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.
“The dog’s dead.
“I’m sorry. I know you loved Mozart more than you loved me. Even your mother came second to that mutt.
“Anyway, there’s nothing to keep us together anymore so I’m leaving.
“Please don’t call me.
“Oh, and ask your mum about that dent in her bumper.
“Bye!”
PJ is a British writer whose fiction is inspired by history, nature, and human nature. He’s lived in Switzerland for 20 years but still takes milk in his tea. Follow him at @Tweeting_Writer.
Tracing my fingers on my wrists felt wrong, the deliberate bareness.
“Vulnerability shouldn’t be visible,” said my mother, tossing me a cover-up sweater before school. She believed in the power of layers.
If she only looked closer there wouldn’t be these deeper cuts; there wouldn’t be any more wandering eyes.
Elif Baysak was born and raised in Izmir, Turkey. She moved to NYC to pursue her Bachelor’s degree and passion in the arts. Her engagements in the arts include theatre-making and playwriting, and she recently progressed into writing fiction. Her take on an honest piece is to work with impulses and feelings regarding human experiences. She focuses on the value of psychology in the arts, regarding subconscious and identity struggles, what it means to be human in our own bodies. Her artistic voice is a product of past or present, personal or universal events. Her passion for travelling allows her to experience the world in various ways and make observations, which provides her with the creative urge to write.
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.
The story of the week for October 8 to 12 is…
Disconnect by Nancy Ludmerer
You take the room in back, just sink, bed, and chair. The haggard woman unlocking the door disappears quietly back into dust.
Alone, with nothing but a ray of moonlight to talk to, you tell it your life story, then wait for tomorrow’s visit, plead with it to never leave.
Jim Doss has published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again and What Remains. He also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
Surprised by chill after weeks of scorchers, she holds her bag of groceries to her chest, purchases for a solitary meal.
Two girls skip by, flaunting autumn exuberance, ignoring homework, ignoring regimen and rigor. She alone grieves sweaty embraces, August smells, dreams expired as moderate temperatures and cooler heads return.
Nancy Ludmerer lives in New York City with her husband Malcolm and cat Sandy, named after the storm he fled (right into Nancy’s arms) and Sandy Koufax. Her story “First Night” appears in Best Small Fictions 2016.
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.