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Palmo, a maker of fine hot chocolate, takes it upon himself to test a sample of each of his recipes the evening before an important event, only realising the flaw in his plan until after it's too late.
On the outskirts of the mountain village of Dundane sat a single-storey chalet. At first sight, most visitors see a charming little building poking out from underneath a crisp blanket of snow, with patterns cut into its wooden structure, and bright but hardy flowers hanging in baskets by the windows, through which gentle orange light spilled warmly onto the surrounding landscape. But most weren’t interested in the building itself, but rather the canine who owned it. He’d earned quite a reputation for himself, in fact, as the chalet was a café specialising in hot chocolate. A dog who made hot chocolate! You’d be forgiven for thinking that chocolate is unspeakably toxic to any canine – indeed, any mammal – who consumes it. And yet he consumed as much as he sold.
Served in either deep bowls (for traditionalists), or elegant glass cups (for everybody else), his hot chocolate was described by many as being rich, wholesome and fascinatingly varied, even if they didn’t say those things to him directly. His knowledge of chocolate varieties, spices, herbs, and the combining of those elements was incredible, and made for some truly memorable concoctions. And to clarify, they didn’t stick in hearts and minds because they were bad, not in the slightest.
Palmo, the cocoa-loving canine in question, had just flipped the sign on the café door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ and drawn the heavy curtains as another clear, cold evening settled over the land.
A Great Pyrenees in his early twenties, he was somewhat portly, with the majority of his weight situated in his soft, rounded potbelly, covered snugly by a burgundy button-up shirt and a fine golden apron, with black dress trousers to compliment this comfortable combination. He had a thick, fleecy, slightly wavy coat of neatly-groomed fur the colour of cotton (not snow – he was tired of having his fur likened to snow), which became more profuse and fluffy around his neck and upper-chest, forming a ruff. His thick, curled plume of a tail bore resemblance to a feather rather than a brush, unlike the civilized foxes and wolves in the village. Thoughtful brown eyes and a gleaming jet-black nose completed an appearance that was wholly disarming in almost every possible way.
As Palmo made his way through the warm interior of the rustic café, he moved slowly and carefully in order to avoid knocking into any of the neatly arranged wooden chairs, tables and plump leather sofas, apologising instinctively to any piece he bumped into, as if they were alive and judging him for his clumsiness. The soft glow from the fireplace and the lamps was hardly helping his navigation, and his pudgy waistline wasn’t much help either; moreover, his mind was on something else entirely, something arguably more important than a few toppled chairs. Even a simple mention of it filled him with a sort of nervous excitement, a cocktail of hopeful anticipation mixed with fear; and it was mentioned often, everywhere.
The talk on the streets was of one thing only: the mid-year festival. Well, they called it a festival, but it was really just a jovial gathering of merchants and entrepreneurs from miles around to sell their finest goods in one convenient, well-decorated location. As any merchant’s dream come true, the potential for a handsome profit was immense. However, while he thought that money is always useful to have, what Palmo really wanted was to present to his fellow villagers (and rivals) some new, luxurious hot chocolate varieties that he had been perfecting feverishly over the past few months, in preparation for the festival. And it was happening the very next day; poorly timed business arrangements had kept him occupied for the past few weeks, so now he had to check that his new creations were up to scratch the very night before the event itself. His stall in the village square was ready, but he was not.
However, Palmo had a plan - a plan cobbled together out of desperation, granted, but a plan nonetheless. He would taste and judge each individual recipe himself. Along the marble surface of the countertop, and sections of the floor, he had arranged many white polystyrene heat-retaining cups, standing like rows of pearly teeth along his work-surface. They numbered a hundred in all, each having received an equal share of love and attention during their preparation. Considerable skill on his part meant that one cup was roughly the same temperature as another, despite being made one at a time. Only a few recipes could be sold – he couldn’t simply rustle up a hundred batches of hot chocolate the following morning! Not in time for the afternoon festivities, anyway.
Normally, when serving for customers, he would present his hot chocolate in the aforementioned glass cups, beautifully decorated with just one of a wide variety of visually appealing styles: lashings of whipped cream, chocolate gratings and sauce, for example (depending on the order); but, as he knew well, sampling focuses mainly on taste, not physical appearance. Nevertheless, the mere thought of the abundant chocolaty delights before him - made by himself, for himself - made his stomach rumble audibly, loud enough to send a hot blush to his face and ears, and rub his impatient belly gently with a paw.
