“Why so glum?” my old buddy asked.
“I’m getting married tomorrow,” I said.
“You don’t seem too happy about it,” he said.
I just shrugged.
“C’mon,” he said, “pack a bag. We’ll hop a Greyhound and spend a few days in Vegas.”
Now I have to live with the consequences.
Alex Markovich started writing fiction late in life. He’s 76. He also wrote You Promised.
This coming Tuesday, July 5, marks the completion of a second full year of daily stories for FiftyWordStories.com. Join me in a big “Yay!”
So much great stuff has happened over the past year. It’s been a ton of fun. But what you want to know is what this means for the site, of course. At the end of Year One I took a bit of a hiatus to get started on putting together Fifty-Word Stories: Volume One, to recharge my creative batteries, and to make some adjustments to the website. I’m going to be doing something similar this time.
Year Two will end on Tuesday, July 5, 2011, with a final story written by me. The plan for Year Three is that it will start on Monday, August 1, 2011, though that could possibly change, depending on if I need more time to prepare. I’m going to do my best to fill the time in between with as many guest stories as possible. To that end, I have over two weeks’ worth of stories from King Kool lined up already, as well as some submissions from other writers. I’m always interested in receiving more submissions, of course!
During the hiatus, I’m going to be working hard on writing my Master’s thesis, as well as preparing Fifty-Word Stories: Volume Two for a release sometime this fall. More news on that front will become available as I continue to make progress on it.
I’m really looking forward to continuing to entertain people with my writing and the writing of all the talented people out there who have submitted guest stories over the past two years. I hope you share my enthusiasm for where the site’s been and where it’s headed!
Modest Maude was a very proper woman.
No one had ever seen so much as Maude’s ankles or wrists, not even her doctor.
She had married a blind man, and still made him keep his eyes closed while she was getting undressed.
But her laughter made the stars come out.
“What do you think?”
“There are definitely ghosts in this house,” the second said.
“It is haunted, for sure,” the first said.
“Let’s get out of here,” the second said.
“Where shall we go?” the first asked.
“To a place that is not haunted,” the second said. “I hate crowds.”
Martin Jaeger has been published or is soon to be published in several print and online magazines. He tries to create imaginative pieces that will intrigue the reader, who will then have a greater appreciation for writers.
The day before yesterday, I was flying high. I had the tiger by the tail.
Yesterday, I crash landed. The tiger turned on me.
Today, I’ve got my feet on the ground. I’m looking the tiger in the eye. The world is my oyster: I’m putting on my water wings.
This story is based on a title suggested by @RubyCosmos.
Like clockwork, he’d get up at 6:00 AM and get ready for work.
Immediately, the maid who knew her secret scurried into the room to help her choose her costume for the day. Then she, too, went to work.
Imagine their surprise when their eyes met: a client, and a provider.
Tanja lives in Malta, Europe, with her husband and three children. She freelances for print and online media in Maltese and English.
Melinda was a contrarian: she even became a tomboy just to prove the midwife wrong.
She was an anti-Earth activist, campaigning against her parents’ environmental research. Her slogan was “Green thumb; grass knuckles.”
They told her punching the ground didn’t actually hurt Mother Nature, which made her hit it harder.
This story is based on a title suggested by @KingKool.
Poor Jack.
Sweet, but a little dull. He liked YouTube and drawing crazy stuff; could have been an artist if it weren’t for me.
We thought the food of the gods was cute stuff like ambrosia. It’s not. I ate Jack. Not all of him, just that bloody, soppy heart.
Claire Martin is an almost-graduate student who must get a job, or learn to eat dust.
Kevin, like most men, tended to measure himself by his accomplishments. That was why he worked so hard to get his picture up on the wall at Mister Meatmouth’s Restaurant.
“I ate it all,” he told his friends, “in one sitting.” They respected him for that.
Inexplicably, most women didn’t.
This story is based on a title suggested by @KittyCatalyst.
For the Dying Race, there is no place,
In worlds of field or forest
For that breed, there is no need
There is no hope of trying.
Yet hope remains, that hope’s campaigns
Will break those chains
And overcome reigns
Of races better fit.
Do not outsource.
Stay the course.
Bobby Langhorne is a programmer and a wishful storyteller.