by Christopher Cunningham
The dogs exploded in a burst of howling barks when someone’s knuckles connected with the hard peeling wood of the front door. I sat straight backed in my chair and held my breath. The television in the corner babbled on about some kind of war or something, something about Israel or the Muslims. The knock came again and the dogs charged towards the door, snorting and barking. I didn’t move. Not everyone likes visitors, especially so late at night and so close to finishing the job.
Christopher Cunningham can be found here (where you can call him a jerk right to his internet face).