced to the side. “Keep your hood up.” She ordered flatly and went back to her post behind the sight.

“Its too hot.” But she tugged the hoodie back into place and started examining the chipped polish on her short nails. “We’ve been here for hours and we haven’t done anything.” She turned her head to the side watching the other girl, who stayed perfectly still, shoulder to stock and eye to sight. “I expected something to happen, and more leather.”

“Leather?”

“Lady assassins always wear leather.” She explained, looking pointedly at her own black sweatpants and her companion’s nondescript jacket and loose jeans.

“Leather doesn’t move well.”

“We haven’t moved. At all. I thought it would be exciting. That’s why I agreed to come in the first place.”

The older girl shifted slightly, frown lines between her light brows. “You agreed to deal with the cameras.” She wriggled her shoulders to ease the stiffness. It had been a long time. Her target was running late.

“And I did.” She rolled to the side to check the screen of the laptop and its solar hookups. Blinking text and lines of code maintained her vigil on the screen. She smiled. “See, they are dealt. Seriously though, I expected some fighting, or running….” She looked at the impressive rifle set over the lip of the building. “Shooting.”

“That comes after the waiting.”

“Have you ever strangled someone with your thighs?”

“What? No.”

The younger rolled her eyes. “It happens in the movies.”

“That’s stupid.” The older said back.

“I think its badass.” She set the laptop down, content that her virtual blockades were running against the local security and surveillance. It was small time stuff, most of the units in this district hadn’t been updated in ages.

“Its not, I don’t think it would work.” She considered it for a moment, nope. It would not work.

The younger turned her head, taking in the still pose and rapt attention. “That’s disappointing. Whats the point of being a Lady Assassin if you don’t wear leather, get into high kicking fights and strangle people with your thighs?”

A quick shot cut the air, the rifle kicking back with a curt motion. A small smile graced the older girl’s mouth as the screaming began on the street below. “The pay mostly.” She sat back her eyes alive in the dying sun.

The younger closed her mouth and nodded, feeling goosebumps rise on her arms as the other packed up the rifle with swift and sure hands. Sirens echoed through the narrow streets.”Mostly?” She asked.

“Mostly.” The older stood, shouldering the guitar case. “Come on.” The younger grabbed her laptop and followed the older as quickly as she could.

Ivory and Fury

A prompt from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

 

Branwen breathed in and slipped from the alley, avoiding the eyes of the few milling about as she stalked over the pitted sidewalk. The beast was close; she could feel the fear curling in her stomach. It was clearer than any other beacon.

The sword buzzed against her palm, voicing its alarm and displeasure with its static like burn. She spared a moment to glare at it and bend the panic down. She couldn’t risk losing the monster again, even if there were other hunters she could call upon. This was the fifth city she’d tracked its insidious trail through; Branwen was intent on it being the last.

****

The streets emptied before her, vapor curling in the sudden vacuum she prowled. Whatever her thoughts on the masses beneath her sandaled feet she valued the attendance to instinct.

Unlike the younger generations she remembered when her mere shadow would have sent settlements running to the four winds. Times had changed; the world was smaller and less wild. In most minds, even the ones unknowingly shying in her presence, she was a fairy tale.

****

Under shop overhangs couples hissed inimical words and evening bar goers lit cigarettes and watched the street warily.

Streets off still and people were nervous, a herd around a hidden predator. Humans were used to the top of the food chain and few understood the primal fear the proximity to the beast created.

Branwen increased her pace, pushing past the coiled threat hanging in the air.

****

A shadow of a frown creased her smooth brow. She spun and caught the human’s wrist, tip of an ivory sword hovering a hairsbreadth from the swell of her chest.

The human’s eyes were round, whites showing about the green iris.

She squeezed and the woman sucked in air. There was a pop and the human’s wrist fractured under her fingers, crunching into a mess of splintered bones. A ragged scream echoed across the street.

She sent the woman rolling with a flick of her hand.

****

Branwen coughed and spat dirty water, cheek pressed to the asphalt. Her sword, paces out of reach, burned with a fury she could feel past her own pain. With a grunt she pushed herself up and dashed towards the sword.

The creature watched Branwen pluck her blade from the ground. The agony pulsing from her wrist lessened and she rolled the appendage. A grim smile spread across Branwen’s face. “Monster.” She hissed and charged.

