Charles Wallace's Favorite Toy

By Jennifer Reynolds

We’ve all had the fear while lying in bed, looking up, and watching it spin. What would happen if it fell? Can it really fall? How bad would it hurt if it did?

Charles Wallace’s Favorite Toy is a short story that takes its reader through the normal life and thoughts of a woman who was unlucky enough to still be in bed when the unlikely happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Reynolds
• Release date: Jun 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311852847

Jennifer Reynolds

Jennifer was born in England but now lives in Washington State. She was a teacher of a Multi-age, K-2 Inclusive class, and her favorite activity was to read stories to the class.

Book preview

Charles Wallace’s Favorite Toy

Jennifer Reynolds

Charles Wallace’s Favorite Toy

Jennifer Reynolds

Copyright © 2014

All Rights Reserved

Author’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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I dedicate this short story to my fellow cat lovers.

Also by Jennifer Reynolds

ALONE

Coming in July 2014

Shifter

Coming in January 2015

HIM

Table of Contents

Charles Wallace’s Favorite Toy

Alone

Prologue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Charles Wallace’s Favorite Toy

I sleep on my side. Usually, I have a row of pillows and blankets tucked underneath my body, propping me up, with one leg hiked over another pillow or mound of blankets. My husband radiates a great deal body heat, so normally I sweat too much to cover myself with too many of the blankets we keep on the bed. On that morning, I had my blanket turned sideways to cover the upper half of my body with the rest wrapped under me. The leg that was not propped over the blanket stretched out, naked, along the length of the bed. Unfortunately, by nearly eight that morning, I was slowly beginning to wake and had stretched both legs down the bed with my right foot dangling from the bed.

Ninety percent of the time, my brain does not register the everyday noises that my house and the objects in it make. Occasionally, I will hear the ice machine drop a load of ice or hear the fish tank’s filter spit filtered water, but for the most part these noises have become part of the background music of my life. This means, of course, that morning I did not hear the steady creak of the