Nahla watched warily as they unpacked her belongings: bowl, leash, collar. Sooner or later, she’d have to move again. It never lasted.
A child scrambled forward, wrapping her in a welcoming hug. Warmth, unlike any other, flooded Nahla’s chest.
How long can I stay? she searched.
Forever, his eyes answered.
Cadence Rage is a musician, animal rights activist, and caffeine-addicted weaver of speculative fiction. She publishes flash fiction and hilarious observations at cadencerage.wordpress.com. Find her on social media @cadencerage.
There was a low growling, buzzing sound coming from far away. Suddenly something was trying to suck the life out of me. I slapped, twisted, turned and tried to escape. Claws pierced my skin. Hot breath filled my mouth. I bolted upright.
My cat jumped to the floor and smiled.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
Unseen eyes watched, sending a chill down my spine. Loathing enveloped me. What had I done to deserve this hatred?
My last thought before Lucifer sunk his claws into my back was that it would be a cold day in Hell before I agreed to feed the neighbor’s cat again.
Anita Roberts Soupir is a wife, mother, photographer & freelance writer. Her work can be seen in: Crack the Spine Literary Magazine and Mused – the BellaOnline Literary Review Magazine, as well as Boston Literary Magazine, Literary Juice, 50 Haikus, 50 Word Stories, and SpeckLit.
Old Harold buys a fish tank on his birthday. Fills it with guppies and mollies, hardy breeds. Throws in the odd fish flake. Changes the water on Saturdays. It’s good to be needed.
The fish swim and swirl, dive and stare.
Tiddles is mesmerised. Now he has his own TV.
Geraldine McCarthy doesn’t own any pets. You can find her on Facebook.
Scars cover my body. Small and jagged; thick and bumpy. Scattered across my skin, a constellation of pain.
They bind me both to the past and to the person I have become.
My scars are a constant reminder of the day I embraced my fate, adopting my first five cats.
Isley is an avid reader and aspiring writer and just keeps swimming.
“Welcome to our adoption center,” Mr. Blake ushers people inside.
Time to please them. Maya barks softly. Kenny shakes his tail. Misty shows her pleading face. I know these tricks, but my limp hind leg is too obvious.
Maya is adopted. To me, it’s just another day in my kennel.
Allison Xu is a 7th-grade student and a book review blogger. Read more of her work at brightbookreaders.com.
My dog is deaf, and I whisper when I want to communicate with him. I find lowering the timbre of my voice accentuates the movement of my mouth. My dog is smart; he can lip read.
My cat, on the other hand, is blind. He is a work in progress.
In real life, Steven’s dog feigns deafness, and his cat is merely short-sighted, but both are willing to play along in aid of dramatic effect.
Dusty bounded into my life, like a golden bone lay hidden inside me. Our ritualistic greeting never failed to cheer my weary spirit.
Dusty is gone now but sometimes I picture God laughing, tossing that tennis ball over the Pearly Gates. Dusty pounces and returns with eyes full of adoration.
Eileen McIntyre is a writer from Northern California, who sometimes listens when voices speak.
I was told you can’t call dogs “pets” anymore. It connotes inferiority to the rest of the family. They should be “furry companions.”
I asked the owner of an adored Westie whether he considered Gus inferior. His response: “Haven’t saved for his college, and we don’t let him read books.”
Barbara Mende writes and does other paperwork in Cambridge, MA.
I named my dogs Verlaine and Rimbaud, both mutts who liked getting into other people’s garbage.
They weren’t well-mannered or well-kempt, but friendly in a panhandler sort of way, inseparable in their shakedowns. Yet those probing eyes… They were enough to turn even the most calloused soul into a poet.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.