The beast did not shy from her blade, she did not dance away. Each furious swing was blocked, Branwen’s wrist, arm, shoulder met with the monster’s own. The thing never did let the sword touch her flesh though.

****

She tired of this. The mephitic mess of human and spirit before her did not weaken and the sword hardened the normally frail frame. She threw the human’s arm wide and sent a fist crashing through the woman’s ribs.

The scream sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. The human went down on its knees before her and she smiled, placing a sandaled foot against the woman’s wrist. The fingers scrabbled against the sword’s pommel before she kicked it away.

Separated from the blade the woman before her was mortal, same as the rest of the species. A quick twist and yank and the human died, neck snapped past its threshold.

She approached the sword with far more caution than she had the hunter. It too was an ugly mix of spirit and other. Ivory and fury. Her mouth twitched looking at the weapon now humming on street.  Slowly she bent and gathered the fuming blade in the folds of her skirt.

Lets do this- Bookshelf Tag

I have been challenged (or tagged, whatever) by a particularly interesting Apprentice to complete a bookshelf questionnaire of sorts. Its the bookshelf tag and here is mine.

1. Is there a book that you really want to read, but haven’t because you know that it will make you cry?

No. I don’t seek out books that make me sad, but I don’t avoid them either. If a book happens to make me cry I usually congratulate it on besting me.

If someone I trust with book recommendations tells me to read something, I usually do despite any unpleasant emotional reactions I might experience. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green was a pleasant surprise, and by pleasant I mean I was bawling and no one knew how to console me.

2. Pick one book that helped introduce you to a new genre.

This is hard as I am rather boring when it comes to my reading breadth. Deviation requires time and time is my rarest asset.  The Stand by Stephen King dipped my toes into the horror genre when I was a teenager. I still frequent the genre and mix it with my more standard fantasy fare.

The ‘Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark’ series may have beaten The Stand to the punch though. I was reading aloud from the moment I realized I had a better tolerance for the spooky than my younger sisters and cousins. I am not sorry.

I have a sneaking suspicion I would love mysteries but have yet to find any that will humor my silly fascination with rogues, demons and assassins.

3. Find a book that you want to reread.

I have moved from the habit of rereading as there is oh so many books I haven’t read. That said I read Mary Stewart’s Merlin trilogy and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon before I could really appreciate them. There are some things an eleven year old just wont get. Those are on my to-do list.

4. Is there a book series you read, but wish that you hadn’t?

No, perhaps aside from the foolhardy choices of my youth, which I look back on with chagrin, not regret. I don’t have time to read bad books.

Even the Twilight Series, which I read solely so I could explain why I didn’t like it, doesn’t really enter into the category of “wish I hadn’t”

5. If your house was burning down and all of your family and pets were safe, which book would you go back inside to save?

There is a leather bound copy of The Hobbit which my father read to my sisters and I many times. It would come first. Then the leather bound copy of The Lord of the Rings which he read only to me.

 

6. Is there one book on your bookshelf that brings back fond memories?

Look to question number five

Additionally Homeland by RA Salvatore and the rest of his early books regarding Drizzt. So many afternoons after high school were spent discussing drow and the larger world attached to Dungeons and Dragons world. It was this series that spawned my love of high fantasy and the pulpy enjoyment you can find in a quick read.

Also the person who lent me the book was not my friend at the time but would become one.

7. Find a book that has inspired you the most.

These questions are getting heady. The problem lies with the prompt “a book”. One book has never inspired me. Lines, characters, plots, ideas and execution from books inspire me. Some of which are Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin, The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson, and The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch. These are a few, there are more as well as a host of short stories which tend to affect any writing of mine more than larger novels.

8. Do you have any autographed books?

Yes a few. Only a couple of them have been signed in person. Some I will treasure (Tamora Pierce was nice enough to sign a few) and the other I will probably get rid of it as it killed a good series that could have been (I’m looking at you Words of Radiance).

Not bitter at all, nope.

9. Find the book that you have owned the longest.

Another hard question as book ownership was fluid in my household growing up. Mostly because books found their way from my father’s shelves into mine with what he felt was alarming consistency.

But oldest book that I possess that was definitively mine? Goodnight Moon and The Runaway Bunny.  Got em for my second birthday and they are still on my shelf next to battered copies of Nancy Drew and The Lioness Quartet.

