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.
Camping! The family hadn’t done this since Arrow was a pup.
His tail wagged wildly as he sniffed every tree.
He was digging—something smelled exciting—when he saw his family was gone.
They’d be back. He was a good boy.
Tail still, Arrow waited by the road, forever loyal.
L.L. Madrid has an overactive imagination and a short attention span. Naturally, she writes flash and microfiction.
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.