When Pam Sweeney began going on and on every time any of us ran into her, it was understandable: her husband, nice Phil, had died just two months before. But we also agreed it was time to start getting things back to normal, to start subtly avoiding her as usual.
Paul Lamar wrote this story.
He studied his frail body’s reflection in the dairy case door. What was it he had come for?
His flushed face pressed against the cool glass. A voice came to him as if from another place or time.
“You alright, sir? Sit here, you’ll feel better.”
Butter! That was it!
Dick Narvett is a retiree from a prior life in international business and independent film acting. He currently resides in Pennsylvania where he writes flash fiction and poetry.
Hello?
Can you hear me?
I’ve been calling out
For years now
To anyone
Ever since I went missing.
Are you still looking for me?
I’m right here.
I haven’t moved
Not since
He buried me for all those years.
Please don’t give up on me.
I haven’t on you.
James Schell has a BFA and typically works in photographic film and ceramics. He has been writing for years but has just started trying to get his work published and is excited to see where it takes him.
The elf sat on the shelf. Waiting. Observing. Dad was oblivious while Mom ignored the stupid decoration. The children uneasily crept past him in the living and dining rooms, even their bedrooms!
Good, bad. Whatever. Sitting among the gifts, the elf clutched the cold scalpel.
Christmas, so naughty and nice!
Retired and writing when not busy with retirement, Bob enjoys creating short fiction and poetry. Bob loves the spirit of the holidays but finds a particular decoration just too creepy.
Some men have sculled from troubled boys, and are still sunken in their sorrow, trapped in turmoil. Immaturity laps up against the gunwales of machismo, as oars clack rippled distress toward distant shores. It’s not their fault! Women accept or reject them, by math and manner mysterious, to different ends.
Jon Fain lies low in Massachusetts. Besides 50 Word Stories, his stories have appeared this year in Blue Lake Review, Molecule, (mac)ro(mic), Potato Soup Journal, The Daily Drunk, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter at @jonsfain.
The witch hired to protect villagers from a predatory shapeshifter reported.
“The werewolf’s no longer a threat. My non-lethal spell minimizes his means of aggression whenever the moon is full. Right now, for instance, he’s all bark and no bite.”
“What did you do?”
“I turned him into a tree.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction’s been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.
The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month.
The finalists for November were:
Stress Turned My Soul to Copper and Steam by Maria Cargille
The Vagrant by Travis D. Roberson
Blowing Off the Dust by B.S. Roberts
Songs for the Light by Noriko Jayasekera
Extra Time by David Holloway
Let’s Pretend by Larissa Thomson
The winner of the November 2020 Story of the Month, and the $10 prize, is…
Extra Time
I loved the unique concept and fun approach to commenting on the fleeting nature of time, and the fact that we only have one life to live. David Holloway made me both laugh and introspect at the same time, a fine achievement.
Most of the pumpkin pie is still in the pan, but I’ve little taste for it. We’ll be eating the turkey Dad shot for days. No oyster dressing this year, another disappointment, something else to miss.
I’m lucky not to be alone. The plague has spared so few.
S.L. Bowen is a fiction writer who lives in Virginia with her husband and lots of books.
It was only beach cricket. I bowled and he batted. The ball lingered an eternity in the patch of blue sky before plummeting towards earth. I was standing with outstretched arms when the full force of our relationship hit me in the mouth. “You’re no son of mine,” he said.
Stephen Goodlad started writing during the first lockdown in England having retired from work only a few months before, full of different ambitions. Writing has helped shape new ambitions and new challenges ahead.
The loss of innocence struck me most profoundly when the sound of distant hooves approaching no longer invoked fairy tales but funeral processions and riots.
I stroked your nose and apologised for what we had done to you.
I bit into a sugar lump, and all I found was salt.
Helen Bowie is a writer, performer and podcaster based in London. Her writing has featured in Queerlings, Eater London, and Versification, among others. Helen has a day job at a charity, one cat, and several bafflingly strong opinions on highly trivial matters.