She saw him walk from cubicle to cubicle, and her heart filled with longing for him to drop by.
“Would you like a date?” his sweet voice softly whispered in her ear. She stopped breathing for a moment, until noticing a plastic bag of dried fruit next to her face.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher, and enjoys writing short stories, poetry and her blog Tales from the Bus
I’m always skeptical when my boyfriend says he’s a lumberjack.
There’s something about the way he cuts his hair every winter, how his checked flannel shirt hangs loose around his trunk and his thorny beard scratches my cheeks when we kiss—but I wouldn’t put roots down with anybody else.
Guy branched out into story writing to compensate for his wooden personality. This is his seventeenth 50-word story.
Locating a missing stiletto was the key to solving a heinous crime.
The prime suspect had a closet dedicated exclusively to footwear.
Finally, the broody detective in charge found a pair of shoes that matched the bloody footprints in the parlor, but only after a great deal of sole searching.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
“When he saw her helpless and forlorn, there was a stirring in his loins.”
“Cut, cut, CUT! His lions started to stir. His lions, Narrator! This is a circus tragedy, not a Nuevo Erotic Romp!”
“What about swear words?”
“I wouldn’t test me if I were you, Sunshine.”
This is perhaps Connell’s first and last ever foray into the steamy world of Erotic literature. He sometimes succumbs to character development, but always to the absurd.
“There’s a bug.” The new project manager steps into Charlie’s cube. She smells fresh, like she showers.
“Impossible.” He knows she can’t read Java so he points to his screen. “Show me.”
“Good Lord, never mind.” She removes her ruby high heel and smashes the cockroach crawling across his desktop.
Anne Anthony once worked as a systems project manager, but she never wore heels. She writes fiction and hand-carries bugs to safety.
Wearing freshly laundered gloves and coat, none of his body was exposed. He strode to the teller, slid a note across the counter, and unveiled his polished weapon.
“Use this attached hand sanitizer first, then hand over only clean, new bills.”
It was dirty work, but he made it hygienic.
Jason wonders what would be more difficult for him to become: a “germophobe” or a vegan.
Montgomery Jackson’s luck ran out when, at the annual manoeuvres, and in front of the new Commander, he proudly showcased the new guerrilla tactics he had developed.
Charging headlong at the enemy whilst bellowing, hurling vegetation and beating one’s chest like a dominant Silverback was simply not the done thing.
From the North West of England and currently working in local government, Jon likes to write and be creative. He is inspired by flash fiction and other short works, and is regularly blown away by the high standard of 50-word offerings on this site.
“My remarks will be brief today,” an absentminded professor told his class. “I’m suffering from short-turn memory loss.”
“Don’t you mean short-term?” a student asked.
The prof shook his head. “I had the top down on my convertible. When I turned a corner really fast, my lecture notes blew away.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.
Brass blazed, strings sang, and timpani boomed the finale to Venet’s Concerto, but when the orchestra lulled for the star instrument, there was silence.
The xylophone player lay unconscious under a fallen stage light.
“Don’t move him,” said the conductor. “He might have percussion.”
Not even the piccolo player laughed.
E. M. Eastick is an Australian writer currently living in Colorado.
For months, Calum convinced his mother there was no problem. She ignored the signs at first, the spandex stockings, the growing pile of comics, the cape he wore around the house…
But when his mother found Wonder Woman under the bed, she realised it was time to call an intervention.
Guy is still waiting for his invitation to join the Justice League. This is his twelfth 50-word story.