Fhilcar Faunillani 
The rain fell hard, pooling in the street. A small dog lay crumpled in a puddle, shivering. His eyes, wide and searching, held no blame, only confusion. He had chased a car. The tires screeched, and he fell. The woman inside, his owner, didn’t stop. She drove on, leaving him in the wet, cold dark. …
The dog’s eyes met mine on a dusty sidewalk. They were soft, tired, pleading. She lay on the cracked pavement, a heavy chain around her neck. Her newborn pups squirmed beside her, tiny and blind, seeking warmth. The chain was short, barely letting her turn. She tried to nudge them closer, her movements slow, deliberate. …
The rain fell soft on the empty street. A small dog lay trembling, her eyes wide with fear. Sweetie didn’t know why the car hadn’t stopped. Her body ached, her leg useless, her head heavy with a wound too raw to touch. She curled tighter, as if hiding could erase the pain. The world felt …
The dog lay in the alley, ribs sharp against his spotted coat. His eyes, dull but hopeful, met mine, and I felt a quiet ache. Two women saw him first, a Dalmatian so thin it seemed impossible he still breathed. They recognized him from the neighborhood, a ghost of a dog they hadn’t seen in …
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 …