Not to be outdone by Grandma’s cat, who slathered a gob of squirrel viscera upon the sidewalk, Boon whined at the screen door. Usually it was dross—holey sock, long-gone bones—but something’s different today: a tobacco tin with old coins, curled Greybacks.
Good dog, I say, over and over.
Leigh Ward-Smith is a writer, editor, and amateur duck-wrangler with a passion for literature in its many forms. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming for The Ghouls’ Review, 52nd City literary magazine, and the Bikes in Space fiction anthology. When not reading, parenting, or being outdoors, she can most likely be found blogging at Leigh’s Wordsmithery.
“It’s me or the dog,” she barked. Dinner was apparently ruined.
Max was in his bed, half asleep, one ear up.
“I mean it,” she growled. Teeth bared and muzzle-less she pattered away
I sighed, got up and went to pack my bags.
Max stretched, dog-yawned, then rose and followed.
Jon is a local government employee with a newspaper journalism background who is experimenting with short written forms.
King came running, tail wagging, the carcass of the neighbor’s bunny dangling from his mouth. Quickly, Jonah stuffed it back in the pen beside the neighbor’s patio.
When the neighbors returned from vacation, they tried to solve the mystery of what sicko dug up their dead pet from their lawn.
Roger Miller is a writer and stand up comedian living in Philadelphia, PA. He has performed at venues across the country, often seeking laughs at taverns and pubs in towns he’s never heard of.
The dog knew she was dying.
He lay at her side enveloped in the stink of her rotting body, listening to the whistle of her laboured breathing, focusing on the occasional words she muttered softly, not “Walks” or “Supper” or “Treats”, only the names of her children and dead husband.
After many jobs and several careers, Linda White lives in a little village with her dog and lizard, and rides her horse for mental health.
While I tried not to worry about problems,
He walked into the sea.
Foams splashed against him.
He stood still,
Absorbing the moment.
A monk’s soul, a bird’s spirit, and a baby’s happiness
Reflected in his being.
The three-legged stray dog
Taught me the best lessons in Inner Peace.
Kasturi is an equity analyst and an aspiring writer. She currently writes microfiction on her blog and aims to start writing a novel soon.
Licking crumbs between high heels and cobblestones, seeing buttery flakes on ankle, her shriek demands his defensive stare.
Eye to eye, his pink tongue retreats behind bared fangs. He holds his hot breath, cringing backwards.
Her sudden smile underlines her offering: wafting smell of croissant. Eyes unlock, echoing clicking disappears.
Sabine Monn, a music and movement educator who grew up in Europe, loves to play with children, especially when she forgets her role as a mother, passionately creating within the flow of now and exchanging with others.
Nature is waging a clandestine war. The wolf-dog staggers stiffly to her feet, tap-taps a path across the darkened kitchen to the back door, pauses to sniff the chill night air.
She raises a white muzzle to the moon. Howls.
Cut it out, Luna!
She turns awkwardly, retreating to civilization.
Alison Cooper is a UK artist, residing in Los Angeles. She loves the challenge of the culling words to get to the core. Her first short story was recently published in Everyday Fiction.
“Alright, Jensen, time to go. Let’s get in.”
The obedient dog looked up at her teary-eyed owner, then hobbled up into the car as well as she could. Her golden mane breezed in the passenger window wind the whole trip there.
“Be gentle,” she begged.
“We will,” said the veterinarian.
Rob is a part time student at SUNY Cortland. Though unsure of what his next step is, he is dedicated to becoming a better writer.
She looks at me with big brown eyes, alive with anticipation for things to come. Her chestnut hair is a perfect complement to those eyes.
Unabashed, she is totally nude, standing anxiously by the door.
When my hand touches the leash, her tail begins to wag. Time for a walk!
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog (named Maybee) who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
A pushchair on its side; something’s not right.
A car hastily parked, askew.
An unfamiliar brown (everybody knows blood is red) sprawling stain on the road leads to a lady sitting hunched on the pavement, cradling.
I later discovered it was a dog, fatally wounded.
Relief, yet someone will mourn.
Steve Gardiner is an accountant living in the UK.