Buddy suspected the slumbering Sadie wouldn’t appreciate playful whispers. But he often traveled the trail of wanton disobedience.
Quivering in anticipation, he cautiously nuzzled her velvety ear. It twitched violently, slapping her assailant across the face.
Let sleeping dogs lie, they silently agreed, flicking their tails and closing their eyes.
By day, Lawrence Frank sits in a psychotherapist’s chair, inhaling life’s darkest moments. In the silence of night, he locks the door, switches seats, and exhales to the page.
“Will she be faithful? I must find out.”
“I can divine the future from anything you own – pass me that jug from your breakfast table.”
“Whoops! Sorry! Thought it was empty…”
“Idiot! Your fate cannot now be foreseen.”
“All men know: there’s no use scrying over spilled milk.”
Nick Johns lives in Sandhurst, UK. A retired cat wrestler, he now breeds mongrel flash fictions for release into the wild.
Popular opinion held that a plant would be the next entity to achieve sentience but, surprisingly, it was a plastic that broke the barrier.
Soon, a rapidly proliferating breed of newly emotional and very apologetic dishes and jugs swept the markets, resulting in a lot of crying over spilled milk.