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I’ve just started writing something so instead of it just sitting on my PC for whenever I poke at it with my literary stick, I thought I’d put it in my blog.

So, hope you enjoy watching it as it grows.

Waking up is a serious business.

Some, I have to say, treat it like some kind of escape, leaping from their beds and busying about those rituals that make up the beginning of every new day.

Others are less enthusiastic, maybe letting the alarm ring and reaching for snooze, in some almost desperate attempt to not have to get up. Delaying the inevitable you might say. They grasp tightly to their dreams, perhaps sensing that the world of dreams, though bizarre and contrary at times, is some form of safety from the harsh reality of modern life. To these blessed souls, only the essential can tear them away from dreams and sleep.

Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith was one of the latter.

She didn’t have any certain time to wake. She had neither school nor work to concern her. But all the same, waking was always a matter of gravity. Something best approached with caution at least, almost frantic distain at best, and mortal terror at its most extreme.

More commonly, a single hand would extend from beneath the quilt and search in a tendril like fashion for the bedside clock, which would be grasped and drawn beneath the covers.

A sigh would almost certainly issue from the dark depths before the clock would appear again, this time discarded onto the floor.

Then the shape beneath the patchwork would show signs of stretching and fidgeting before a single hand would appear and pull the covers down to reveal first a matt of mousey blond hair, then dark eye brows and two large dark brown eyes, which would squint and flutter as they adjust to the streetlight leaking into the room through the sarongs and tie-dye hangings that served as makeshift curtains, blocking the outside world from the shadowed interior of Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith’s bedroom.

Next, with an air of sudden recall, she would reach for her dream diary and after searching for a pen that was always present but for some reason never immediately reachable, and scribble down a few words, before letting the pad and pen drop back to the floor.

Then she would vanish once more beneath the ancient patchwork quilt, for a last final moment of warm revelry.

‘You gunna get up then?’ the voice said dryly, as if it knew the answer already.

‘If I do, what’s there to do?’ came the muffled reply.

‘A dozen things I could think of.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Like feeding me!’

There was a distinct edge to the reply. Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith was expecting it.

The quilt rolled back and she sat up, focusing on her companion.

It was a small Jack Russell, with disproportionally large ears, possibly betraying some past genetic relationship to a Doberman. It tilted its head slightly and tried to look endearing, which given the animals general condition was an act of total denial on the dogs part.

He was, for want of a better word, scruffy.

More appropriate descriptions might include words like flea bitten or even moth-eaten. The animals grey white fur was marked with patches of missing hair and old scar tissue. One of its long pointed ears had a notable chunk missing and its graying muzzle also showed the outcome of past conflicts resulting in a tear to its lip making the creature look as if it was constantly sneering.

‘How can you always be hungry? You haven’t done anything to work up an appetite.’

The dog shrugged. ‘You should never underestimate the value of a full stomach.’

Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith groaned and pulled the quilt over her head again. ‘Go chew on a cat!’

The dog, who went by the self appointed name of Gravemore, took the only action possible in this kind of situation and proceeded to jump up and down on the occupied region of the quilt for the next twenty minutes until its inhabitant was forced to crawl out and stumble to the kitchen.

The kitchen was as always occupied.

The penguins, one of which was halfway through attempting to force open the freezer compartment with a spatula, froze as she entered. Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith glared at them for a moment before heading for the cupboad where she kept the dogfood.

She deftly opened the can, poured it into Gravemores bowl, the dog appearing instantly beside her. Then amid the awful organic noise of slurping that Gravemore displayed during meal times, she turned back to the penguins.

‘You do realise I can still see you even if you don’t move?’ she said sternly.

‘It’s a natural defensive response,’ one of the birds said through the corner of its beak.

‘No. Flopping onto your bellies and sliding off in the opposite direction is a defensive response.’

There was an embarrassed pause.

‘The ice is in there,’ the penguin spokesman mumbled with a brief nod of its head in the direction of the freezer compartment.

Molly Anne Juniper Goldsmith groaned and left the kitchen, flicking the kettle on as she passed.

Business as normal, she thought.

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