“Alright, calm down,” he cooed, addressing his unruly stomach. “I know how you feel. I just hope this’ll be worth it.”
He had been readying himself for this moment since early morning, having resisted the urge to prepare his personal batch of daily hot chocolate, and help himself to the chocolate treats and cakes in the display cases, as was his habit. It was a monumental struggle, and at times he came very close to simply giving in to the desires of his stomach, but he had done it. And now the reward lay before him. But when he reached for the first cup, doubtful thoughts crossed his mind: won’t this be biased? I mean, you’re testing your own hot chocolate. The whole point of sampling is to have others try your products – this test is rubbish. It won’t work.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed those thoughts out of his head. There was no other alternative. Nobody, he told himself, would be willing to help him at this hour. Besides, most of these recipes were new, completely untested; he may have made them, and café’s air was awash with tantilising aromas from the sea of cups, but he still didn’t know if their flavours had survived his brewing methods. After all, the mouth doesn’t always enjoy what the nose enjoys (like shampoo, for instance).
Palmo grasped the first cup again, took a cautious sip, and found that his fears were completely unfounded. He immediately recognised the blend: cinnamon and grated orange– an old creation he’d tried before, but, after his one-day diet, he felt as though he were tasting it for the first time. The delicate fire of the cinnamon was infused with a zesty, refreshing aftertaste from the orange, all saturated by the luscious, creamy waves of exalted cocoa. Abandoning dignity in favour of satisfaction, he finished the cup with three large gulps. To feel the delectable liquid slide down his throat, bringing warmth to whatever it touched, was a simple pleasure. The heat soon reached his eager belly, and Palmo felt his hunger melt away like ice under direct sunlight. He unconsciously gave a low moan of happiness and relief, and then gathered his wits. A pass, he concluded, ready to be presented to the world. He ticked the cup with a pen; he’d make a batch of that particular recipe in the morning.
He reached for the next cup, and brought it promptly to his muzzle. It was a new, untested recipe that he’d managed to get his paws on: white chocolate, vanilla and lavender buds. A strong yet tender sweetness containing a delicate flowery essence throughout, he downed the entire cup within mere seconds. Another pass. Another tick.
He couldn’t help but beam with quiet pride under the influence of his own success. Clearly, he had underestimated his own skill with a milk pan!
The third cup (maple syrup and pumpkin spice) passed Palmo’s test, such as it was, as did the forth (ginger and peppermint) and then the fifth (salted caramel). Each cupful - though made with the same base ingredients: milk, fresh cream, chocolate drops and a pinch of salt - was a delicious surprise in its own special way. Some sweet, others spicy; some smooth like silk, others viscous like honey. By the tenth ticked cup, all traces of Palmo’s hunger had been wiped away utterly and replaced with relived satisfaction. By the twentieth, he had stopped counting and ticking, choosing instead to lose himself to the sensation of pure indulgence, knowing that there was a reason behind it all. Even if it didn’t look like it, this was work. This was merely a part of his job. Like clockwork, the twentieth cup turned into the thirtieth, the fortieth and then the fiftieth. The constant flow of hot chocolate down his gullet was akin to a rushing waterfall.
His belly expanded steadily throughout this sampling session turned hot chocolate binge. Though his belly remained soft, it was notably tauter than it had been earlier. Underneath his apron, the small creases in his buttoned shirt had smoothed out, now clinging tightly to his bloated midriff. All available space was used to contain his expanding belly, and small gaps were forming in the areas between the strained buttons, through which his white fur was visible in tufts. His shirt was still tucked neatly into his trousers, as a button-up should, though only just. Unaware of his favourite shirt’s distress and the growing pressure, Palmo only kept going.
After just ten minutes, having crossed the half-way mark, he’d long since left the realm of comfortable fullness, and his stomach was numb with tight, drum-like fullness. Its contented gurgles had changed their tone, and his stomach was now growling in protest of its poor treatment. The richness and complexity of the liquids consumed in such a short time-span was proving too much, even for his experienced stomach.
However, Palmo was much too relaxed to heed his stomach’s warning. His eyes glazed over, all feelings focused on the warmth and fullness inside him, and the culmination of the bizarre yet wonderful flavours enjoyed thus far still on his tongue. He’d indulged in his own products before (unsurprisingly enough), but never to this extent. He decided, in that rather fanciful moment, that he was in heaven. Then he grabbed the ninetieth cup, a blend of roasted chestnuts and cayenne pepper, and brought it automatically to his lips. But then a random thought crossed his mind: what time was it? His concentration wavered.
