The sunlight was fading quickly from the sky, and a whispering wind was rustling through the tall snow-burdened trees. The setting sun stroked the feathery dust of snow that drifted down, and although it created a fiery orange glow, it was cold, and I was chilled to the bone. I had never experienced the frosty cold of snow because I was raised in the warmth of a sprawling country estate in Southern California. I wasn’t enthused to be trotting along this frigid path, unaware of where the hell I was going, but I would follow my master wherever he went, and I always trusted that he knew what was best.
I am a French Bulldog, and I am the voice that is authoring this story. I know my master is an established, award-winning writer, but the most compelling and redeeming parts of this story would never have happened if it weren’t for my keen instincts.
The AuthorRead More