Hunt them in dark castles or the bedrooms of virgins.
Dispatch with a blunt instrument. Avoid the heart.
Hang the meat high.
Allow to drain for three days. Do not let it near sunlight.
Slice with a silver carving knife. Serve immediately.
Burn the clothes.
Keep the fangs.
Mark Farley is currently enjoying trying to write a 50-word bio but suspects he may miscalculate. He loves writing short stories and has been lucky enough to see his work appear in several flash fiction magazines. He blogs his creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.com
and often wishes he was better at poetry.
I stop when I see the three previous exterminators decaying on the front lawn, their faces swollen.
The previous owners stopped paying their mortgage and turned the space between their walls into an apiary.
The bank wants to keep the house as intact as possible, despite the growing body count.
J. Bradley is the author of The Adventures of Jesus Christ, Boy Detective (Pelekinesis, 2016) and the Yelp review prose poem collection Pick How You Will Revise A Memory (Robocup Press, 2016). He lives at jbradleywrites.com
Three men walk into a bar.
“Ow!” cries the first man. He clutches his head and falls to the floor.
“Ugh!” cries the second man, slumping lifelessly to the ground.
“It is done,” says the third man. He passes the bloodied rod to the barman, takes his money, and leaves.
Guy worked in a bar once. This is his sixteenth 50-word story.
Sue Ella Brennen stood in front of her mother’s bathroom mirror. Green, glittery dust coated the counter. Globs of mascara below her eye.
Her mother walked into the bathroom. “Susie, what are you doing with my makeup?”
Sue Ella looked at herself in the mirror. “Mama, help me be pretty.”
Gretchen Gales wrote this story.
“We’ve had enough of your cowboy attitude in the workplace,” the boss said. “You’re fired.”
I glanced at the clock. High noon.
“That’s mighty fine,” I drawled, spitting my tobacco onto the floor.
Holstering my six-shooter, I darn grabbed my Stetson and moseyed on out, heading for the nearest saloon.
Jon is from the Northwest of England and wastes most of his time working in local government, when he really wants to just read and write. He thinks his attitude to his hobby of rustling cattle back at the ranch is more lasso-faire than cowboy. He has recently been told one of his slightly longer worded shorts is to be included in an anthology. A doggone first.
Emilia passionately claimed that everyone she loved didn’t love her, and vice versa. She knew that true love was tricky, rather like a sort of magic.
Then one day, quite inexplicably, Emilia met Fred. He was busking on a street corner and just happened to pull rabbits out of hats.
Linda is a teacher from Sydney, Australia, who has had plays go from page-to-stage and poems published in both Hemispheres. Once upon a time, she was invited to the same function as Ben Stiller.
It was his birthday. Born seventy years ago on the last day of December. So this is how his year was to end, wracked in pain, body contorted. He always thought he would enjoy retirement, old age, dying gracefully.
He should never have given the kids that stupid Twister game.
Gordon Lysen resides at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
To test the old saying ‘misery loves company,’ Henry subscribed to a binge-watchable streaming video service, rented a humongous flat screen TV, and hired a caterer.
The first weekend in January, with dieting and exercise strictly prohibited, Henry and his party guests broke their New Year’s resolutions in record time.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Who is that smiling at me in the looking glass? My reflection, I’m told, a true-to-life spitting image. Curiously, he seems not to know his left elbow from his right. So it seems we are one and the same, he and I, except that he is the wrong way round.
Edmund Piper was born in rural Sussex, England, and educated through grammar school to reading classics and law at Cambridge. Athletics Blue. Since graduating, he’s led a lifetime of wedded bliss and a career in paper making and publishing, moving from old fashioned Organisation & Methods to more with-it IT Director. Now he’s free to enjoy life exempted from working for his salary by his employer and is excused from all household chores by his wife.
I don’t know
what I said.
I only know that
it was wrong.
I’m not sure why,
but the pillow in my arms
says that it is so.
I’m well acquainted with my couch these days
–but there I’ll stay.
I love life way too much
to sneak back in.
E.O. Hargreaves recently misplaced a really comfy feather pillow and wishes he knew where the heck it went.