 

10. Is there a book by an author that you never imagined you would read or enjoy?

Author? Joseph Conrad. Heart of Darkness is a book they make you read in high school and I had little interest in the subject matter. But his prose is ominous and weighty and I found myself looking forward to simply reading the words.

 

And now for my meager challenge.

Oh Raw Rambler, this challenge was made for you.

 

Uneasy is the head.

Vess knew she was in trouble the moment he set the damn crown on her head.

The lopsided painted wood squashed her braids, already mussed from her whirls around the tourney hall. Even with the hair falling over her eyes she spotted sharp attention from the box. Clothed in fine silks with real gold on their heads, the queen’s family watched as Vess struggled to pull the mess off her head.

“Our queen does not dance!” The fool who’d set that mess crowed. “We need a livelier one! This pretty thing will have to do.” He grabbed her wrist and spun her into the dance again, ignoring her spitting swearing.

Delly and Rose laughed shrieks of mirth as their own partners moved them around the makeshift floor. They were not alone in their delight, cheers of “Queen Vess!” and “Our Queen, quick on her feet, quick in the sheet!” flew up around the hall.

Vess wrested herself away and shoved the idiot hard. He fell on his backside and sprawled, giggling. A fresh round of cheers erupted and Vess glared yanking the painted crown from her head.

Drunk on the dance and of course the ever flowing drink not many noticed the queen’s family stand from there box and slip away in a flurry of servants. Vess watched them go her ire fading into unease.

Delly and Rose didn’t let her stand long, freed from their own whirling steps her friends threw arms around her shoulders chanting of Queen Vess and her lively steps.

++++

The sky lightened to a deep purple as the tourney’s celebrations waned, the nobles retreating beyond their gilded gates and everyone else returning to their lives and work. Vess threw the painted crown into the river that morning.

The inn’s windows were yellow against the early morning dark when Vess slipped in through the back door and into an apron. Stick as many stupid things on her head as they’d like, she was still a kitchen girl and had to work if they wanted their breakfast.

With only the dogs to bother her  it wasn’t long before the potatoes boiled and bread rose. The warm domestic smells and the crackle of the fire almost lulled her to sleep, half hunched over the cutting table. But then there was someone in the front.

Afraid it was William, she’d catch it from the innkeeper if he found her sleeping with a live flame going, Vess bounced to her feet and peaked out the door into the almost abandoned common room.

It wasn’t William, nor anyone staying upstairs. A young man with nut brown hair sat with his back to her, a deep green cloak about his shoulders. It was the fool, the idiot who set the ugly crown on her head and pulled her about the dance floor.

He set down his cup, presumably with their own stores inside and turned to her with a smile. “Well if it isn’t Queen Vess.”

“Don’t call me that.” She snapped.

“My queen, you are too humble.” His mouth widened and she could see all of his very white teeth. “And hospitable.” He raised the cup towards her.

“Git out.” She snarled. He wasn’t paying for anything, William wouldn’t complain if she knocked him on his backside for the second time tonight.

“Or not.” His smile persisted though it grew a mocking edge. “Rude, especially to someone about to do you a good turn. Oh Queen Vess, the life of a noble is a dangerous one. Your rival took note of your little stunt this night.”

Vess crossed her arms and glowered at him and then at the door.

“I’m trying to help you, she has knights, lands, servants and ships. All you have is a crown, potatoes and some very good ale.” He said.

“Don’t have a crown. Tossed it in the river. Leave stranger.” She commanded. The man was insane, she’d set the dogs on him if she needed to.

He clucked his tongue. “As the Queen commands. But they’ll be coming for you, you’re a pretty quick thing and your rival is jealous.” He bowed to her, his mop of hair flopping over his face in a way that made him rather good looking.

The stranger left, though not before draining his cup. Vess watched the door swing shut before going back to the kitchen.

The drunkards  eventually emerged from their rooms demanding food. Even William was in a good mood, likely due to the influx of patrons with now lighter pockets. A morning of work did wonders to dull the unease in her stomach. The stranger was a fool, some madman talking of queens and rivals.

That’s what she thought until a trio of silver cloaked queen’s men strode into the the yard. Vess set bowl of potatoes down with a thunk, heart hammering against her chest. William stopped them at the door with his bulk. As his neck got red they just shook their helmed heads calmly, motioning for him to step aside.

