Fur Baby

My small fur baby, fifteen-years-old, passed away gently in my arms. Before she closed her lids for the final time, she looked at me with her big brown eyes and gently patted my arm, as if to say thank you for the years of love and care.

As I held her softly, I whispered that she was a joy and gave my life purpose as only a sweet dog can do.

I brushed her ear forward, kissed her tiny head and her hair tickled my face.

Goodbye my cute one, you were loved and will be forever in my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Christmas Wish

All six-year-old Charlie wanted for Christmas was a baby brother or sister. When he sat on Santa’s plump lap, he asked him for that wish. His response to the young boy was: “That’s out of my control little one.” Charlie sighed, slumped off his lap and walked in silence back to the car with his mom.

On Christmas morning, Charlie went to the Christmas tree and saw one large red gift box that moved and made whining noises. He lifted the cover and inside was a Shih-Tzu puppy that jumped into his arms.

The wish for a sibling faded away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dad

When I met my biological father, Robert, I was surprised at the similarities. We had a small mole on the left side of our temple, and I was left-handed, as he was. But the similarities stopped there. He was a selfish man. He left with another woman before I was born, and my mom had to be mother and father. Fortunately, she met my stepdad, and he made us a family.

As I sat and pondered, my arms around my mother, I knew blood didn’t matter. Charlie had been my dad in every way that counted.

Rest in peace, dad.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Garden

"Be seen not heard," they'd say. Even as I dreamt my voice was void. I found myself questioning; was I even being noticed? My arms were flailing, begging for someone to lay their eyes on me. Their blank stare told me all I needed to know. I was nothing at all. I sauntered to the garden and rested my head on the bed of soft blooms. The leaves wound and bent until they filled up my throat, my ears, my eyes; beauty had taken over. I was pulled into the damp soil. I was now definitively neither seen nor heard.

From Guest Contributor Kenna Elliot

Splayed And Displayed

I went to a market of oddities and curios. One hundred vendors and their jars of preservation liquids, mounted heads, spell jars, and crystal towers. Shoppers passed me with arms full of worn antlers and venomous plants. I weaved my way through the crowds until I stood in front of a glittering wall. Iridescent wings pinned in shadow boxes lined up like soldiers against black stock paper. I never knew something could be beautiful and sad at once. The stage lights did not do justice to the splayed things. Floating over flowers in the sun is a much better sight.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

Sparks

I lit a fire in the garden brazier and threw in all my notebooks. If books are shut they burn slowly but if you fan them out they may catch; soon the blaze was roaring sparks up into the arms of Orion, poised with his great stellar fire-blanket. Passport, driving licence, certificates: orange heat, a feeling of rage and an aftertaste of rubber and almonds. Then I jumped, arms turning into wings, I took the fire into myself. Then I was the stars, then I knew, I was the burning. Singed feathers, and now I could be the morning mist.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

Changing

"You've changed," she said, as I held her in my arms. She had no idea how much, how often! But I wasn't the man she'd known before, and I could see she'd leave me soon.

There was no time for whining, I needed to act. I spent days shaping the perfect moment to make my move: the roses were divine, the wine an excellent vintage, and moonlight glinted on brass candlesticks. She didn't see it coming.

Afterwards, I crunched down on her bones, and cleaned my muzzle in the bowl by the door. Then I ran to rejoin my pack.From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found here.

The Dig

A woman’s voice beneath the ash and rubble signals me. I tell her to keep talking and follow the sound, digging, my hands and arms aching.

“We’re almost there,” I say, gasping, dripping sweat and thirsty.

One of my workmen approaches. “Ben, she won’t survive long if we don’t get her out soon.”

“Keep digging,” I say.

An image appears and to my stunned eyes, I see a protruding stomach. She has lost consciousness and is covered in earth. I get her onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.

I take the shovel and begin digging for the next victim.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Final Procedure

She lays on the table like a forgotten doll, eyes closed. The final procedure is complete.

Let it work.

A moment of silence, then she opens her eyes. And smiles.

“Hi, Daddy!”

“I’m David.”

“But you’re...old.”

She searches her memory, then cries out.

“The car!”

“It can’t hurt you, Rachel.”

It hurt me. The drunk barreling down the road, right at her. And I, her big brother, her protector, too far away.

She wraps her arms around me.

“Don’t cry.”

I hug her to me.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“My laboratory. This is where I make cyborgs.”

From Guest Contributor Eric Petersen

Three Hands

I was born with three hands, all roughly the same size. People often mention how lucky I am. To be able to wave hello, or goodbye, to three people at once. Or how nice it must be to applaud more than everyone else. But what they don’t understand is I only have two arms, two wrists. There is nothing for my third hand to connect to, so I carry it around everywhere I go. One hand is always busy holding my third hand, which leaves me with just my other hand, my poor other hand, doing everything on its own.

From Guest Contributor Jason Heroux