Ben von Jagow

Sometimes, when I have the house to myself, I pretend to be a dog. I get down on all fours and roam around with Sutch and Rusty, who are also dogs. It sounds more exciting than it really is. For the most part, we nap, or lie by the front door and await the return of one of the humans. But sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes, we bark at people walking on the street, or we make a mess of the garbage, or we lie on the furniture which mother, sorry Master, says we’re never to do. But what mother doesn’t know can’t hurt her. That’s what Sutch says. Actually what Sutch says is “Bark bark bark bark,” which I assume means what mother doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

One day, mother leaves to run errands, which usually means she’ll be out of the house for an extended period of time, which is when I prefer to well, be a dog. On this particular day though, mother does not close the front door. The screen door is closed but the front door is not. So myself, Sutch, and Rusty do what any three dogs finding themselves in that situation would do, we go outside.

Rusty pushes the screen door open with his snout and Sutch and I file out after him. The sun is bright and the air resplendent with a million tantalizing smells, all of them beckoning. Sutch signals that we should go left but I, being the alpha, say we go right. I actually prefer we go left too but sometimes it is nice to impose your authority on those beneath you.

To the right we go, I say in dog, and the three of us trot down the street. Sutch and Rusty are faster than I am, they’re seasoned and more adept at four-legged transport, but I am nothing if not a trooper. I crawl behind earnestly, eagerly, and bask in the glorious day.

We pass Mrs. Black who says “Now just what are you doing young man?”

I bark at her and she says “Lord have mercy.”

Then we spot the mailman. We detest the mailman. The three of us begin growling and barking and he says “What the fuck are you doing kid?” So I growl some more and try to bite his leg. He says “I will fucking end you,” but he backs away.

We continue up Dorchester Street, all the way to Billingsley. The walk is wonderful and the three of us revel in our newfound freedom. Perhaps we will never return home. We carry onward, towards the park that is nestled between Billingsley and Abbott, when something captures our attention.

A ball, tiny and red, bounces twice, three times, down a nearby driveway and immediately we — Rusty, Sutch, and myself — are in pursuit. The ball picks up speed as it hops down the asphalt. The three of us are hot on its tail. The ball is red, made of Indian rubber, and is hefty. It is undoubtedly a lacrosse ball. That is what the human in me would have noticed. But right now I am in dog mode and all I see is a ball, something to be retrieved at all costs.

The ball is rolling now, down the driveway and into the street. We continue after it. The human in me knows that to follow a ball into the street would be foolhardy but right now my animal instincts take precedence. So I chase the object. It must be chased. It must be retrieved. I’m close. I can almost reach it an-

SCREEEEEEEEEEEECH.

The noise is loud and piercing. Like a tortured bird. It fills my ears. I’m afraid to move. The dog in me has been vanquished, supplanted by something more visceral, more human. Panic and fear flood through my veins. I look up to see Rusty and Sutch clearing the street. They look scared. But soon they will forget about what happened. I do not have that luxury. The screech will be embossed in my conscious for some time to come.

I turn toward the car that almost hit us. It is stopped only a couple of feet away from me. I can reach out and touch the fender but I don’t. Instead, I look up, through the windshield and lock eyes with my mother.

BEN VON JAGOW is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He studied business at the University of Western Ontario before leaving the country to wander. Ben’s work has appeared or is scheduled to appear in Splickety Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Review, and American Football International. For more of Ben’s work visit benviajando.wordpress.com.

Dominic Stabile

“We’re up here bakin’,” Les said to the man pissing on the back of his parents’ house. The man looked up, squinted at the two boys peeking down from the roof. We had crawled out Les’ second floor window, hoping for privacy.

“Nice to meet you, Bacon,” the man said. He zipped his fly and went back into the house.

We laughed and scooted to the wall. The window yawned above us, the noise of the party like distant radio chatter. Truly, it was more humid than hot. The shingles were slick with dew.

“You talked to that girl?” Les asked.

Every time he asked, it was like a knot loosened in my stomach. No one but Les ever asked about her.

I shook my head.

“You need to say something to her.”

“Every time I start to, I feel sick.”

Les sucked his teeth and said, “You just have to do it.” His voice never shook when he said things like that, a thing I envied about him.

We stared across the narrow yard. The dogwood tree and the dead garden were shadows in the orange fog.

“I could talk to her for you,” he said, and I looked at him.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?”

Still, his voice was steady.

“Because you don’t know her,” I said. “And I wouldn’t know what to say.”

He got up and paced toward the edge of the roof. He spat into the yard. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood in a cool way I could never manage — feet splayed out, shoulders rolled forward.

It took a moment for me to realize he’d pulled his phone.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Calling Dej. He’s got her number.”

“Why does Dej have her number?” I said.

