Charlie and Mable hadn’t been on a date in years; their 32-year marriage felt lifeless. To rekindle things, Charlie called up a favorite restaurant from their youth.
“I’d like a reservation for 7:00 tonight for Mabel and Charlie Williamson.”
“Well, alright. Is this replacing the reservation Mable made for 6:00?”
Robert Russell is an English Education major at Black Hills State University.
He gave everything. Candles and wine and his undivided attention. He gave me a ring he had fashioned with twine into a lover’s knot. He gave me his love. He would have given his last Rolo.
I had my own agenda. I gave him my best smile as I left.
Jean lives in Bath, UK. She loves writing 50 word stories and won’t give up trying!
Uncle Willy’s rescued Heeler pup grew into an sneaky biter. Nine leg bites in two years.
After bite ten, Willy retaliated with a toothy gnash to the dog’s foreleg. A respectful friendship ensued, perhaps the first for each.
Limping along our grim barrio streets, they plant a seed of hope.
Lou is new to the 50-word story world. He now knows what a trout feels like when the hook is set. He takes writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
People usually covered their ears, or skipped the aviary altogether. Oddly, the squawking didn’t phase the little girl or her mother. They smiled, admiring the large, colorful birds.
The zookeeper wondered how anyone could tolerate such obnoxious shrieking when suddenly the child lifted her tiny hands and signed, “Pretty feathers.”
Pontius Paiva is loud and colorful. And although he probably belongs in a cage, he’s flying high at pontiuspaiva.com
Cuddling that bright morning. Our relationship
had been called lovingkindness by Buddha himself
one ancient morning as the Morningstar appeared.
Like enlightenment, her eyes flashed,
kidneys failing: her urine ran clear like water.
My startled response frightened her.
Yet her eyes said, it’s okay,
see you next time my love.
Matthew lives in Maine. He still remembers the day his son called from school. His student teacher had brought three kittens in a cardboard box from her dorm. “Please, can I bring one home?”
“One barn cat’s enough,” Ma answered. “More, they’ll steal the chicks.”
Pa fetched an old grain sack.
At the pond, he paused a moment, still as stone, before turning away. Seeing I’d followed, he squatted, blocking my view, big hands wiping my cheeks.
Then he stood. “Best milk those cows.”
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poetry, and sometimes micro-fiction. This story previously appeared in The Binnacle’s ultra-short edition, Fall, 2016. If you’d like to know more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com
It was Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve (December 17th). Emily crossed the softball diamond in the snow, to where Sister Amy had had a tooth loosened by somebody’s loose ball in autumn.
“I’m fine!” she’d told them, face in hand.
Secretly Emily practiced alone until spring.
John Gabriel Adkins is a Pushcart-nominated writer of microfiction, anti-stories and other oddities, and is a member of the Still Eating Oranges arts collective. This year his work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Literary Orphans, SPANK the CARP, Five 2 One, Sick Lit Magazine, The Sleep Aquarium, and more.
I only married her to get citizenship, paid 15 grand and thought that was it. Then I couldn’t forget her.
She once asked me if I liked blondes or brunettes and I said, “Any colour, as long as she smiles like you.”
Five years later we got married for real.
Connell writes again.
I spin with my daughter in the front yard. Stars cut the night. Together we get dizzy. She sinks to her knees and giggles. She orders me: “Faster! Faster!” I turn round and round. Arms out. Head back.
Selling the car gives us another month in the house. Spinning. Spinning.
Jonathan Kosik takes photos of fast cars and lives with his wife and daughter just outside Nashville, Tennessee. See more at jonathankosik.com.
“I dare you.” Three words and you could make me do anything.
“I’m not afraid.”
Inside, shouting, our voices echo. Brothers, best pals in the world.
A noise spooks us; running home.
We stop and you laugh.
You’ve lost that cap you always wore. I’m not going back for it.
Fraser never did get his hat back, but it looked stupid anyway. Sometimes David wishes they were still best pals in all the world.