Bernhardt the Therapy Dog by Nicole Brogdon

My father wanted “a dog with big balls.” So he brought home an ex-police German shepherd, brown with black saddle markings, a Nazi dog. “Bernhardt”, his tag read. Dad the animal’s chest until he lunged, meeting Dad’s swinging boot.

Horseflies by Sam Christie

For once, there were choices available for Pisgah and me. I mean, they were all pretty bloody horrible, but at least we had a choice of how horrible. This would be a day spent doing the least worst thing, so we turned our attention to factors such as energy levels,…

An Unexpected Meeting by Sara Jane Green

I’d seen her several times before, this woman. Loitering on the steps to our small shopping plaza down the road, wild-eyed in Miller Street, its river of traffic churning around her through canyons of high-rise office blocks, peering into plate glass windows, advertising cellulose injections and other horrors, her expression…

I Hate Mondays by James Mason

Friday lunchtime is always awful. Alone at her desk, Sally eats a prepacked sandwich. The bread tastes wet and sticks to the roof of her mouth. At the empty desks, geometric shapes moil on computer screens. The lift door makes a sucking sound as it opens, and George ambles out.…

You Can Stop Crying Now by Molly Corlett

Yesterday, I met a litter of kittens that couldn’t yet see or walk. I think there were five of them. My daughter picked one up by the neck like the cat mothers do, except that she did it with the rough tenderness of a child, and it made the real…

Fly Hook by R.W. Chapman

You were rinsing your plate in the sink when you found the orange gun. Why was it in the same kitchen cupboard as the lemon soap? You picked it up and your fingers struggled to wrap around the handle. The dock and bullrushes bobbed outside of the houseboat, and your…

Do You Hear Me? by Uduak-Abasi Ekong

Forgive me, Father, for I will sin unless you come down and tell me not to.

But you won’t, will you? No. That’s not your style. You prefer the theatrics of signs and wonders. Signs, like when Mummy dreamt we’d be poisoned if we ate at Mama’s funeral. So, we…

Requiem by Sergey Bolmat

In the end, I think that we should dispose of our dead in some easy, practical, pragmatic way. Ultimately, we are all just walking bags of dust, aren’t we? Why so much fuss then? What is it all about?