Suddenly, he felt a burning sensation on his chest. He gave a yelp of shock and surprise as his chocolate-addled mind snapped back into reality with a start. While trying to answer his own question, he’d split some of the sweet, spicy liquid onto his golden apron.
Setting the cup down, he looked at the childlike stain down his front, and felt his self-consciousness flare up once more. What if someone were to (somehow) walk in at that moment? Villagers were used to seeing an occasional brown dribble on his apron, but had never seen it partially drenched before. What would they think of him? He took off the apron, and turned round to hang it on a nearby peg; but after a few steps, an incredible pain in his belly stopped him. The pause created by the spilt drink had allowed the feeling of incredible fullness in his overstuffed stomach to catch up with him. With a pitiful groan and a wince, Palmo became aware of a dull but persistent ache from the depths of his middle. Impulsively, he sent one paw to massage his churning stomach while the other leaned on the countertop, and surprised himself when he realised that his belly’s dimensions had changed.
Somewhat alarmed, he looked down – and only then did he notice the extent of his overindulgence. A wave of embarrassed heat washed over him. He blushed ashamedly, the red from his cheeks mixing with his white fur, turning his face bright pink, contrasting against his chocolate-stained muzzle. A bead of sweat ran slowly down his face, as he rubbed his belly sheepishly with a paw. What would they think of him?
The gaps in his shirt had grown in size, running vertically down the lower-half of his burgundy shirt, through which a large portion of his belly fur was clearly visible; the shirt was strained to its very limits, and the buttons, especially the lowest few, were threatening to burst clean off. Palmo couldn’t decide what was more painful: his belly, or the thought of ruining his favourite garment through his own mindless gluttony. To save his shirt, and relieve some of the pressure, he decided to remove it. This proved to be more difficult than he first thought. The buttons covering his flat chest were easy to undo, but the lower buttons were digging painfully into his belly, and more effort was needed to loosen them. Each time Palmo pressed into his stomach to do so, he felt and heard its unsettled contents slosh about and around.
After multiple attempts, and multiple bouts of nausea which sent both paws flying to his mouth along with a sickly belch, Palmo finally undid the final button. His belly jiggled upon being released; but when it came to the problem of quelling the ache, it was only a temporary solution. Neither shifting around uncomfortably nor undoing his main trouser button seemed to appease his restless stomach. After very little thought, he decided to try and sleep off his stomach ache; in the spur of the moment, the simplest option seemed to be the best one, so that was the one he chose.
Cradling his midriff, Palmo began to consider the options for where he could rest. They were few, in truth! He wasn’t going to walk home tonight – if anybody were to see him in this state, he would most likely die of embarrassment! There was an old fold-out bed in one of the storage rooms (which was designed, in fact, to accommodate mammals much smaller than himself), but that would take too long to set up. The only sensible option, it seemed to him, was to use the plump leather sofa sitting before the fireplace, which was still roaring softly and crackling just a few steps away.
Little by little, leaning on the café chairs for support, he padded his way over to the sofa and gently set himself down, a paw on his aching belly at all times. After slowly lying down across the length of it, resting his head on one sofa-arm and hind-paws on the other, Palmo felt all the energy in his body fading away. Sliding gently into a food coma, his body gave its undivided attention to his ailing stomach, and he fell into a deep sleep exactly where he was – lying topless on the sofa in front of the fire, rubbing his rotund, swollen belly.
Evening turned to night, and night into morning. But Palmo did not wake, still dreaming peacefully in his café. The afternoon arrived as the sun began to dip behind the mountains. Before the mid-year festival was kicked into high-gear it was generally noticed, to the disappointment of many, that Palmo was absent from his stand in the village square.
So, here it is. My first story! This took longer than I thought it would, mostly due to the fact that I spend a lot of time editing this. Regardless, I'd like to apologize now for any grammatical errors or inconsistencies, but I couldn't edit this piece of rubbish forever.
I'd love some feedback, if it's not too much trouble. Also, I've grown rather fond of Palmo, and I'd like to use him again in another story.
Thanks for reading!
