In company of mistletoe, fungi, moss, and lichen
the giant stretched forth its mighty limbs
and ring by ring outlived those special eyes
which once reflected their acorn treasure.
The woodsmen stayed their axes
and turned to stare at fallen titans
bearing ugly damning emblems
red with blood.
They wept.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
It’s petit-mal, the doctor called my seizures. I knew enough from my French class to know that means ‘a little bit bad,’ which sounded like they weren’t taking me seriously.
It may be little, but what they call things can make a big difference. They really should think about that.
Henry Bladon is a writer of short fiction and poetry based in Somerset in the UK. His work can be seen in Fewer than 500, Pure Slush, Truth Serum Press, and Flash Frontier, among other places.
The order has arrived. There’s Hastings, sitting in a corner stroking his lucky rabbit’s foot. Cranston, his eyes closed, intoning the Rosary. Others praying under their breath, crossing themselves. Superstitious fools!
Suddenly a whistle shrills.
I check my watch. Thirteen hundred hours. I’m enveloped by a dark sense of foreboding.
David McTigue is from Liverpool UK who writes to fight his inner demons.
The giant’s theme song blared.
Vaulting over the ropes into the ring, he waved to the cheering fans and bellowed his catchphrase: “Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!”
He grinned. Screw that thieving punk who’d chopped down the beanstalk and tried to kill him. Becoming a WWE Superstar was the best revenge.
Jen Mierisch draws inspiration from science fiction, ghost stories, and the wacky idiosyncrasies of human nature. Her work has appeared in Sammiches & Psych Meds, Potato Soup Journal, and Lighten Up Online. She lives, works, and writes just outside Chicago, Illinois.
He took a can of beer from the fridge and shook it. In the living room, concealing a smirk, he handed it to Nora. She pulled the tab. The beer exploded. He licked it off her face, neck, shoulders while she giggled, and that was the end of their argument.
Kay Rae Chomic is a published novelist (A Tight Grip). She has flash writings published in Crack the Spine, Five:2:One’s The Side Show, Writer Advice, Two Sisters Writing, Hysteria 6 (UK), and The First Line. She had a story shortlisted for the flash fiction contest sponsored by Hastings LitFest-2019 (UK). Kay lives in Seattle, loves to travel, has a passion for ping pong, and is a Motown fan forever.
He stood her up on their third date.
Fifteen years and three lovers later, he finds her in Savenor’s Market. After exchanging greetings, he leaves. She studies the sirloin.
Suddenly he’s back, takes her face in his hands, passionately kisses her, and hurries away.
Stunned, she moves on to produce.
Carol Anne Harvey has been writing poetry and short stories since she was 5. Her focus now is on writing micro memoirs. “Unfinished” is her first submission to 50-Word Stories.
Santa’s drinking Dad’s wine.
Head held back, he guzzles, laughing like a honking goose. Reminds me of Dad.
Mother claims Santa loves me.
I lose hints of faith.
Four years later, Santa’s hurling wine bottles. Mother and I dart among fusillades.
She doesn’t say Santa loves me.
Love’s a myth.
Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, “Strangers,” was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Maudlin House, The Drabble, Door Is A Jar, and Ariel Chart.
“Our little factory is struggling to keep its head above water. Originally, we manufactured buggy whips. Later, we switched to rumble-seat covers for Model A Fords. Now, we need to scrap our outdated business model and look to the future.”
“Producing what product?”
“Waterproof stilts for pedestrians in low-lying cities.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.
I stare at the blank screen, hoping to find a story already written in white letters on the white field.
I begin. “She thrilled as one of his hands went lower and the other went higher—” but suddenly the screen erases my words.
“There will be none of that.”
Tom Willemain wrote this story. See more at TomWillemain.com.
Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs.
She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart, and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration, and covetous love.
They arise from more vigorous and ancient stock than she.
Becky Kjelstrom adores all winged thingies, real and imaginary. See more at thenighmail.com.