Disdainful of the traffic, Bob, my golden retriever, bounded across the road towards me. This is very strange, I thought. Bob was killed by a truck two years ago.
As he cavorted and joyfully yelped beside me, I noticed that people had clustered around someone stretched out on the pavement.
John Young is an old chap, 73, a retired Criminal Justice social work manager in Scotland (CJS roughly equivalent to English / US Probation Service) and then University Hon Lecturer lecturing in Social Work ethics. He grapples with themes of limits, longings, and the images that these create.
“Sometimes, when I look into his eyes,” said Chloe to her sister, “I swear he understands everything I’m saying.”
“Don’t anthropomorphise,” replied Claudette. “They’re only human.”
Chloe licked the man’s hand as he scraped leftovers into their bowls. What did it matter, anyway? They were onto a good thing here.
Previously PR to a politician and PA to a rock star, Clare now lives noisily in Scotland, writing her first novel, Light Switch. Her work has recently appeared in Mslexia, The London Reader, Spelk, Cabinet of Heed, Northwords Now, and anthologies from The Emma Press and Hedgehog Poetry. Find out more at clarevobrien.weebly.com.
Labradors are clever and mine is really, really smart. He watches Jeopardy with my wife and me. He can answer more than she can, but neither of us tells her.
Once my wife is asleep he creeps into our room and licks my nose. Then we go chasing cars together.
Stuart is a retired teacher from New Zealand. He likes writing short stories and flash fiction.
The doppelganger couldn’t fool Bracken. She knew it wasn’t her master. Wasn’t even human. The scent was off, alien.
The rest of the family didn’t notice, but she knew.
However, the creature seemed happy to walk her as much as she wanted, so maybe she wouldn’t miss Bob after all!
Bill Cox is from Aberdeen, Scotland where he has been procrastinating for the past forty-nine and a bit years.
Bitten badly once, Linda felt twice shy. Yet Bob seemed safe.
The night he invited her over, she pecked his cheek as he opened his door.
His response: “Whoa—down, boy!”
Was she too forward, she wondered? Or was he… excited?
Then the answer struck—all furry paws and sloppy kisses.
Christa is a professional writer with a passion for creative expression. She has had her poetry and short stories featured in several publications, including River Poets Journal, The Write Room, Tanka Journal, Haiku Journal, and Every Day Fiction. Currently she resides in South Jersey with her six feline muses.
The world went quiet when she was eleven years old. Deaf as a stone. She compensates now if you know what to look for. You can’t tell any difference unless you call to her. Same spirit, same energy, only now has to be watched out for.
Still a faithful dog.
N.T. Franklin writes after his real job hoping one day to have it be his real job. He writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction. When not reading or writing short stories, you might find him fishing or solving crossword puzzles.
Running in the cold rain had made my breathing shallow. Fierce lightning illuminated the alleyway. I stopped, knowing I would never find Buster tonight.
I studied the rhythm of my footsteps though my vision was blurred by tears.
His bark rang through my ears. “Buster! Oh thank goodness you’re safe.”
Gabby is a 13-year-old who enjoys playing basketball hanging out with friends.
Samantha lay naked on the hearth, luxuriating before the open fire.
Pulling the chain tightly between clenched fists, and with sinister grin, the man nudged the door open.
Blissfully unaware, Sam rolled gently over.
The man moved stealthily, deftly dropping the noose about her neck.
“C’mon you lazy mutt. Walkies!”
Gary Power is the author of several short stories published in respected anthologies such as the Black Book of Horror and Spinetinglers and also online. He is a member of the British Fantasy Society and the Clockhouse London Writers and also an Amazon Author.
She loved a dog who skillfully bit her fingers, gnawed her ankles, nibbled her piecemeal.
When he got to her heart, he chewed its edges, punctured its chambers. She protested; he spat it out and left.
She was too angry to pick it up, too ashamed to get another dog.
Rayne Debski’s short stories have appeared on line and in print. She is the editor of two anthologies from Main Street Rag Press. She has two dogs who love her.
I catered to every whim, met your endless needs, comforted pathetic tears of self-pity, supported every mediocre accomplishment, treated you like royalty.
Others were despicable; I was loyal.
I begged you every day to return that love. Instead, you put me outside, discarded me like I was merely a human.
Hillary doggedly tries to never allow her companions to become disgruntled even when they must be put outside for a bit each day like the other children.