Kesaran-Pasaran

When I walked into the village, white fur balls kept falling from the sky.

“What are they?” I asked a villager.

“They’re kesaran-pasaran.”

They floated through the air like dandelion spores. On sunny days, they fell and covered the ground. On rainy days they spread and multiplied. The dead ones fueled the city. Their spirits harvested crops and generated electricity.

“What do we know? Our livelihood totally depends on them,” the villager said, laughing.

One day I left the village. When I turned back, the village was gone. Instead, white fluff balls spread as far as the eye could see.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, her short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

Boss

The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.

Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

TBT: The Brubaker Spectacular

The Brubaker Spectacular trundled down Main Street, festooned with ribbons and fur, exploding confetti at every corner.

The children trailed after the wagons, quivering in epileptic fits of joy. The Brubaker Spectacular had arrived.

Elephants trumpeted at the sky. Acrobats danced from the rooftops. Giants wrestled lions, while swinging from trapezes suspended over fiery pits.

The Brubaker Spectacular promised two weeks of bewitching sensation, exceeding even the most remarkable dreams of splendor.

Shops closed their doors. The school master tossed aside his exams. Reverends and ministers forgave a fortnight worth of transgressions.

Nobody ever said no to the Brubaker Spectacular.

This story first appeared way back on Feb 15, 2010. It was then published in Picasso Painted Dinosaurs, a collection of 100 100-word stories, which is currently available as a digital download on Amazon.

Cat Number Four

Shelly sighed as she looked at the stray. Something in her mind shouted "Run away," but it was too late. The kitten would be coming with her.

On the cab ride home, as she stroked the plush fur, Shelly recalled the dreams she had as a child. A successful career in business. A handsome husband. Two obedient children. Those dreams were now gone, replaced by this adorable fur ball in her lap.

She entered her home and set the kitten on the floor. There was no turning back. This was cat number four. Shelly was officially a crazy cat lady.

Listing Fear: How to Tell You That I Want

If the bear sits next to the wombat, and a stinkbug bats his lashless eyes at some roundness near a deer, how do I tell you about longing? The robin is silent, the rooster’s belly is a curve under fog, and I am too timid to explain what I want. If the same bear drops his fat genitals onto the pond, water too still, no one wants to look. Your patience is a woman with her voice down low, as if lined in wet fur. And this? This is me practicing, wide-eyed, my mouth a dusty O, palms spilling candy.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.