The neighbors had loud arguments at all hours.
I tried everything: I beat on the walls, left increasingly hostile notes, got up at night and screamed through the walls as revenge. Nothing worked.
Finally, I called the landlord.
He told me the unit next door had been vacant for months.
Andy Koopmans wrote this story.
“I vant to suck your blood!”
“I’ll report you.”
“…Vut? Vut are you meanink?”
“I mean I’ll call the cops. Actually no, I’ll call a magazine and give them the scoop, first. You’re famous, right? I’ll get big bucks and your career will be over.”
“…And zey call ME bloodthirsty.”
Tim Sevenhuysen is the editor of FiftyWordStories.com.
Fry flour in the pan juices. Stir in stock (chicken, or marmite and water).
Add worcestershire sauce and pepper.
What could possibly go wrong?
Whisk to get rid of lumps.
Sieve to get rid of lumps.
Hope mother-in-law to be doesn’t notice lumps.
It’s not a witch’s brew.
A little over a year ago Debb Bouch entered a short story into a Needle in the Hay contest. Regular contests since have provided encouragement and challenge. And writing is all about challenge.
He woke up every day, March 6th, and though he was used to the soft, blue hospital light and the throbbing pain, what he couldn’t get used to was the infinite recursion of questions posed, his finite choice of answers.
“And you remember everything?” she asked.
Rather: she always asked.
Lara Alonso Corona was born in a small city in the north of Spain. She completed Film and TV studies in Madrid before moving to London. Her fiction has been showcased in ABC Tales and the Glass Woman Prize, and more recently she has been published by The Copperfield Review, Devilfish Review, and The WiFiles. She is now working towards a degree in creative writing.
I asked my mom, “Why do dogs eat grass?”
It was then that she started feeding it to me, and I found out that the answer was because it makes them throw up.
I told her my findings but she keeps feeding it to me anyways. I still wonder why.
Joe Russo has been published on two other sites. He is a current writing student and active blogger. He is also an avid fan of Sex and the City.
Stephen was born to be a writer, his parents always said so.
His latest book would be a bestseller, they bragged, a page-turner with a twist ending that would set the world on fire.
“But it had all been a dream,” he’d typed on that last page.
“Brilliant!” they’d gasped.
Michael McKinnon, of Toronto, has been a writer, journalist, and communications professional for more than 20 years.
He was now a different man. Clothed in brittle skin, reduced to bones, he lay swallowed up by the bed. Drawing in air, his lungs choked.
Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes. Burning tears plunged down my cheeks.
Cancer had stolen my son, and turned him into a collector of time.
Chong Teck Sim is an aspiring writer from Singapore with a passion for art, travel, history, writing, literature, languages, and world cultures. In his free hours, he participates in volunteer work to gain life skills.
He stumbled headfirst into the river.
The clouds opened up, light shone forth, and a voice said, “Believe in me, and let go.”
Then there was fire and brimstone and another voice said, “Clutch at these straws!”
“Bugger this!” he thought and swam to the shallow side and walked away.
Read more of Connell’s fractured words at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.
“You’ve been locked in this bathroom far too long,” I whispered into the grimy mirror.
I sighed and straightened my black velvet dress. The door creaked open and I could feel their penetrating gazes.
Upon entering my husband’s funeral, I prayed that I could feign the tears one last time.
Isabella Blakeman is a sophomore at Yale University majoring in Latin American Studies.
What I saw was breathtaking: a vast, complex maze of high stone walls enclosing intricate, overlapping passageways containing sharp turns, hidden traps, and secret doors that looped back to the starting point.
And at the center: a large kite, strong enough to carry a man to freedom. No strings attached.
Bob Thurber wrote this for C.