Charles’ aide was fast asleep on the couch, television blaring. He slipped out the back door and walked not knowing where he was going. He watched the strangers pass and smile as if they knew him. Charles had been lonely, scared, and uncertain about where he belonged, so he walked and walked. It became dusk and he wasn’t sure of his surroundings and stared confused.

Charles stared blankly at the lady.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A college-age girl collecting money – no doubt for a worthy cause – rings the doorbell, sending our little white dog into a barking frenzy. Sorry, I tell her after kicking aside the dog to get to the door, but we gave last week. She doesn’t believe me. I can read it in the sudden hardening of her face. If anything, she’s probably thinking it’s necessary sometimes to kill what is in order to bring about what is not. I start to shut the door and then stop and glance up the street. The falling leaves die saying, I want to go.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good’s latest poetry book is The Horse Were Beautiful (2022), available from Grey Book Press. Redhawk Publications is publishing his collection, Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems, later this year.

For Duard, his dog Rocky was his life’s purpose. Two-hour walks in the park were as common as sharing corn flakes at breakfast. When an inattentive woman and her Cadillac hit the big dog and the old man, all four of them – both people, the dog and the car – were badly damaged.

Duard recovered first but sorely missed his comfortable and companionable walks with Rocky. After 12 days without any progress, Duard put Rocky down. He never forgave himself even though none of it was his fault. As for the causative woman and her Cadillac, the story isn’t about them.

From Guest Contributor Gip Plaster

Gip is a Texas web content writer who experiments with microfiction. He is the creator of 17WordStories.com.

The house is empty, and my bags are packed. I don’t know where I’m going, but I reach for and open the front door anyway, ready for whatever awaits me on the other side. I realize I’ve left the radio on, though, so I turn around and go back to take care of that. While I’m doing this someone or something scurries through the front door. I look and see that it’s my brother’s dog, Oswald. “You can’t be here,” I say. “You’re dead.” Oswald wags his tail and tells me that he’s here to take me to the afterlife.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

It’s “New Year’s Eve”, and Nick sits in front of the television gulping beer waiting for the ball to drop. His dog Gatsby rests his head on Nick’s lap seeking attention.

The ball drops and Nick’s year will be the same as any other year.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The chipmunk that lives outside my dog’s window has been avoiding me lately. He says his name is Tony Fauci, but I don’t believe him. Today he’s hanging out with a squirrel in the front yard. The squirrel freezes like a statue when I see him. He thinks this makes him invisible because the trick works on my dog; it doesn’t work on me.

I tell Tony his rent check is late, and both Tony and the squirrel scamper away like a couple of bandits. I’m not mad, though. Tony never pays his rent. These are challenging times for everyone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

It was challenging moving into my girlfriend’s studio apartment. It was crowded for two adults and an ancient Shar Pei wrinkly beast.

That night I discovered Sheila changed the locks. Skippy barked at me through the window as if to say, “I loved her first.”

From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

If only her mom knew what’s going on in Lucy’s life.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.

From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

It’s New Year’s Eve and Chad is in quarantine. His Covid-19 test came back negative the first time and he’s waiting on the next one. He doesn’t feel sick and he’s confident the test will come back negative.

The next afternoon Chad’s test is positive.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher