“You laugh very easily,” Dot said.
And that’s how Tim met Dot. Before he could reply, she’d found the refreshments table.
Dot sat alone with her Rich Tea finger and tepid cuppa, watching Tim and Sandra laugh it up in the foyer.
You’ll learn, she thought, nibbling her dry biscuit.
James Whitman writes from Sunderland. He laughs easily, and his youngest son thinks it’s hilarious to buy him Rich Tea biscuits as presents.
A streetlamp guides me, a blurred pool of light. My spine curves to the handlebars.
Yesterday my conceit ruled, and I left. Afterwards, I wrote to her: bungled, confused words about freedom.
I must reach her before the letter.
The lamppost’s swan-neck is thinned by fog, delicate as a nerve.
Elizabeth Leyland writes short and long fiction and lives in the UK. She has been published by 50-Word Stories, Paragraph Planet, Fairfield Scribes and CafeLit.
He moved the couch.
Moved it again.
It felt right where it was before she bought the end table she didn’t take with her but the end table didn’t feel right anywhere else so he couldn’t move the couch back.
An inch to the left. Two inches forward.
Almost there.
Currently residing in the Rust Belt, Erika Noel Johnson enjoys tea, horror movies, and bad art. She’s figuring things out.
Greetings, gentle readers and fellow travelers.
By invitation or simple chance, today we are met on this bridge of deciding.
Behind us lies the immutable past.
The diverging way, with its many endings, stretches out before us.
But beware, there’s a troll lurking beneath our bridge, whose name is: choice!
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Alone on the empty dock, she removes her wedding band and fights the urge to hurl it into the sea. Bubbles rise and burst beneath her.
Just another fish.
Still, she peers further into the inky blackness and frowns at a floating handkerchief. She hopes she has used enough rocks.
Patrick Eades is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is working on his debut novel. You can find more of his work at Patrick Eades – Medium.
He timephases into the bank vault. Making the most of his 27 minutes, he empties 63 boxes. Forty seconds left, he tries to phase out. Too late, he discovers time travel is unidirectional, toward the past. There is only one future awaiting him.
And the bank will reopen 9am Monday.
Tery has been an actor, director and a teacher, and is now trying his hand at writing. A cat lover, he is ruled over by Linus, Bela and Fluff.
I’ve always wanted to ride in a luxurious limousine – this one is a black Cadillac. The sun’s rays stream through its oversized windows but fail to warm my frigid body.
The Caddy steers into a gated community where rooftops appear scarcely visible above mounded ground.
My new forever home.
Retired and living the dream in Florida, Pam has had a passion for writing since age 8, and is currently putting together short stories for publication in her first book. When not writing, she reads, knits, runs marathons, cooks (and eats), and plays with her cat.
He paints spiderwebs with a single-hair brush, “enhancing” their beauty with vibrant colours. This renders them too garish and brittle for catching flies, forcing the spiders to abandon their webs or starve to death. When talking about the spiders with his friends he always refers to them as his “collaborators”.
Sam Hall is a young writer from England. His work has previously appeared on FiftyWordStories.com. Sam enjoys exploring various genres, with a particular interest in flash and micro fiction that weirds the normal and normalises the weird. When he’s not writing, Sam likes to worry about not writing.
She packs everything bad in a huge suitcase. House cleaned, car loaded, keys turned on years of indescribable misery. Then she’s gone, accelerating into this unexpected future overflowing with possibilities. That last blushing apple picked in passing tastes impossibly sweet, like freedom.
Someone will open the suitcase eventually. Find him.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
A month before I married his daughter, my father-in-law told me about a summer job he worked in his late teens.
It was for a logging company near Sudbury, but he wasn’t a logger.
He walked down new trails ahead of the loggers, spade in hand, killing all the rattlesnakes.
Peter Wilson is a freelance writer living in Toronto.