He stood her up on their third date.
Fifteen years and three lovers later, he finds her in Savenor’s Market. After exchanging greetings, he leaves. She studies the sirloin.
Suddenly he’s back, takes her face in his hands, passionately kisses her, and hurries away.
Stunned, she moves on to produce.
Carol Anne Harvey has been writing poetry and short stories since she was 5. Her focus now is on writing micro memoirs. “Unfinished” is her first submission to 50-Word Stories.
Santa’s drinking Dad’s wine.
Head held back, he guzzles, laughing like a honking goose. Reminds me of Dad.
Mother claims Santa loves me.
I lose hints of faith.
Four years later, Santa’s hurling wine bottles. Mother and I dart among fusillades.
She doesn’t say Santa loves me.
Love’s a myth.
Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, “Strangers,” was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Maudlin House, The Drabble, Door Is A Jar, and Ariel Chart.
“Our little factory is struggling to keep its head above water. Originally, we manufactured buggy whips. Later, we switched to rumble-seat covers for Model A Fords. Now, we need to scrap our outdated business model and look to the future.”
“Producing what product?”
“Waterproof stilts for pedestrians in low-lying cities.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.
I stare at the blank screen, hoping to find a story already written in white letters on the white field.
I begin. “She thrilled as one of his hands went lower and the other went higher—” but suddenly the screen erases my words.
“There will be none of that.”
Tom Willemain wrote this story. See more at TomWillemain.com.
Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs.
She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart, and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration, and covetous love.
They arise from more vigorous and ancient stock than she.
Becky Kjelstrom adores all winged thingies, real and imaginary. See more at thenighmail.com.
At the cemetery, I look at my father in his dark suit and dark shoes and I see a drop of water on his cheek and I think it might be a tear. But then I think no, it’s only the rain. And then it rains and rains and rains.
Robert Hoekman Jr thinks you die when you stop wanting. He writes and writes and writes. He lives on a farm in Virginia and refuses to be put into a box. See more at rhjr.net.
“Pa! They’re here.”
“Who?”
“The crows.”
“Jeez, Ma, give it a rest.”
“They’re watching.”
“What?”
“The garden, just waiting for the plants to grow, ripen.”
“Ma!”
“Then they’ll do their dirty work.”
“Yer crazy, cut it out!”
“Pa! One landed!”
“Wait, Ma, no! Come back. Heck! Crow for dinner again.”
Robin writes in the odd corners of the day and night and often about birds. See more at thenightmail.com.
We woke under a perilous sun: too red, too hot, too close. How did we come here and how would we ever get back?
We meant only to watch, to observe the Arcane Plane. But one cannot observe without becoming part. The mirror showed us more than our own darkness.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and publishes an annual anthology for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her on Facebook.
No one cries but Grandma. She cries at the wake after, in the church basement next to the table with the sheet cake. I tell her hang in there, Grandma, because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Then I go into the bathroom and stand inside the stall.
Robert Hoekman Jr thinks you die when you stop wanting. He writes and writes and writes. He lives on a farm in Virginia and refuses to be put into a box. See more at rhjr.net.
Where is he?
Take a happy memory, old, rarely visited. Imagine it as a painting, oil on canvas.
See the subjects, how they laugh, smile, dance. One does not. Follow that gaze to the dark corners. Someone casts a long shadow, out of view.
There he is. The Shadow Man.
Dmitri lives among the shadows, especially when there are dishes to be washed.