Vess was out the back kitchen door before he did. With a loaf of bread under her arm and her favorite dog happily trotting at her heels she didn’t slow until she reached the king’s road, making good use of her quick feet.

Letting them lie.

Someone tapped him smartly on the shoulder.  As he’d been asleep the moment before, he started, and the man next to his bed jumped back just a little. “Apologies Sir, Ms. Lane requests your presence.” His words were curt, clipped and utterly polite.

Sorrel just blinked sleepily pushing himself up to his elbows. “Laurent?” He reached for his phone on the carved nightstand, blearily taking in the backlit numbers. “Its three forty in the morning.”

His sister’s personal assistant looked like he desperately wanted to sigh and roll his eyes. But he was Lane’s personal assistant and very unlikely to make such a rookie mistake, even in front of Lane’s youngest and least significant sibling. “Ms. Lane requests your presence immediately. My sincerest apologies for waking you Mr. Sorrel.” He did look somewhat sorry at least, or at least like he rather not be doing this particular errand.

“Its fine.” Sorrel waved the apology away, it wasn’t as if Laurent had any choice in the matter. It wasn’t wise to refuse Lane, or keep her waiting. Sorrel grabbed his phone and started looking for his shoes. “The solar?”

“The car.” Laurent corrected moving back to the almost haughty politeness. Sometimes Sorrel thought Lane picked her help solely on their ability to mimic her lordly manner. Laurent had even mastered her pointed sniff, and he turned it demonstratively to Sorrel’s rumbled sweatpants. “I’ll wait in the hall Sir.”

Sorrel dutifully changed, wondering where Lane would be going this time in the morning and how it could possibly involve him. Lane never included him in anything, something which Sorrel was incredibly grateful for. Laurent said nothing when Sorrel emerged, which either meant his jeans and shirt passed inspection or Laurent was weighing the prudence of outwardly questioning the fashion sense of any of the family members.

As it was, the two walked in silence to the cobbled courtyard. A single car, sleek and dark, was parked but running in the front. Another of Lane’s people, no one he knew, opened the back door and Sorrel ducked in. Lane didn’t look up from her phone when he slid in across from her, pointed black nails maintaining their quick tap across the glass screen.

The door shut with a snap next to him and he jumped. His sister’s eyes flicked to him. “Jumpy.”  She already looked annoyed, not a good thing for him. “Good Morning Sorrel.”

“Good morning.” He answered and searched Lane’s face for some clue, she was harder to read than most of their family. He hadn’t done anything wrong, nothing that would warrant an odd summons by his older sister. “Umm…”

“This is going to be a long drive if all you can manage is umm.” She looked back at her phone and her sharpened nails resumed their tapping.

“Long drive?” Sorrel asked. As if on her cue the car started to roll. He looked at Lane alarmed. “Lane?”

“Oh calm down Sorrel. It’s too early for theatrics.”

Sorrel didn’t point out that she was the one who’d pulled him from his bed in the middle of the night.  Lane was the least physically imposing of their large family. Even Sorrel had a foot of height on her delicate frame.  But he wasn’t stupid, Lane had mastered an arsenal of dramatics, power plays and spider-like games that had caught many the stronger opponent. If Lane was going to kill someone he imagined it would play like this. Her in a lace dress and manicured nails sitting mobster serene on soft leather seats.

Lane stopped his train of thought with a sigh and a look. “Stop panicking. You are coming to New Euphrates with me, that’s all.”

Sorrel blinked. “That’s across the continent.” The car turned and Sorrel caught a look of the now shrinking family estate.

The look she gave him communicated just how much she already knew that. “And our jet leaves in an hour. I’m taking pains to surprise Evan. Kindly don’t ruin it.”

Sorrel wouldn’t dream of involving himself in his sibling’s games, especially powerhouses like Lane and Evan. But if what she said was true, they were now speeding towards one of the most dangerous cities in the country. All he had was the clothes he was wearing and his phone. He felt his own surprise impromptu trip was allowed some sort of explanation. Sorrel just couldn’t muster enough stupidity to demand it of the impeccably dressed woman across from him.

