A literary sled dog to be sure. I come from a long line of canines who’ve dabbled in the sublime pleasures of literature. My great-grandfather pulled Jack London across the frigid tundra of Alaska.  It was my great-grandfather who suggested to Jack the premise for Call of the Wild.  Remorsefully, there was no mention of his substantial contribution in the text or in Mr London’s life.  Alone and unknown, my great-grandfather met an unhappy end beneath the juggernaut of two mating Grizzly Bears. A horribilis moribus to be sure.                    
     So here’s today’s short-short story that ponders the particulars of life rather than death.  I apologize for the brevity of the past two stories but I’m currently applying to a Masters Writing Program. This is taking up most of my writerly powers.     
     Smile. It’s Friday.    

A birth     



Last night  Marc dreamt he was being graded on how he was born. “I think your first flip lacked form,” was the critique delivered through a puff of cigarette smoke by his grade two teacher. The baby version of Marc, splayed out in a pool of amniotic fluids on the floor, nodded understandingly. All the other judges – his mother, a septic tank repairman and another woman currently giving birth to triplets – thought his double summersault, triple twister arrival into the world was brilliant. Marc tried to bow graciously but his large head plonked onto the floor.
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