On the outskirts of the mountain village of Dundane sat a single-storey chalet. At first sight, most visitors see a charming little building poking out from underneath a crisp blanket of snow, with patterns cut into its wooden structure, and bright but hardy flowers hanging in baskets by the windows, through which gentle orange light spilled warmly onto the surrounding landscape. But most weren’t interested in the building itself, but rather the canine who owned it. He’d earned quite a reputation for himself, in fact, as the chalet was a café specialising in hot chocolate. A dog who made hot chocolate! You’d be forgiven for thinking that chocolate is unspeakably toxic to any canine – indeed, any mammal – who consumes it. And yet he consumed as much as he sold.
Served in either deep bowls (for traditionalists), or elegant glass cups (for everybody else), his hot chocolate was described by many as being rich, wholesome and fascinatingly varied, even if they didn’t say those things to him directly. His knowledge of chocolate varieties, spices, herbs, and the combining of those elements was incredible, and made for some truly memorable concoctions. And to clarify, they didn’t stick in hearts and minds because they were bad, not in the slightest.
Palmo, the cocoa-loving canine in question, had just flipped the sign on the café door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ and drawn the heavy curtains as another clear, cold evening settled over the land.
A Great Pyrenees in his early twenties, he was somewhat portly, with the majority of his weight situated in his soft, rounded potbelly, covered snugly by a burgundy button-up shirt and a fine golden apron, with black dress trousers to compliment this comfortable combination. He had a thick, fleecy, slightly wavy coat of neatly-groomed fur the colour of cotton (not snow – he was tired of having his fur likened to snow), which became more profuse and fluffy around his neck and upper-chest, forming a ruff. His thick, curled plume of a tail bore resemblance to a feather rather than a brush, unlike the civilized foxes and wolves in the village. Thoughtful brown eyes and a gleaming jet-black nose completed an appearance that was wholly disarming in almost every possible way.
As Palmo made his way through the warm interior of the rustic café, he moved slowly and carefully in order to avoid knocking into any of the neatly arranged wooden chairs, tables and plump leather sofas, apologising instinctively to any piece he bumped into, as if they were alive and judging him for his clumsiness. The soft glow from the fireplace and the lamps was hardly helping his navigation, and his pudgy waistline wasn’t much help either; moreover, his mind was on something else entirely, something arguably more important than a few toppled chairs. Even a simple mention of it filled him with a sort of nervous excitement, a cocktail of hopeful anticipation mixed with fear; and it was mentioned often, everywhere.
The talk on the streets was of one thing only: the mid-year festival. Well, they called it a festival, but it was really just a jovial gathering of merchants and entrepreneurs from miles around to sell their finest goods in one convenient, well-decorated location. As any merchant’s dream come true, the potential for a handsome profit was immense. However, while he thought that money is always useful to have, what Palmo really wanted was to present to his fellow villagers (and rivals) some new, luxurious hot chocolate varieties that he had been perfecting feverishly over the past few months, in preparation for the festival. And it was happening the very next day; poorly timed business arrangements had kept him occupied for the past few weeks, so now he had to check that his new creations were up to scratch the very night before the event itself. His stall in the village square was ready, but he was not.
However, Palmo had a plan - a plan cobbled together out of desperation, granted, but a plan nonetheless. He would taste and judge each individual recipe himself. Along the marble surface of the countertop, and sections of the floor, he had arranged many white polystyrene heat-retaining cups, standing like rows of pearly teeth along his work-surface. They numbered a hundred in all, each having received an equal share of love and attention during their preparation. Considerable skill on his part meant that one cup was roughly the same temperature as another, despite being made one at a time. Only a few recipes could be sold – he couldn’t simply rustle up a hundred batches of hot chocolate the following morning! Not in time for the afternoon festivities, anyway.
Normally, when serving for customers, he would present his hot chocolate in the aforementioned glass cups, beautifully decorated with just one of a wide variety of visually appealing styles: lashings of whipped cream, chocolate gratings and sauce, for example (depending on the order); but, as he knew well, sampling focuses mainly on taste, not physical appearance. Nevertheless, the mere thought of the abundant chocolaty delights before him - made by himself, for himself - made his stomach rumble audibly, loud enough to send a hot blush to his face and ears, and rub his impatient belly gently with a paw.
“Alright, calm down,” he cooed, addressing his unruly stomach. “I know how you feel. I just hope this’ll be worth it.”