That was the problem with Lane. While most in their family would voice their displeasure succinctly with snarls and poignant beatings, Lane would narrow her eyes and let things lie. At least until she paid you back with substantial interest. Sorrel wracked his brain trying to remember what he’d done to deserve this insistent but polite abduction. “But you want me to come with you?”

Her chin snapped up and Sorrel had the sense to avert his eyes away from what would be a challenge. “Don’t flatter yourself little brother. This isn’t my doing.” When he looked at her blankly she continued. “Its yours.”

“Mine?” He didn’t point out who’s assistant had woken him up, who’s car they were in, and who’s jet they’d be ostensibly boarding.

“Father is tired of your pseudo-existence Sorrel. You havn’t done anything in…” She stopped considering. “…ever. The way you haunt the estate is pathetic.”

It was nothing he didn’t know, but it hurt all the same. Sorrel swallowed. “This is permanent?”

She shrugged. “As much as anything is. Do better, come back. Maybe.”

That didn’t make him feel any better. “I’m being sent away.” His words came out angry and that only turned his stomach more.

Her violet eyes met his muddy blue ones. “Let it lie Sorrel. Of all the fights you’d be wise to finally start, this isn’t one of them.”

He turned to watch the dark sky and the darker coast go by.  This was exile based on his father’s ridiculous expectations. Ridiculous for him at least as his siblings seemed to be doing fine.

Lane spoke up again. “I imagine father hopes Evan will rub off on you.” Sorrel caught the edge of bitterness in her tone. It was possible she was not leaving of her own volition either. But, as Sorrel reminded himself, she’d probably gotten to pack.  “Evan’s been in the city for a decade, he might even have something for you to do.”

Now he had a hearty mix of dread to go with the rest of the unpleasantness twisting inside his stomach.

 

Fleas and Pests

Yet another wonderful prompt from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

Lem came in scratching. With my luck it was fleas and I would have them by sunrise. He stripped his coat and boots, forgetting them as they left his fingers and hit the ground. The lanky man followed them, muttering nonsense as he curled into our bed. He was drunk; the sweet acrid smell cloying in small space.

He wasn’t conscious to hear my huff. I left, knowing at least he would be passed out till the camp packed the next morning. The wind burned my nose and pushed snow into my eyes. The moon hadn’t risen far in the starless expanses of sky. It was early yet, a few bundled people left around the lit oil drums.

That was good. Nothing would come out with the fires going. I took my post nonetheless. The wastes were still dangerous. One by one the fires went out, snuffed to conserve the precious oil as people retreated within their flimsy tents and makeshift structures. But the walls they put up will not keep the monsters out, so we guard.

Scout slunk from the shadows of the nearest supply wagon, taking up the post nearest mine. I got a glance from her, only an acknowledgement before she settled into the snow to wait. Our fellows would form the rest of the ring, the nearest only barely visible in the very dark night.

The moon was higher when the horizon shifted. They came, moving like the ocean tide, slow until you look away and it’s over the ice and on you. Scout stood, shaking snow from her head. I was already on my feet when the howls start around the ring.

There are three of them, emaciated bodies bare to the scathing wind. I dart forward. The first one, human shaped and walking on two legs, snarls. I show my teeth back. Scout is next to me, darting between the others which are shaped as we are. She snaps pulling one to the ground.

The human shape swipes at me with fingers crooked like claws. It is slow and unbalanced, my teeth sink into its leg and I whip my head back and forth, tearing fiber and cold flesh. It screams contempt into the wind as it falls. I bury my teeth again, this time in its throat.

Tail flattened to its pale belly the third runs growling at us. It is hard not to chase but we show restraint. It wouldn’t pay to break the perimeter.

They come, we fight. The retreat, we growl and stand our ground.

When the sun rises the monsters bodies melt into the icy ground until even the cold smell of them is gone. Scout wags her tail and limps back into the camp, her hind leg bothering her again from a fight seasons ago.

Lem is breathing softly when I pad into our tent. He grumbles and swears when I dig into the nest of furs and blankets, using my now very cold nose to make room. Eventually he does, shifting so I can wriggle next to him.

When Lem wakes he scratches my head with callused hands. “Time to getup Buddy.”

I ignore him with a deep sigh and close my eyes again.

He shakes his head at me and stands to get ready. “Lazy dog.”  I hear him mutter as I drift off and begin to dream.