Many years ago, I wrote this story called, "And the Dog Died." (I'll give you three guesses what happens to the dog.) A few months ago, I went through all my old stories and decided if they were worth salvaging. This one was, I thought. It just needed a general overhaul and a new, less didactic, showing-not-telling ending. Yesterday, I wrote that ending.

Would anybody be interested in critiquing/editing it? It's quite short, about a page and a half. It's a cautionary science fiction story. I warn you that it's not my best work, but I think it's worth saving anyhow.

Excerpt:

"Clara ought to be home by now, an' my daughter. Was I wrong t'say she couldn't marry Jack? Naw. He's a Negro. Didn't obey me though. I got me a granddaughter, half Negro.

"Well, I let my daughter come to our mountain, didn't I? So what if I didn't let Jack come? He's a Negro." The old man lay on the bed, rambling.

The scrawny dog on the floor lifted his head and whined. The man smelled of death. It was the same death-smell that the dog had smelled outside in the air. A cute baby girl with a fuzz of black curls and long-lashed black eyes waved her tiny fists in the corner of the bunker.