He had been readying himself for this moment since early morning, having resisted the urge to prepare his personal batch of daily hot chocolate, and help himself to the chocolate treats and cakes in the display cases, as was his habit. It was a monumental struggle, and at times he came very close to simply giving in to the desires of his stomach, but he had done it. And now the reward lay before him. But when he reached for the first cup, doubtful thoughts crossed his mind: won’t this be biased? I mean, you’re testing your own hot chocolate. The whole point of sampling is to have others try your products – this test is rubbish. It won’t work.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed those thoughts out of his head. There was no other alternative. Nobody, he told himself, would be willing to help him at this hour. Besides, most of these recipes were new, completely untested; he may have made them, and café’s air was awash with tantilising aromas from the sea of cups, but he still didn’t know if their flavours had survived his brewing methods. After all, the mouth doesn’t always enjoy what the nose enjoys (like shampoo, for instance).
Palmo grasped the first cup again, took a cautious sip, and found that his fears were completely unfounded. He immediately recognised the blend: cinnamon and grated orange– an old creation he’d tried before, but, after his one-day diet, he felt as though he were tasting it for the first time. The delicate fire of the cinnamon was infused with a zesty, refreshing aftertaste from the orange, all saturated by the luscious, creamy waves of exalted cocoa. Abandoning dignity in favour of satisfaction, he finished the cup with three large gulps. To feel the delectable liquid slide down his throat, bringing warmth to whatever it touched, was a simple pleasure. The heat soon reached his eager belly, and Palmo felt his hunger melt away like ice under direct sunlight. He unconsciously gave a low moan of happiness and relief, and then gathered his wits. A pass, he concluded, ready to be presented to the world. He ticked the cup with a pen; he’d make a batch of that particular recipe in the morning.
He reached for the next cup, and brought it promptly to his muzzle. It was a new, untested recipe that he’d managed to get his paws on: white chocolate, vanilla and lavender buds. A strong yet tender sweetness containing a delicate flowery essence throughout, he downed the entire cup within mere seconds. Another pass. Another tick.
He couldn’t help but beam with quiet pride under the influence of his own success. Clearly, he had underestimated his own skill with a milk pan!
The third cup (maple syrup and pumpkin spice) passed Palmo’s test, such as it was, as did the forth (ginger and peppermint) and then the fifth (salted caramel). Each cupful - though made with the same base ingredients: milk, fresh cream, chocolate drops and a pinch of salt - was a delicious surprise in its own special way. Some sweet, others spicy; some smooth like silk, others viscous like honey. By the tenth ticked cup, all traces of Palmo’s hunger had been wiped away utterly and replaced with relived satisfaction. By the twentieth, he had stopped counting and ticking, choosing instead to lose himself to the sensation of pure indulgence, knowing that there was a reason behind it all. Even if it didn’t look like it, this was work. This was merely a part of his job. Like clockwork, the twentieth cup turned into the thirtieth, the fortieth and then the fiftieth. The constant flow of hot chocolate down his gullet was akin to a rushing waterfall.
His belly expanded steadily throughout this sampling session turned hot chocolate binge. Though his belly remained soft, it was notably tauter than it had been earlier. Underneath his apron, the small creases in his buttoned shirt had smoothed out, now clinging tightly to his bloated midriff. All available space was used to contain his expanding belly, and small gaps were forming in the areas between the strained buttons, through which his white fur was visible in tufts. His shirt was still tucked neatly into his trousers, as a button-up should, though only just. Unaware of his favourite shirt’s distress and the growing pressure, Palmo only kept going.
After just ten minutes, having crossed the half-way mark, he’d long since left the realm of comfortable fullness, and his stomach was numb with tight, drum-like fullness. Its contented gurgles had changed their tone, and his stomach was now growling in protest of its poor treatment. The richness and complexity of the liquids consumed in such a short time-span was proving too much, even for his experienced stomach.
However, Palmo was much too relaxed to heed his stomach’s warning. His eyes glazed over, all feelings focused on the warmth and fullness inside him, and the culmination of the bizarre yet wonderful flavours enjoyed thus far still on his tongue. He’d indulged in his own products before (unsurprisingly enough), but never to this extent. He decided, in that rather fanciful moment, that he was in heaven. Then he grabbed the ninetieth cup, a blend of roasted chestnuts and cayenne pepper, and brought it automatically to his lips. But then a random thought crossed his mind: what time was it? His concentration wavered.
Suddenly, he felt a burning sensation on his chest. He gave a yelp of shock and surprise as his chocolate-addled mind snapped back into reality with a start. While trying to answer his own question, he’d split some of the sweet, spicy liquid onto his golden apron.
