I don’t know why the starry sky
I cannot see how the river carves its way all the way to the ocean
I can only dream where songbirds go to die
I don’t know why
or how, left to its own
a salmon spawning upstream
swims hundreds of miles—home.
Todd is an amateur writer and poet. He met the love of his life in a college writing class. Since then, the two have spent their lives together.
One spring morning
A strong wind arose
Waking the old trees
Their young leaves shimmied
Like tiny gymnasts stretching
Practicing handstands and cartwheels
While nearby other giants
Stood somber as if caught
By some old trauma
Some unspeakable shame
That had broken
Their mighty spirit
So many long years ago
Matthew lives and grows in Maine.
The storm blinded them
“Fetch your pipes!” the captain bellowed
Play and await a response
Standing upon the bow he played
And soon a droning response relayed
With hope renewed, they followed
Finally breaking through nature’s din
To face the cliffs
That echoed his song
A Sirens song
Paul Hock wrote this story.
I see my life.
I see my laughter, my tears. I see passion, hope.
Sadly next I see doubt, anxiety, so much worry, too little joy in the beauty of simply being alive!
Looking back, through dead eyes, too late I see a glorious gift unappreciated.
I see my life.
Lisa Lysen is having fun exploring her passion for words, hoping an adventure in writing may be somewhere in her future.
An inch worm
rides on the ear
of a calico cat.
on the roof next door.
A can for Ore-ida potato chips
worn as a helmet on a child’s head
passes by on the sidewalk.
An old Retriever
asking permission to be young again.
Marjorie lives in Maine.
Night-veiled raven swoops down
settling on a field of stubbled snow
red river birch standing guard along the edge.
The colors of winter envelop the world
stark and soft, like a broken heart
stunning and everyday, like losing love
magical and hard, like brown leaves
skittering across a frozen pond.
Jackie Ascrizzi lives in Montville, Maine, mock orange and peony wafting through the windows.
Sometimes I feel like you’re watching over me from wherever you are.
Sometimes I believe you love me still.
Sometimes the sun reminds me of your sweet caress,
And the moon of your deep, enduring passion.
Sometimes I realize it’s all an illusion and you are
Connie Taylor is an Operations Manager by day, a writer and reader by night. Her writing aspirations began in grade school with her heroine, Pantoulia, who leaped over football fields of fire. She’s contributed to the Journal of Integrated Studies and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction.
Behind her eyes, two serpents swam, one in each eye. Her eyes closed, and their bodies bulged. Wriggling veins under the skin, light’s speed bumps. The serpents had their own eyes, eyes with which they ate. Ate images. Light, dark, good, bad. The serpents in her eyes made her blind.
Matt Weatherbee is a college student.
Paper hearts for wooden souls. Wooden souls for men with minds of cellophane who yearn for women made of air (sweetly scented air) encased in expensive, crystal bottles.
Only the plump sofa is sincere, pleasant in its dowdiness. And the radio, in love, spends its day warbling serenades to it.
Lourdes Tutaine-Garcia is a novelist who has published several poems, the last of which appeared in Avocet.
Fifty-word stories, you say?
I wrote two:
one imaginary, one true;
one momentary, one eternal —
thoughts growing from language kernel.
For a second’s worth a thousand words,
a word a thousand seconds.
A fiction hides a thousand truths,
a truth a thousand fictions.
Word and truth aren’t reckoned by restrictions.
Angela Brett wrote this poem for her blog at angelastic.com as a way to announce her previous two stories published on 50WS.