Thursday, January 31, 2008

Bronchitis is the pits and story from Erin Collins

Well, this is a nasty first.

I'm supposed to go to a "Love is Murder" conference in Rosemont this weekend--a dandy one with mystery authors I'd love to meet (Tess Garritson for one) and now I won't be able to go.

I'm stuck in bed with a nasty bout of bronchitis. This sucks. Period. My only sort-of-consolation is the weather. Seven to ten inches of snow. If one thing doesn't hit you, another will.

I was supposed to be on two panels this weekend and will send in my answers to the panel's questions before hand so they can use them in their presentations.

For your enjoyment, I'd like to post a short story by fellow author Erin Collins.

© 2002 Erin Collins

As I strolled barefooted along the beach alone,
I gazed out toward the white caps playing chase with the early morning sun's reflection.
I dug my toes into the still cool sand, relishing this moment of solitude, for I knew it would not last.
While my eyes beheld the surf, my mind was seeing another day; the day I had met him. It was much like today,
I, alone on the stretch of beach, a bucket in my hand, which was full of shells I had picked up earlier.
He seemed to come out of nowhere, running, obviously loving the freedom the beach afforded.
He was alone. He was a bit scruffy looking, but he also had a charm about him, which attracted me immediately.
His brown hair, those expressive amber eyes, and the wonderful smile he threw in my direction, was heart wrenching.
I had told myself I would never get involved with another relationship like this again. Yet, this one seemed different. From looking at him, I wondered whether he was already in a relationship. As I got acquainted with him, I eventually gave in.
I don't know exactly how long we were together.
With him, time melted away into the mundane, where we refused to go. I do know he loved me, no matter what I did, no matter what my appearance was. He was my best friend, my confidant.
He had loved the beach early in the morning.
He would inevitably wake me early in the morning, and, in spite of my grumbling protests, drag me to the beach.
We would bring our Frisbee and toss it around, playfully teasing each other with it. Walking together, we left our footprints in the sand, only to have them wash away with the tide.
The first time he kissed me was that first day on the beach.
It was decided right then that we would move in together

I hear a noise. I brace myself, expecting it to be him, somehow. It is only the wind. I sigh. It will never be the same again, this beach, this sand, yet, somehow, it is an eternal part of us both: a connection which will never be broken.

I buried him out here, in the place he loved best.

Best Friend, My Dog. I miss you.

1 comment:

Patricia A. Guthrie said...


I thought that was a great story.
It provided a tear and laughter and memories about my own dogs.