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.
it’s been three days since your funeral
a white-crown sparrow pecks incessantly at the patio door,
wings fluttering madly to remain airborne, feet flailing the air
i blow a kiss, smile through fresh currents of briny dew and wave just as madly until,
satisfied, you fly away
one last time
Craig W. Steele lives in the lake-effect snow belt of northwestern Pennsylvania where, by day, he’s a university biology professor. He enjoys writing both short fiction and poetry and dreams of becoming a widely-read unknown writer.
Sometime wet it is
Sometime be cold
Sometime the day be long
Sometime day too short
Sometime you laugh away
Sometime the pain just stays
Sometime be old
Sometime be alive
Sometime be dead you
Sometime God is far away
Sometime in my head
Rob Vass is a concrete guy who got old. Got stuck in the office much like a troll under the bridge growling at office staff and telling war stories of the craft. But he lives on a coffee farm and makes good salsa, growing peppers with his good lady. Who like a good story.
I stayed up all night. The stars kept their promise. I thought all I could think, and yet I could think of nothing except how I was deeply changed, as the light of the slowly rising sun subtly transformed the blindness of the dark horizon into something more than morning.
Todd is an amateur Writer and Poet, and an aspiring Artist; he often times finds himself awake in the wee hours, hoping for some sort of inspiration.
I told him I had a dream.
“Dreams are for starry-eyed saps.”
So I told him I had a goal.
“Goals are for bankers and life-coaches.”
So I told him I had a thing
and he said,
“What the heck do you mean by a ‘thing’?”
Shauna Robertson hails from the north-east of England and currently lives, writes, and draws in the south-west. Her poems are widely published in journals and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic and have won, or been shortlisted for, a number of awards, including a nomination for the Forward Prize in the category Best Single Poem. A chapbook of poems, Blueprints for a Minefield
, was published by Fair Acre Press in 2016, while artwork and poem-pictures have been exhibited in a number of galleries. Shauna has performed her work at festivals, book launches and spoken word nights. Read some poems at shaunarobertson.wordpress.com
to close the distance
and reach out
and accepting you,
just as you are.
I hold on
and tell you
to leave without me,
Munira Sayyid recently realized her passion for writing. She urges you to try as well.
Tiny settled slowly, until the wind encouraged her. She spiraled skyward, somersaulting, diving, playing hopscotch with the cedars, hovering while drinking in the view.
She finally joined millions of tiny friends, covering the meadow in a shimmering lake of white. Watching the tree, waiting in anticipation for the old lady.
Paul Hock is an author from Fergus, Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhock.com
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
A beautiful flower, blooming for a season; radiant colour, my soul lifted. All things are fleeting, the fragile more so. Your short season over, you left us, transformed back into the loam, nourishing the earth as your love once nurtured me. Goodbye my daughter. Your time short; your existence profound.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He tried to be good once. It didn’t take.