My dog is deaf, and I whisper when I want to communicate with him. I find lowering the timbre of my voice accentuates the movement of my mouth. My dog is smart; he can lip read.
My cat, on the other hand, is blind. He is a work in progress.
In real life, Steven’s dog feigns deafness, and his cat is merely short-sighted, but both are willing to play along in aid of dramatic effect.
I drew him in gently, let him win a few times, just to keep his interest.
But I was always the superior player, noted his “tells”, from the ear pull to the quick tap of his left foot.
So I played my Royal Flush and took the joker for everything.
Vicky is an aspiring poet and raconteur living in deepest rural Ireland.
The perfect opportunity plucked from the universe as his car scraped against mine.
He flashed a toothy smile, jotting down his information. Biting my lip, my heart pounding, his rough hand covering mine. A melody of words spilled from his lips. My taser jammed into his ribs. Our beautiful beginning.
Andrea Allison currently writes and resides in a small Oklahoman town. You can visit her website at andreallison.com.
She used to pull the covers over her head when shadows morphed into monsters.
One day she walked into her room, tears clinging to her cheeks, and the monster growled.
She growled louder.
Now she dangles her arm out the side of her bed, and they hold hands.
Katherine DeGilio has made friends with most of her demons, except for the dreaded bio. She’s a writer, yet she never knows what to write in here.
Johnny II finds his new home quite nice. Roomy, with a clear running tube. Good food and very clean.
Many visitors come at first, but then fewer.
His exercise wheel has developed a squeak—annoying, then soothing in time.
Memories of mother’s call as he rots in this lonely cage.
Iain L. Luen has a normal job, but hopes for rescue. He just wants to write and take pics. See more at deviantart.com/echoesofarchi.
The monster under my bed whispers to me in the dark. Says I’m small, scared, so easy to pull down and rip apart and chew up until I’m nothing but two knuckle bones hanging from a string.
I listen, frozen, until I scream, run.
Mom sighs, says: “Ignore your brother.”
Catherine Ann Fox lives in Indiana with her husband, and enjoys writing all sorts of weird things. Logically, she knows there’s nothing under her bed but boxes, but one can never be too careful, can they?
“It’s been on my mind forever and if I don’t ask I’ll explode please don’t crush me though let me down gently and we’ll pretend it never happened here goes will you go on a date with me okay forget I spoke there’s no need to say n—”
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. Find him on Twitter or his blog.
The first day that I drove my new son and his exhausted mom home from the hospital, the freeway was thick with fast cars maneuvering around mega pick-ups with large tires and 40-ton semis, all in a mad dash to get somewhere.
How will I ever protect him?
Michael Borne lives in Texas, where large pick-up trucks seem to proliferate.
He thought about retiring.
He took a leave-of-absence, headed south, got a job driving kids to summer camp. He’d always liked kids.
These kids laughed at his belly, threw things into his beard.
He couldn’t wait to get home where kids were just names on lists—naughty or nice.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.