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.
After my husband’s departure, I acquired a dog for company.
Out walking, Rufus found a body in the woods. The policeman gave him some treats.
He scented the second corpse in the canal.
When Rufus brought back a finger, he had to go.
He’d also started scratching at the patio.
Viv Burgess wonders why dog walkers who find bodies in crime novels never get suspected. There’s a book in there somewhere, but it would take more than 50 words.
The two old friends arrive at dawn, as they have every Saturday for sixteen years. Toting shotgun and shovel, the man slowly, lovingly leads his dog toward their favorite blind.
Ducks rise. Clouded, intelligent eyes and soft grey muzzle scan skyward.
Forevermore, the retriever anticipates the roar of the gun.
Lou is trying to write stuff that makes sense to dogs and ducks. He has given up on people with guns.
Uncle Willy’s rescued Heeler pup grew into an sneaky biter. Nine leg bites in two years.
After bite ten, Willy retaliated with a toothy gnash to the dog’s foreleg. A respectful friendship ensued, perhaps the first for each.
Limping along our grim barrio streets, they plant a seed of hope.
Lou is new to the 50-word story world. He now knows what a trout feels like when the hook is set. He takes writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
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.
Teary-eyed and with flowers in hand, the boy inches toward the grave with his mother. The grave is familiar; they both visit it daily.
The boy breaks down and falls to his knees. Crying, he says, “He was so good. We had so many memories… He was a good goldfish.”
Tate Hancock is a junior at Orion High School in Illinois. He lives with his mother, father, older brother, and younger brother. He wrote this 50-word story for his English III Honors class.
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.
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.