Dog Treats

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Max Reddick was looking forward to a book deal from a literary agent... but got more than he bargained for.

Submitted: April 19, 2016

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Submitted: April 19, 2016

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Max Reddick tapped the final full stop on the final short story of his first ever book of short stories and sighed with relief. It had been a long and gruelling few weeks. He had never attempted writing a book of any sort before and wasn't sure if he would ever do so again, but it was a nice satisfying feeling as he saw the word count going up day by day until his final story topped the count at thirty-five thousand.

Max leaned back in his chair and was immediately dismayed by the thought of editing his work.

That can come later, time for a well-deserved beer.

The door-bell chimed and Max stood up and went down the rickety stairs to the front door of his apartment. He rented the upstairs of a large house on Appleton and his only means of entry and exit was a flight of unstable stairs put in by the owner, more as an afterthought than necessity.

Max opened the door and his frown was replaced by a beaming smile. Sarah Allson was stood, manuscript in hand, with her lovely forever smile.

“Are you busy, Max?”

“For you Sarah, never,” Max cooed. He knew he sounded smitten and freely admitted he was, but Sarah’s husband had made it clear to Max that his wife was off-limits. Not that Max had never had the opportunity, Brad Allson had not been around for a while, working away on his new job, so Sarah said. Max knew Sarah had a thing for him as he did for her, but she was also a literary agent working with large publishing houses the world over, so the relationship remained business like.

Max led the way and seated his guest on the couch, while he perched on his office chair. He started fiddling with his PC, all fingers and thumbs, trying to bring back his finished book. “Did you read it?”

“I did,” Sarah said from behind Max. “It’s very good.”

“You really mean that?” Max asked, half turning, still struggling with the speed of his old computer.

“Yes. I do. But tell me, where did you get your inspiration from for Mrs. Simmons? The one who killed her husband, chopped up the body, cooked it and then fed the remains to her dogs?”

“Yeah, I know who you mean,” Max answered, still frowning at the blank screen. “Sort of you, I guess. You inspired me in as much as how the character looks and acts. Why?”

Max was ex-army and the click of a weapon being cocked followed by the obvious barrel of a gun jabbed into the back of his head made Max stiffen with fear.

“You see, therein lies a tale, Max, and it’s not a tale I want told,” Sarah said calmly. “That story has me written all over it and some smart cop may put two and two together and well, who knows. Get my drift, Max?”

Max gulped, thinking of Sarah’s huge German-Shepherd dog and her husband’s sudden change of jobs.

“Besides, Max, I seem to be out of dog treats for my boy.”

Tom Kane © 2016
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Image courtesy of Maggie Smith at FreeDigitalPhotos.net


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