Ro's Doghouse

Far away on a desolate beachside, there stands a lonely doghouse half-sunken into the sand. Its wood, whose color was beaten out by the sun and sea but was perhaps once painted the hue of a nostalgic sunset, is now rank with rot. As you approach the mouth of the structure, you nearly trip on a chewed-up chokechain tied to a rusted stake. A crab scuttles out of an empty water dish buried a few steps away until they're both swallowed by receeding seafoam.

You crouch into the doghouse, your spine brushing against the arched doorway. Scattered about the darkened interior are trinkets in various states of decay. A cheap plastic linoeum carving tool missing its blades. Handmade booklets rendered illegible by time. A video game console that's long lost its charge. After a bit of digging, you unearth a cassette player and a few tapes. You pop the one in the best condition into the deck, and to your surprise, the sound of grainy pop punk music begins to squeeze through the speakers. The lyrics are hard to make out through the thick layer of auditory fuzz.

As you move to leave, you're hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. Home is a long way away. And despite its ruined state, something about the doghouse and its knickknacks makes you feel safe. You brush the objects out of the way and move to curl up into the sand. Its grains are soft and pillowy underneath your body, and as you close your eyes to rest, the stereo continues to sing:

I'm scared I'm gonna die as lonely as I feel.