The picnic was everything they’d hoped for.
The table, beautifully set, sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Heavenly aromas wafted on the summer breeze.
They anxiously gathered around in anticipation of the upcoming feast.
Betty brought potato salad.
Bill made his famous meatloaf.
Sadly for them, Mildred brought a fly swatter.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories, cartoon captioning contests, and the occasional picnic.
She’s late. Taking the last empty chair, facing the painting of the cemetery, Emily tries to avoid looking at it. Her eyes are drawn to the crumbling tombstones. Shapes rise, like exhaust from underground boilers.
The Ancestors join them. They call to her. She has no choice but to respond.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
I watched as a winged angel sailed out into the moonlit sky. I stood there speechless and motionless, one hand still strapped to the bed.
I do not know who brought a coverlet and draped it around my nakedness. No one spoke for a very long time.
She is gone.
David is not sure what love is, but he is always trying to catch it.
Every picture tells a story, but sometimes the story’s a lie. Couples on prom night, big smiles, tight, shiny faces, one with fragile eyes. Old friends, good times.
Had he forgotten? The clinic, the protesters, the pain?
She “liked” it but would not “love” it, had no heart for him.
Elly McFadden studied creative writing at the University of South Carolina and teaches online English courses. She lives in Denver, North Carolina with her husband and two children.
Today a potential client called and asked if he had to pay child support if his minor child had been sentenced to murder. I told him that I don’t do child support or family law cases and referred him to a colleague who does.
Then I went home and cried.
Melissa is an attorney who lives in Little Rock, Arkansas with her family.
There was a great gaping hole in his life. He hadn’t dug it himself; he’d certainly allowed them to backfill it on top of him.
He could be assertive; he’d just never seen the need.
He toyed with a bit of kidney on his plate, doubting that cannibalism would help.
Absorbing the Donegal hills from distance only now, Perry McDaid’s creativity subsists on nature’s palette and scents. Unfortunately this sometimes involves silage.
Sophie’s walking home in bloody clothes.
Telling herself:
Moonlight’s sunlight gone round the block.
Telling herself:
Eight Chicago blocks is one mile.
Telling herself:
Eight blocks from here to home.
Sophie’s telling herself:
She’s not going to Hell for shooting and killing three frat boys who cornered her in Wrigleyville.
If you like, keep in touch with Jim at his Substack.
Edward massaged his seventy-three-year-old back as he sat in his cramped attic. When he opened the largest box, he laughed out loud.
“Grandpa?” Maddox tapped his phone and removed his earbuds. “What’s that?”
“My old vinyls and my record player.”
“Cool! Play them for me.”
Edward’s heart swelled with pride.
Jenise Cook lives with her husband in the north-central highlands of Arizona where it snows. Jenise enjoys visitors to @jenisecook on Twitter and JeniseCook.com, where you can find a list of her published works.
Watering a plant on the balcony, he glanced across the street, comparing his withering creature with a lush garden opposite. His neighbor’s eyes were green, her fingers were emerald. Taking a leaflet from his mailbox, “Plant care for busy professionals”, he smiled for the first time since losing his job.
Nelly Shulman is an author of four popular historical novels in the Russian language. She is working on the fifth novel in this series and on the non-fiction book about the Russian revolution. She is a recepient of three literary awards. nellyshulman.com
I once dated a man who never smelled. No sour morning breath, no corn-chip feet, no pungent sweat. My nose—less trusting than my heart—sniffed for signs of humanity. But even his gas didn’t provide a whiff. Farts of a hollow man, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Laurie P. Mendoza is an elementary school counselor and children’s author who has been published in Spider Magazine. She also dabbles in playwriting, personal essays, and holding a grudge. This is her second story for Fifty-Word Stories.