Our Private Summit

I listened to Camilla talking about global warming, the ocean plastic crisis and the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. Words crowded behind her lips: I silenced them with a kiss. We stayed ten eternal seconds in that first intimate contact.

“I didn't see it coming,” she told me, when she recovered.

“I don't believe you.”

“I knew it could happen, but not so soon. I thought you were harmless.”

“The same they say about climate change.”

We spent all afternoon enjoying our private summit, evaluating the measures to be taken in the future. We started to negotiate ecological caress credits.

From Guest Contributor Marcelo Medone

Marcelo (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in magazines and books, individually or in anthologies, in multiple languages in more than 40 countries all over the world, including the US.

He has been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone

Drooley

We named our new bulldog pup, Drooley, in honor of never-ending slobbering. As he matured, Drooley’s slobbering grew worse. Navigating through our house was like running a gauntlet of huge slime spots that Drooley slung on floors and walls every time he shook his head.

We took Drooley to our vet who laughed when she measured the prodigious amount of slobber that Drooley produced, but she couldn’t recommend any measures to reduce it.

Desperate, we invented our own cure. We added alum to Drooley’s food.

A week later, we celebrated our brilliant discovery by giving Drooley a new name, Pucker.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave is a recovering software developer who now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.