I don’t like to leave things unfinished. It’s rare of me to start any project and not work tirelessly on it until it’s finished or dead. Earlier this year, I thought it would be nice to plant a bush in my back yard. Two weeks later, I’d re-landscaped the entire thing.
The exception to the above rule is when I dabble in fiction. It’s the scariest place for me to get near the end, Unfinished, it’s a secret. Finished, it is something else entirely.
A few weeks ago, I started messing around with a silly little story just to shake off some cobwebs that had grown around my brain. Last night, I put the damned thing to bed. This morning, I realized I didn’t know what to do with it. It’s just a silly little short story that will take you an hour, if that, to read. But I finished it and that has to mean something. Maybe.
Anyway, I’d be angry with myself if I filed it away with all the other stuff that comes out of my fingers that I never show anybody. It may not be good, but it’s finished. I published it here, so if you have an hour to kill and want to read a story about dogs, drugs, and the gov’mint, have at it.