[Stylist] Intro and my first entry

[Jewel]

I cannot sit down and work out a story!  It is up to my subconscious brain to do that, and, 
occasionally, that is what it does, not giving the smallest clue of what it is doing in its idle 
moments.

When the story is 98% complete, it will then telegraph the product of its deliberations to my 
conscious brain which will then add the final 2% in the form of polishing and addition of the finer 
points.
Having explained my writing schedule, or haphazard nature of the same, following is my subconscious 
brain's last effort!  Who knows when it will put itself out again?  maybe next week, or, more 
likely, going on previous experience, NEVER!!!
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             Sampson


My guidedog  jumped forward in his harness and there came from him a sound that I had never expected 
to hear from such a good-tempered animal:  a threatening and "I mean business!!" growl.
His growl was answered by the bark of a gun.
Sampson was hurled backwards, taking me with him,  and we both fell to the ground.
I knew, instantly, that my beloved dog was dead.
  I tried to jump to my feet, but before I could achieve that, a voice came out of the darkness:   a 
pleasant, and, I thought, rather cultured one:
"Miss Blanch!  if you are wise, and believe me when I say that it would be in your best interests to 
be so,  follow the example set by the, recently, departed, and stay, very ...  very ...  still!"
What option did I have?  Sampson was dead, so I did as bid and stayed very ... very ... still!!!
There was a soft chuckle, the click of a car door, the rumble of a well-maintained engine, and the 
slayer of innocent  dogs drove away.
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After a sleepless night, I buried Sampson in the front garden, under, what had been his favourite 
shade tree.
I sat beside his grave, thinking back over the many happy years  we had worked together, travelling 
the world, experiencing all the trials and tribulations plus many adventures that my job as an 
international journalist brought with it, and now,  picturing him running free, without any 
responsibilities, in the meadow on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.  Was he chasing 
butterflies?  that had been his favourite game when he was on this side of the bridge, and, 
occasionally, he, even, caught one, but I am convinced that for him to have been successful, the 
insect must have been very old and on the point of death, so I doubt that his rare successes had any 
lasting impact on the continued survival of the genus!
In the midst of my reverie,  from the direction of the gate,  came a voice that I knew well and 
would never forget:
 "Good morning Miss Blanch!"  and what a  lovely one it is for gardening!  I don't see that dog of 
yours, but I am sure that he is not far away!"
"You filthy apology for a human being!  I cried:  "what harm did my Sampson ever do you?"
"tut tut!:  Miss Blanch!    SUCH  LANGUAGE!  what harm had he ever done me?I confess that, 
personally, he had done none!  You and your like may claim dogs to be your best friends, but, 
believe me, not everyone is so deluded and I, being one of them, have taken it upon myself to rid 
the community of the vile creatures whenever the opportunity presents itself.
If you are thinking that an examination of the bullet that brought about the animal's sudden passing 
might lead to my identity, let me disabuse you;  I borrowed, for a short time, the gun from a 
stranger, without his knowledge, and now,  that firearm is back in his gunrack without him realising 
that it was ever missing!   secondly, you may be thinking that you can identify me from my voice: 
you will never hear it again!  and with that, he walked away.
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An original story created and written by Jewel Blanch