Bed Rock

by Bernard Fancher

the still living dog lying in wait somewhere nearby, he smiled and, keeping both eyes shut, extended his bruised hands away from his torso over his head. As if to execute the shallowest of dives, he stretched out his body, desiring to find and again touch the yielding surface of Springer’s soft coat. But his fingers encountered only the rasping surface of impermeable rock, lying cool and unyielding, solid as ever, beneath him.

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