IWSG: Draft Attack

                                                                                                                                                      

As I'm flipping through the paper looking for ideas, I hear a shift in the wind. Then the phone rings and I can't find the receiver. By the time I realize it's hidden underneath the newspapers, it stops ringing. I check the caller ID, and it reads "Private Caller." What if it's my agent calling, and I missed it? What if they cast the wrong actress to play the lead in the movie version of my bestseller? Why couldn't they bother to leave a message? The wind picks up, and suddenly I'm wide awake.

It's four in the morning, and I can't fall back asleep. The bedroom is freezing cold, so I put on a robe over my nightgown, and climb under the covers. I'm anxious to get back to my dream to find out who the mystery caller is.

Just as I'm about to doze off, the wind starts blowing harder. When I turn in the opposite direction my husband's snoring is gaining momentum, and I'm faced with a cross-current draft of epic proportions. Unfortunately, this bitter breeze lingers, leaving me with nowhere to turn.

I fight off the urge to take a pillow to put an end to my suffering by offering a few gentle kicks instead. The snoring continues. Then I roll him over on his other side. Now wind gusts are causing debilitating air pressure. Fed up, I grab the baseball bat from under the bed and start swinging.

I wake up covered in sweat, so I take off the blanket along with the robe. With years of practice, I can accomplish these tasks in complete darkness. Comfy in a dry nightgown with my purring man by my side, I try to go back to sleep. Soon the leaves start rattling on the trees, and my feet are freezing cold. I put socks on, and long to finally return to my dream.

The phone rings twice before I answer it. It's Alex calling to remind me about the  Insecure Writer's Support Group.  He says that he spoke to the warden, and they've agreed to let me submit my story from my prison cell. I look down at the bloody baseball bat, as I hear the police sirens. Then I ask Alex how he knew, and he just laughs that laugh of his. Before hanging up, he says something about a cold front coming in, and suggests that I wear layers.