Most mornings, George joined the queue at the butcher’s and waited patiently. He always left with two fresh sausages, and the butcher wished more of his customers were as polite and gentlemanly.
The stray mutt, however, wished the butcher would throw him a nice bone every now and then, instead.
Bryce Main is an author and a writer of ad copy. He discovered 50-word stories recently and finds reading them immensely enjoyable. This is the first he’s written.
“Ruff woof,” said Fido, wagging his tail, but Max just said, “Bad dog,” and put him out in the back yard, because Max didn’t understand the witty wordplay (barkplay?) Fido was using, which involved a canine equivalent of something like “putting the ‘toy’ in ‘toilet’,” and was really very clever.
He was charming and sweet, kind and wise. I told him so, and it made his face glow with pride.
But it was a fantasy. There were difficulties even love could not overcome. A great Dane like myself, married to a Pomeranian? Society’s hand was turned too strongly against us.
This story was based on a title suggested by @MaryHutson.
Every Saturday morning the tables were set up. Goods new and used, handmade and home baked, were put out to browse through.
Every Saturday morning they came, tails tucked between their legs, cowering at the ends of their leashes.
The dogs would never understand the draw of the flea market.
This bonus story was written by Larissa Thiessen. It’s her birthday today, the last birthday she’ll have with the last name “Thiessen,” and that’s largely my fault!
We called the dog El Pancho. I never knew why. Maybe it was the weird brown spot on his back. He had two lame legs and always smelled like rotting cheddar, and sat at the flagpole every day after school, but no one ever came.
One day, neither did he.
John Funk is Games Editor at The Escapist, and has been gaming and writing for most of his life thus far. He has far too many plastic robot models on his desk at work and thinks those dirty Horde can go jump off a bridge.
Every night, Reginald tossed and turned in his bed, covering his ears with his pillow, but the slurping and sipping and smacking just wouldn’t stop.
He never said anything, though; the rent was too good to risk a conflict.
He eventually began to wonder about all the “Missing Pet” posters.
This story was based on a title suggested by @ugotpauld.
After being married for thirty years he thought he’d pretty much figured her out, but when she came home with a baby crocodile for Christmas he realized she was as beautifully, wonderfully mysterious to him now as she always had been, which wasn’t much consolation when it ate the dog.
Jakob had an idea. It was a stupendous idea, a marvelous idea, a fabulous idea.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember what it was.
He asked his garbage man. He asked his barber. He asked a woman at the grocery store. They couldn’t remember, either.
Jakob’s dog knew, but she wasn’t telling.
One shot is all it takes. He is dead.
Her blouse is wet with blood. Her cigarette rests between her swollen lips as she drags him through the dead leaves with a shovel in hand. She doesn’t cry until she drops his limp body in the hole.
His collar jingles.
Adam is a student at Rowan University and plans on graduating in December 2010. He is an avid writer, concentrating on contemporary adult fiction and concrete poetry. He is currently working on a collection of selected poems, revising and perfecting the prose. His website is adamgpoetry.tumblr.com.
It was a Thursday.
On Thursdays, Prysanthemum the Pug went to the baths from two to four o’clock. That made for prime adventuring time for his Doghouse, Dot. Glory, honour, excitement, fortune, and renown lay just over the horizon!
But first, Dot had to overcome one minor obstacle: voluntary movement.