Here's my short story Driscol, as it will be appearing in the Decameraon Literary Journal
Officer Driscol wished it would snow. There was too much quiet in the above places. Last week it had slushed. The snow came in the night, he’d slept through Sunday morning, and by the time he’d woken up, Driscol had found nothing but dirty gums of brown muck shoved up against the curbs outside.
He rolled over in bed and pulled down a finger full of venetian blinds. He searched the world outside for snow. There were clumps of power lines, Virgin Mary statues in the yards, but nothing coming down. Winter had told a joke, and now it was holding back the punch line.
“Come on,” Driscol growled, “Snow. Snow.”
He rolled onto his other side. Through the open door of the bedroom, he saw into the bedroom and through the glass of the gun case in the living room. He imagined crawling his way towards his Sub Compact Baretta. Imagined himself standing in the back yard, firing into the sky, demanding snow, from anyway, snow. But he wasn’t on the ranch anymore. Boulder was over.
Now it was all city on and on forever, and the mountain snows were gone. Now it was just suburban gray. Winter here was the color of a stainless steel sink. All the fences here were chain linked. All the yards rubbed up against each other.
He wondered how long the house would take to fall down if he were to abandon it at that very moment and never return.
Texas hobbled towards the doorway. He lurked there every morning, waiting for Driscol to show signs of life. He whimpered, tried to look pitiful. He didn’t have to try. Arthritis racked the old dog’s legs. How old was he by now, forty, fifty? Driscol was waiting for Texas to die.
That was all he was waiting for. But the dog just lived and lived.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Driscol muttered, with another furtive look towards the window, one more hope for snow. The dog made some guttural sound from inside of itself. Driscol hoped it was a death rattle. He didn’t even have to read the words of the will in his mind anymore. They had ingrained themselves into his brain.
“And to my youngest and only surviving son, I leave Texas. I trust him to keep my beloved Texas in good health, and keep him comfortable through the end of his days, whenever they may be.”
“Move back to Evansville,” Driscol muttered to himself. “Sure. Great idea. The force is hiring there. Just until the dog dies, and they you can make it back to Boulder.”
He pulled himself out of bed. The dog’s stomach rumbled. Ugly old thing, Driscol thought. Looks just like mom.