Contributors have the opportunity of suggesting an opening sentence and completing it, if they wish, which will then be published on this page for others to attempt. Submissions of no more than 200 words will then be published on this page and in time will feature in their own book.
April 26, 2024
The lights flickered as the man sat at the table eating his evening meal and his dog howled....
by Mike Davis
The lights flickered as the man sat at the table eating his evening meal and his dog sat at his feet, howling, chops salivating, and eyeing the platter for a morsel. He’d found the stray on his previous trip to the cabin. In the valley where the Greyhound dropped him and his backpack, he’d spotted the dog muzzle-deep in a jettisoned fried chicken tub.
‘What you got there, Fella?’
The dog ignored him, which he considered entirely understandable since the tub was printed with Maisie’s Fried Chicken Ranch in red cursive. Wasn’t it obvious? The dog double-licked the tub pristine and trailed him across town, following along the track through the woods, keeping a polite four-foot gap until they reached the cabin.
Fella had been his companion ever since. That was until the bulb dangling above the table fizzed and popped. He ceased whining while the man felt his way out to the porch and lit up the storm lantern, stretching his arm out in front, illuminating the table.
Fella bolted through the open door into the darkness; the last rib clenched in his jaws. The man shrugged and refrained from yelling. A hungry dog without hope knows no loyalty.
The lights flickered as the man sat at the table eating his evening meal and his dog howled....
by Mike Davis
The lights flickered as the man sat at the table eating his evening meal and his dog sat at his feet, howling, chops salivating, and eyeing the platter for a morsel. He’d found the stray on his previous trip to the cabin. In the valley where the Greyhound dropped him and his backpack, he’d spotted the dog muzzle-deep in a jettisoned fried chicken tub.
‘What you got there, Fella?’
The dog ignored him, which he considered entirely understandable since the tub was printed with Maisie’s Fried Chicken Ranch in red cursive. Wasn’t it obvious? The dog double-licked the tub pristine and trailed him across town, following along the track through the woods, keeping a polite four-foot gap until they reached the cabin.
Fella had been his companion ever since. That was until the bulb dangling above the table fizzed and popped. He ceased whining while the man felt his way out to the porch and lit up the storm lantern, stretching his arm out in front, illuminating the table.
Fella bolted through the open door into the darkness; the last rib clenched in his jaws. The man shrugged and refrained from yelling. A hungry dog without hope knows no loyalty.