Bits and Pieces from Katie

Bit of Writing

From the bottom of the stairs, Mike's eyes moved up to the kitchen. With a sigh, he realized never before had he looked at these stairs, or any stairs for that matter. He'd simply rushed through the door and bounded into the kitchen. His feet must have touched wood but he had no recollection of it.

But now his eyes sized up the steps just as a three-year-old did the pile of clothes and shoes he had been told to use to dress himself. How many were there? Where should he begin? Could he just do part of them? Would he ever succeed or would he always have to have someone help him?

He understood the fear from the charging of a snaring dog but the sweaty palms and quickened pulse he now felt made no sense.