Setting the cup down, he looked at the childlike stain down his front, and felt his self-consciousness flare up once more. What if someone were to (somehow) walk in at that moment? Villagers were used to seeing an occasional brown dribble on his apron, but had never seen it partially drenched before. What would they think of him? He took off the apron, and turned round to hang it on a nearby peg; but after a few steps, an incredible pain in his belly stopped him. The pause created by the spilt drink had allowed the feeling of incredible fullness in his overstuffed stomach to catch up with him. With a pitiful groan and a wince, Palmo became aware of a dull but persistent ache from the depths of his middle. Impulsively, he sent one paw to massage his churning stomach while the other leaned on the countertop, and surprised himself when he realised that his belly’s dimensions had changed.
Somewhat alarmed, he looked down – and only then did he notice the extent of his overindulgence. A wave of embarrassed heat washed over him. He blushed ashamedly, the red from his cheeks mixing with his white fur, turning his face bright pink, contrasting against his chocolate-stained muzzle. A bead of sweat ran slowly down his face, as he rubbed his belly sheepishly with a paw. What would they think of him?
The gaps in his shirt had grown in size, running vertically down the lower-half of his burgundy shirt, through which a large portion of his belly fur was clearly visible; the shirt was strained to its very limits, and the buttons, especially the lowest few, were threatening to burst clean off. Palmo couldn’t decide what was more painful: his belly, or the thought of ruining his favourite garment through his own mindless gluttony. To save his shirt, and relieve some of the pressure, he decided to remove it. This proved to be more difficult than he first thought. The buttons covering his flat chest were easy to undo, but the lower buttons were digging painfully into his belly, and more effort was needed to loosen them. Each time Palmo pressed into his stomach to do so, he felt and heard its unsettled contents slosh about and around.
After multiple attempts, and multiple bouts of nausea which sent both paws flying to his mouth along with a sickly belch, Palmo finally undid the final button. His belly jiggled upon being released; but when it came to the problem of quelling the ache, it was only a temporary solution. Neither shifting around uncomfortably nor undoing his main trouser button seemed to appease his restless stomach. After very little thought, he decided to try and sleep off his stomach ache; in the spur of the moment, the simplest option seemed to be the best one, so that was the one he chose.
Cradling his midriff, Palmo began to consider the options for where he could rest. They were few, in truth! He wasn’t going to walk home tonight – if anybody were to see him in this state, he would most likely die of embarrassment! There was an old fold-out bed in one of the storage rooms (which was designed, in fact, to accommodate mammals much smaller than himself), but that would take too long to set up. The only sensible option, it seemed to him, was to use the plump leather sofa sitting before the fireplace, which was still roaring softly and crackling just a few steps away.
Little by little, leaning on the café chairs for support, he padded his way over to the sofa and gently set himself down, a paw on his aching belly at all times. After slowly lying down across the length of it, resting his head on one sofa-arm and hind-paws on the other, Palmo felt all the energy in his body fading away. Sliding gently into a food coma, his body gave its undivided attention to his ailing stomach, and he fell into a deep sleep exactly where he was – lying topless on the sofa in front of the fire, rubbing his rotund, swollen belly.
Evening turned to night, and night into morning. But Palmo did not wake, still dreaming peacefully in his café. The afternoon arrived as the sun began to dip behind the mountains. Before the mid-year festival was kicked into high-gear it was generally noticed, to the disappointment of many, that Palmo was absent from his stand in the village square.
So, here it is. My first story! This took longer than I thought it would, mostly due to the fact that I spend a lot of time editing this. Regardless, I'd like to apologize now for any grammatical errors or inconsistencies, but I couldn't edit this piece of rubbish forever.
I'd love some feedback, if it's not too much trouble. Also, I've grown rather fond of Palmo, and I'd like to use him again in another story.
Thanks for reading!
Category Story / Fat Furs
Species Dog (Other)
Size 120 x 74px
File Size 27.7 kB
This story is great! You have really good descriptions, they're great at bringing the person reading into your world, while still leaving details and some setting aspects to the imagination of the reader. You also make some great comparisons, like cotton instead of snow, or the thing with shampoo. They both add to the atmosphere of the story, as well as the humor, there were several times where I just laughed! It's also written well in general, you use good grammar and punctuation, and there aren't any run-on sentences or places where a sentence ends abruptly.
I really enjoyed reading this, and I look forward to your next piece!
I really enjoyed reading this, and I look forward to your next piece!
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