Killer
mauled my hand sinking shards of marigold glass into flesh. A savage display of dominance. At least, that’s what he believed in his tiny dog brain. He drooled and gummed with admirable gusto. Didn’t break skin. Back legs kicked arms cradling him. Hot in the shelter’s bleach-drenched foyer. Easy boy, I laughed, but the perceived joviality sent him into a frenzy. Pom-a-Pug or chicken-breathed demon? It was hard to tell. He was one of those COVID dogs. Bought as a distraction from death then abandoned when the pandemic became a Z-lister on the economic stage. Kinship bloated his freshly shaved mass. Potential rolls of flab. Pot-bellied. Both having spent too long performing before lockdown windows. I’d never seen a creature present so small. A reflection of loss in twin black globes stained with crusts of grief. A crooked tail wagged Killer’s rusted frame and I had never felt more beloved than in the moment he tugged on the lead to reach me to bite me to the bone.
When our first child is born my husband is racking up an all-time high score on Mario Kart
The two events occur simultaneously and rip a tear in the fabric of the universe. Reality is unimpressed by the mess we’ve made so we try to cram the baby back in to ensure not everything happens at once except my husband has ordered take-out and the driver is like whoa and flies off mimicking the drone that’ll soon replace him and then it’s all chicken wings and umbilical cords and Princess Peach is spiralling after being hit by a turtle and we apologise to all of creation for messing this up so spectacularly as we are all new to this pixilated world nothing is ever going back to the way it was and we are all crying for very different reasons.
Cold Case
You swore it really happened. The McDonald’s in town rocked a cool pirate ship and when you were ten you had a birthday party on board. Weren’t enough room for the whole class, so Lenny Jenkins were forced to sit on a stool that looked like a giant burger.
He cried in greasy isolation until he were told he could upgrade to nine nuggets instead of the regulation six. Yer Mam, can’t remember her name, said you had to take ‘im backstage to make up for not being on deck. But it were just stained stainless steel and teens with mopped faces watching patties steam with undead apathy.
Lenny weren’t even your real friend.
You’re sobbing now, insisting I ordered a Filet-O-Fish with large fries. We shared a chocolate milkshake because we shared everything back then.
I have no idea how you can be so sure.
I shake my head, say I honestly don’t remember much. I were probably thinking about football. Lenny liked football. He were a right Tractor Boy.
A tour of the big freezer were the highlight of your coming-of-age. The fact they found a trace of Lenny on a frigid hash brown that’d slid down the back racking weren’t my problem. No, I weren’t annoyed he got more nuggets than me, or that you said he should hang out with us more. When I last saw ‘im he were screaming because he never knew burgers came from cows. That were his mam’s fault. Poor education.
He died three days later from a nosebleed, yeah, but weren’t he always heading the ball with his face? That’s why his nose were flat. Body can only take so much nonsense.
They buried him with the badge they gave you with all the stars on it? Nice of you that. But it ain’t relevant.
In the dock, I shrug at the prosecution, say, “I don’t even like fish.”
Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. Forward Prize and Best of the Net nominee, she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.