“A little birdie told me you had a bit too much to drink at last night’s party. According to her, you were so tipsy—maybe even drunk—you asked the cat to sing karaoke with you.”
“I must have been drunk. If I’d been sober, I’d have asked the dog.”
John H. Dromey, by his count, previously had 88 stories published online in 50-Word Stories. He thanks John G. for providing him with the premise for this one.
The photobooth strip clung to the wall.
We giggled as our sparkly dresses reflected in the camera.
The tape’s grip loosened.
We danced all night, dodging our dates’ glares.
You touched our matching bracelets: best friends forever.
It fell.
Yet, now, I sit alone.
at the
back of your funeral.
Yuvna enjoys writing flash fiction and personal essays. She also enjoys reading, hiking, and trying out different cuisines.
I half-watch the game, NFL wildcard, mostly commercials. My brother texts: Michelob. Yesterday’s argument lingers.
He arrives with the beer. We sit. Memories. A family thinned to two.
Once hungry, never full.
Once poor, always poor.
Next day he texts me again: Molson, mañana. I agree.
Beer. Brother. Good enough.
John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist. He’s been publishing short stories, satires and poems since his freshman year in college.
The day Dad died, the world didn’t end—but the birds forgot how to sing. His empty chair echoed louder than thunder. I reached for his voice in dreams, only to wake with nothing but shadows. Grief isn’t loud. It’s the silence that follows love, and never quite leaves.
Jenny Hart wrote this story.
During the miserably hot sultry nights those of us renting rooms on the third-floor climbed through a window onto the porch roof. We set up lawn chairs, sipped beers and smoked cigarettes. We talked about things we’d lost, about breakups and custody battles, and we tried to catch our breath.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Stop! I can’t take any more. Shut off the television. Turn off the radio. Cancel the newspapers. Delete the apps on your phone. Pull Alexa’s plug. Close the blinds; lock all the doors. Got to bed. Pull the covers over your head.
Set the alarm for three years from now.
Sherri Bale is a retired geneticist, part-time personal trainer, Jack Russell Terrier mom, and writer of fiction as short as 50 words and as long as 90,000. Whatever it takes to tell the story.
If days in the previous year seem somber, maybe dismal, cut them up into interlocking parts and box them like a 365-piece puzzle. At start of the New Year, resolve to put them together, studying one bygone segment with each new day. You just might find delight in the details.
Judith wrote this. She resolves to smooth out the jagged parts of life’s puzzlements.
On a sweltering July afternoon, the hospital door whistles shut behind Sarah as she watches a little girl, carried by her father, lick a rainbow sprinkle off her chin, her cheeks rosy and full like Sarah’s own used to be before she started counting everything. This time will be different.
Lauren Vogel is a writer and artist whose work is featured in Nowhere Girl Collective and on her Substack, OwlPerson.
Red theater curtains pull open, dust shaking itself from the satin folds.
The speakers announce The Universe. Stars and galaxies spin. You’re in the front row, eyes reflecting all of that cold bright space. You lean forward, crying.
When the orchestra’s first notes hum through your sternum, you are weightless.
Jessica is an aspiring author of lyrical fantasy and fantastical romances. She shares her writing process and book reviews on Instagram @jess.reads.too.much.
He cries the whole way, wriggling against the straps of his car seat. I hold my breath. Steam rises as cold air hits warm water. Bare feet slap against wet concrete. He dips one tentative toe, then a whole foot. All the way under now, laughing and splashing. I exhale.
Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears or is forthcoming in River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Midway Journal, Lost Balloon, Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, and elsewhere.