I shouldn’t be here, he thought.
But the physicians marveled at him. “Ship broke in atmo?” “How many procedures?” “The team outdid themselves.”
No one asked the marvel whether he wanted saving—without legs, arms, jaw, or sight. So, the marvel sat in his case—talked at, rotated for sores.
Her palate was broader than her father’s. On her thirteenth birthday she ate the entire cake. But she’d still not spoken. Too much sky up here?
I led her to the nearest cave and she clattered inside with a thunderous, visceral bellow. I feared it was the sound of hope.
Tamsin and Mark Farley decided to write sequels to each other’s most recent 50-word stories. This is a sequel to Fostering the Minotaur’s Daughter.
It was Jo-Jo’s plan.
Break, enter, grab the artwork, drive.
But, she was home. A shot was fired.
A delay – the painting, which one?
Then sirens and a chase.
He’d had years to think about it.
Vivid in his memory, the searing heat of the asphalt on his face.
Jennifer M. Smith is a thinker, a tailor, an author, a sailor, but she’s no thief.
We watched the eclipse and the darkness that crept over the land.
No one expected that the darkness would remain.
We waited and watched in disbelief.
They emerged from the muck, the bowels of dusty towns, and neighbors’ dens, emboldened by the shadows and the promise of a new order.
Alison witnessed the solar eclipse, and wondered what would happen if the darkness stayed. Then she wondered whether the darkness has already prevailed.
Black as night and as silent as the rain he slipped over the rooftop edge.
Descending the building, he closed in on his target. Reaching the window, he peered inside and reached for his gun.
A woman appeared and the window swung open.
As silent as the rain, he fell.
Life knocks us all off a window ledge from time to time.
The Angel said that the date was in the message somewhere.
I read between the lines, rotated it, flipped it, rearranged characters… Nothing.
Well, there was always the simple approach. I read left to right and there it was when the skies darkened.
Should have tried the simple approach first.
Joey has never met an angel, at least none that he knows of. He’s probably met a few fiends though. You can visit him at joeytoey.com.
At twelve years old, she stood twelve feet tall. Her horns added another ten inches. The shaggy hair on her face and chest was thick and uncombed. Flies teased around her head like dark memories, darting in to nestle on her shoulders. She never allowed me to brush them away.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
A body on the floor, warm blood drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.
He has my face. My beautiful young face.
I was going to set things right. That’s what the time machine was for. But he wouldn’t listen and I got angry.
I always was my own worst enemy.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland where, in between the odd piece of writing, he plots the downfall of humanity on behalf of his Martian overlords.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.