Fhilcar Faunillani 
The landfill stretched wide, a gray sea of forgotten things. Two puppies huddled together, their fur matted with dirt. Their small bodies shivered, but their eyes held a spark, searching for something—someone—to trust. They were tiny, barely more than shadows against the heaps of trash. Fleas crawled over their skin, and their ribs pressed against …
The streetlamp flickered, casting a pale glow on the alley. A small cat crouched, eyes wide, trembling. Her fur was matted, her body tense against the cold. She was alone, and the night was heavy. I watched from the shadows, my breath catching as she darted behind a dumpster. Hours passed. My knees ached from …
The kitten’s wail cut through the dusk. A small, trembling sound behind a garbage can. In Brooklyn, where concrete swallows softness, the cry was sharp, like a shard of glass. I knelt beside the can, its rusted edge cold against my palm. The kitten, barely six weeks old, shivered in a patch of spilled grease. …
The hallway smelled of dust and forgotten things. A hairless cat, small and shivering, hid behind a splintered board. He was a shadow, barely there. His skin, wrinkled and gray, looked too thin for the world. I knelt, heart heavy, and offered a bowl of food. His eyes, wide and trusting, met mine. No fear. …
The kitten’s cry was faint, trembling in the dusk. It pulled me from the sidewalk’s rhythm. I followed the sound, steps quickening, heart already heavy. A small black shape huddled by the road, barely moving. Its hind legs dragged uselessly, like forgotten things. No mother cat appeared, no one else stopped. The world moved on, …
The kitten lay still, its tiny chest barely rising. My friend’s hands trembled, holding it close. Yesterday, he’d found it in an alley, shivering but alive. Its eyes had sparkled then, full of fight. Now, under a dim porch light, those eyes were half-closed, its body cold. He whispered its name—none yet given—hoping it could …
The puppy lay in the dirt, eyes wide with fear. Her tiny body trembled, one leg twisted wrong. She was alone in Chepo, a place where dust swirls and time slows. Cars roared past, indifferent. Her whimpers were soft, swallowed by the noise of the world. She was so small, barely a shadow against the …
The dog lay in the dirt, ribs sharp against his skin. His eyes, dull as old glass, stared at nothing. He was Barsik, once promised a good life. A family had taken him in, their voices warm with vows to care for him. But promises broke. They left him behind, a shadow of the dog …
The old dog limped down the cracked sidewalk, her belly heavy with pups. Her eyes, cloudy with age, held a quiet plea. She moved slowly, her fur matted, a tumor bulging under her ribs. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her. Sooni, they called her, the stray who begged for scraps. She’d wander the streets, her …
Her eyes were dull, like forgotten coins in a dusty jar. Sky lay in the dirt, her body a quiet ruin. She was in a backyard, caged among rusted wire and broken boards. Her fur, once soft, clung to her ribs. The man who kept her there saw no value in her anymore. She was …
The dog’s eyes, clouded and unseeing, searched the air. His ribs pressed sharp against his skin. He lay on the cold floor, trembling, his small body barely five pounds. Richie, they called him now. His world had been hunger, a chain, a life unloved. I knelt beside him, my hand hovering, unsure if touch would …
The warehouse was dark, its corners heavy with silence. A tiny puppy, barely a shadow, curled up alone. Her eyes flickered, tired and small, searching for something—someone—to care. I drove through the pre-dawn chill from Pagsanjan to Parañaque, my heart tight with worry. Three in the morning, and her fragile life hung in my thoughts. …
Elvis lay in the dirt, his breath shallow, eyes wide with fear. The world had been cruel, but he didn’t know why. His fur was matted, thin as an old blanket, barely covering the bones beneath. The chain around his neck had worn a wound so deep it seemed to swallow hope. Flies buzzed around …
The rain fell hard, soaking the cracked pavement outside the factory. A pitbull lay there, her belly swollen, her eyes fixed on nothing. She was waiting. Maybe for someone who never came. Her chain, rusted and heavy, hung loose around her neck. My friend’s photo, sent two days ago, showed her there—alone, pregnant, abandoned in …
Lucinda’s eyes gleamed through the tar. They begged for someone to see her. The landfill stretched wide under a merciless sun. Trash smoldered, sending sharp, acrid smoke into the air. Lucinda, a small dog with matted fur, had wandered here for days, nosing through scraps for something to eat. Her ribs pressed against her sides. …