buckets and hounddogs 

buckets and hounddogs

(the trouble with writing stories over the net is that life can interfere. no one wrote for days. so luna kickstarts things again, the next week)

Days later, still leaning, the Soc class wandered off to lattes and
fraught-with-meaning dalliances. Would-be-Elvis, hyponotized by the
tired bosum of Sister, had forgotten the question, but not the urges
behind it. Sister dismissed him with a rap of the ruler.

Later that night, outside the convent group shower window, a lonely
hounddog sent up a musical lament.

A bucket of cold water answered.