I got up and started toward him. My foot slipped on the wet shingles, but I steadied myself.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he said.

I reached for the phone and he jerked away from me, stepping closer to the edge of the roof.

I pulled back and said, “Watch the edge.”

“What’s up, Dej?” he said into the phone.

“Give it to me,” I repeated, reaching out again.

He swung back with an elbow, just missing my jaw. “Hold up.”

“Please, Les,” I said.

Les turned and looked at me. His features slackened in a familiar way. I wanted his sympathy, not a girlfriend. But it always made me feel like shit when he took pity on me. Pity was more demeaning than sympathy.

He lowered the phone and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, a three-dimensional triangle the size of a microwave floated out through his window and hovered between us. Its translucent, black exterior caught the afternoon light like a dark marble.

Les looked at me and sucked his teeth like I was playing a joke on him.

“I got to go,” he said into the phone and hung up. He put the phone in his pocket. He looked at his shoes and shook his head. After laughing to himself, he looked up at me. Purplish light from the triangle painted his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

Les sucked his teeth again, shaking his head. He stared at me.

The object began to hum, and the purple light brightened.

“Seriously, what is it?” I asked.

Les turned away and looked out over his yard. The fog had begun to thin. The dogwood tree had come into view, and I could make out the dead tomato plants hanging from stakes in the garden.

DOMINIC STABILE‘s bizarre fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Sanitarium Magazine, Atticus Review, and Fossil Lake III: Unicornado. He is a regular contributor to Manor House Productions’ horror podcast, which produces haunting audio dramas. His bizarro-noir book series, Stone, is published by Sinister Grin Press. Connect with Dominic on social media or at his website, dominicstabile.com.

Emma Munro

Ella tracked the untagged male to Costco. Like everyone else, he pushed a shopping cart, referred to a list and then selected goods. He wore the perfect outfit to blend in — minimal makeup, silk top, long flowing cardigan, soft flared culottes, and espadrilles. She wanted to grab him and holler, but that would expose his recklessness. Males had been torn apart for less, despite how few there were.

On her left, down past the freeze-dried mozzarella, he reached for a large bag of jerky. Ella palmed her tranquillizer gun and dialled a sedative dose. To camouflage the shot, Ella simultaneously coughed, dropped a box of snack bars and fired. The dart skimmed his bicep. Not surprisingly he spun away, darting back and forth between women bulk-buying for their households. His nimble footwork delighted Ella until she lost sight of him in small appliances. 
She dashed along the central aisle, checking left and right.

The male’s topknot flashed behind a tent display and disappeared.

“There you are,” she muttered. Wheeling about, Ella lumbered down the camping supplies aisle. No sign of him.

After several minutes, she turned a corner into the food court. Luck was on her side today. The male sat at a corner table stuffing purchases into his backpack. He looked around him constantly. Skinny but not malnourished, a rarity for the untagged. He’d need training; what male didn’t. But a woman had paid for those clothes and taught him manners, illegally of course.

“All right,” Ella whispered to herself, “this time make sure it’s a good shot.” She raised the dart gun. The dart glinted in the bright light, clattered to the floor. The male yelped and swung his backpack. Exposed to all, he fled toward the checkouts.

Women shouted to each other across the low tables and food counters. Shoot, shoot! He’s bolting. Get him.

Ella rushed, heart soaring at the thrill of the chase. A gang of women matched her pace, stamping, shouting promises. Hey sweet thing. Come home with us. We’ll do right by you.

She’d be kind to him, she’d take care of him and protect him. She had to get to him before any of these women remembered how close they were to rows and rows of weapons.

“Please,” the male cried from somewhere in the crowd.

“He is mine,” Ella bellowed. “I saw him first.” She crashed toward his voice, shoving women and shopping carts out of her way.

He’s breaking.

The male burst into a clear space not twenty feet away. He leapt across a closed checkout, spectacular in full sprint, backlit by the waning sun.

Ella darted him. He flung his arms out wide. Then he twisted and sunk to his knees. Ella hurried over, reached around his shoulders and supported him against her chest. The second dart had struck him dead in the heart.

“Are you okay?” Ella gently clipped his earlobe, tagging him. The tag winked red, then blue: registered. Legal.

He blinked.

“You’re mine now.”

EMMA MUNRO lives in the Blue Mountains of Australia with one wife and two cats. Her stories have appeared in Hashtag Queer LGBTQ+ Creative Anthology Vol. 1, Hello Horror, Pure Slush, Cosmos and other places. She was born in the year of the Tiger and collects books beyond her ability to read. She’s an avid couch-dreamer, gardener, and bush-walker, and is a sucker for life’s simple pleasures: food, coffee, friends, and reading. She reads for Flash Fiction Online. You can find her at www.emmamunro.com.au.