The Spelling Bee

It was the Turnersville Third Grade Spelling Bee. Fran Blancowitz squared off against little Mel Fromberg. The auditorium was packed with students, staff, parents, and relatives.

“Mel, spell the word ‘Dog,’ please.”

He managed it slowly.

“Now, Fran, spell the word ‘Letter,’ if possible.”

No problem. 

Next Mel correctly spelled ‘Cat’, after Mr. Atkins, the principal and questioner, used it in a sentence – ‘The cat chased the dog.’

“Fine…Now, Fran, spell ‘Manuscript.’”

She did. But, from the audience, her parents and relatives objected – he was tougher on Susie. 

Mr. Atkins turned to Mel.

“Okay…Spell the name ‘Blancowitz,’ Mel."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Powerful

After finishing his breakfast, Frodo sat by the kitchen recliner, begging for some of Ralph's. Any closer, and the Labrador would've been in his owner's lap. Ralph wondered if the dog considered him an all-powerful being, miraculously dishing out kibble each morning. Soon Ralph would be at his Uncle Frank's dry cleaning business, and no one considers dry cleaners to be all-powerful, although they can easily crush buttons. Frodo drooled on Ralph's crotch, as he thought – What the hell, let him imagine he's a superior being for a moment, as long as he tosses me some of that poppy-seed bagel.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Manuscript

The rain pelted the window as I typed the last few pages of my manuscript. It was past midnight, and I had been working for hours with a cold cup of coffee on my desk. My agent advised that it would be in my best interest to have it ready by tomorrow morning, my first novel.

Thunder filled the sky, and my dog Bree ran under bed, my concentration never faltering.

As I typed “The End,” a flash of lightning lit the sky, and the electricity went out.

I didn’t have a chance to hit save before the power outage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Man's Best Friend

My wife said I treated Tobasco better than I treated the kids. I walked him three times a day.

I took him water skiing and skydiving. I fed him rib tips and chili for dinner. He's ridden shotgun

in my Ferrari more than my wife. She has a conniption because I gave Tobasco a 24-karat gold

funeral with a sterling silver tombstone and cremated her mother. The heifer didn't like me anyway.

Tobasco didn't complain about dinner, clothes, and require $1000 cell phones. He didn't fail in

school and talk back. Excuse me while I cry and blow snot everywhere.

From Guest Contributor Gary L. Dozier

I Can't Explain

I know things look bad. I can explain the blood. I was playing with my dog and he scratched me pretty bad. He can be rough.

What about the witness who saw you going into the house?

I was just dropping off the divorce papers. They should be in the filing cabinet.

I see. And the threatening emails from your account?

Someone's trying to frame me.

Very good. That just leaves the matter of the security camera. How do you explain that someone who looks remarkably like you was recorded beating your ex to death with a field hockey stick?

Superman

Superman used to be the savior of the modern world. Natural disasters and global calamities quickly resolved thanks to his timely interventions. No feat seemed impossible to the Man of Steel.

That was before. Now, whether the state of the world just seemed worse by comparison, or the long peace meant that we were not ready to look after ourselves again after relying on the Kryptonian's good graces, who can say? All that's certain is tragedy is never far away and there's no one here to save us.

Not since Superman got a dog. Let humanity take care of itself.

Funky

There was something funky about the way no one noticed as he walked the sidewalk.

The gentleman picking out fruit at the corner stand. The woman walking her dog towards him. The delivery man checking over the boxes in back of his truck. Never mind it was ten in the evening.

Not one person glanced in his direction.

He stopped at the newsstand, looked over the headlines, asked about the impending strike at the local paper. The vendor grunted noncommittally.

He fished into his pocket, as if looking for change, and drew in one smooth motion.

Everyone reacted at once.

Next For Mel

“Choose.”

“What?” Mel was confused. It was 3 AM. Just moments before, he'd been pleasantly dreaming.

“You don't know what ‘choose’ means?”

“Huh?”

“CHOOSE, MEL!”

The irritated voice seemed to come from every direction, as though from out of a whirlwind.

“AND MAKE IT SOMETHING INANIMATE.”

This was it.

“TIME'S UP.”

Mel's life – if it could be called that – was over.

The angel had others to visit that Thursday and more important places to go.

“Couldn't I be a dog, or a goldfish?”

“REINCARNATION'S MAINLY INTO LIFELESS OBJECTS, MEL.”

People don't realize.

“Like...into an old basketball?”

“SO BE IT!”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Dougie

I carried my dog Dougie to the car, his whining echoing. I was too busy engrossed in the baseball game to notice his barking and I have no idea how long he was trapped in that wire fence while I cheered and gorged on chips.

I drove to the veterinarian at warp speed and hoped not to get pulled over. My heart pounded, but I kept my cool and talked to him. “It’ll be okay, Dougie.”

I slammed open the door and yelled: “Help him!”

“Don’t worry we’ll do everything we can to save Dougie’s leg.”

I sat and waited.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Walk

I must be insane walking the streets at 3 o’clock in the morning, but I need to clear my head and the air helps.

A dog lunges at me from the alley nearly biting my ankle. It growls and leaves. I head toward my apartment since I wouldn’t get any thinking done after that.

I’m about to put the key in the door when a tap on my left shoulder startles me and I jump.

It’s my son Jameson.

“Dad, I want help, I need help.” His beseeching voice says.

I unlock the door and leave it open behind me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher