#SelectedFlashFiction – March

We’re absolutely delighted to present an extraordinary piece of flash fiction, carefully selected by our esteemed editors, Lucy Aur and Elizabeth Kemball. Crafted with meticulous attention to detail, this work captures the very heart of the fleeting yet profoundly impactful nature of the genre. It serves as a shining example of our unwavering commitment to delivering literature of the utmost quality, prompting contemplation on multiple levels. We extend a heartfelt invitation to you to dive into this narrative and join us in celebrating the limitless potential of the written word.

Margo Griffin

Margo has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two daughters and to the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Margo’s work has appeared in interesting places such as, Bending Genres, Twin Pies Literary, Maudlin House and Roi Fainéant Press. Twitter @67MGriffin.

Dog Breath

“Another dog dead,” Catherine said, dropping the phone as her hands trembled and betrayed her ambivalent tone. She knew about Dave’s diabetes and epilepsy but took him in anyway, against Joe’s advice. 

“Poor old boy,” Joe said, letting unnecessary silence permeate the moment. 

Catherine sighed. 

“He’s in a better place,” Joe said. 

She imagined her son mouthing something or other to his wife about the dog, his mother’s poor judgment, and how he knew this would happen. 

“Oh, for fucks sake, Joe!”

“What do you want me to say?” 

“His steady breathing felt like a heartbeat against my skin, and when he took his last breath, I damn near lost my breath too.”

“It’s hard to lose another.”

“I held him against my chest with his face pressed against my cheek, and when he softly exhaled that last time, it felt like his goodbye kiss,” Catherine said with a huskiness that surprised her. 

Catherine buried many four-legged children in eighty-one years and often housed up to three at a time, each one’s personality different, but all with a unique ability to cheer Catherine up. The big sheepdog Tom’s cat-like mews made her giggle. Harley and Katy’s ready bark for any noise approaching her door offered her a sense of protection, especially when she lived alone. And when she missed intimacy during this last third of her life and dreamed of husbands and long-ago escapades involving old mattresses, cigarettes, sex, and booze, Blackie and Sadie’s proneness to spooning her in bed helped quiet noises stirred up below her waist. And, finally, Rosie and Dave steadied Catherine with their habit of curling around her neck like soft, plush cashmere scarves with legs and arms dangled by Catherine’s sides when she felt lonely or sad and rocked in her living room chair. Her dogs’ unconditional love ensured Catherine’s survival through three divorces, a child’s death, her addiction (twice), and her daughter’s cancer.

“We’ll drive up Friday and stay the weekend,” Joe said.

“You don’t need to do that, Joe. But I appreciate the gesture,” she said, uninterested in making her son and his wife, Pamela, feel better about her loss. She’d done this before, and somehow, she knew the familiar grief would make for a comfortable bedmate and reminder that an unmatched love once filled that space. Catherine preferred the company of her dogs more than most humans, sometimes, more than her children. And so, when Dave drew his last breath, she knew there would be another.

“Your sister is bringing me to the Powell’s farm tomorrow. Old man Powell died and his son can’t keep the dog. Justine said he’s perfect,” Catherine said. 

“But that dog is over ten years old!” Joe exclaimed.

“I’m eighty-one years old, Joe. The dog might outlive me!”

“But dogs are a lot of work and you don’t get around too well. What if this dog is sick too? Why go through that again?” 

“He needs me and I can’t breathe without him.”