Apurímac River: A floating community of fifty drifts slowly toward the Amazon. Three generations share the raft, where daily life revolves around fishing, gardening, crafting, and teaching the children. There’s no hierarchy here; no mine and yours. They depend on trust, cooperation. Never anchored to land; anchored to each other.
J.S. O’Keefe has published over three hundred short stories and poems in print and online literary magazines. See more at szjohnny.net.
There wasn’t a way to explain his disappearance.
No note, no just cause, no discarded hopes or dreams.
No signs of spacecraft.
“He said he was going to the store for cat food,” his wife said.
She would always wonder if it was a clue.
They didn’t have a cat.
Peggy Acott is a novelist and poet living and working in Portland, Oregon. Her fiction and non-fiction work have been published both online and in print. She was a semi-finalist in The Writer Magazine’s 2023 Flash Fiction contest, and two poems were included in the 2024 anthology When Flowers Sing, by A Thousand Flowers Books. See more at peggyacott.com
He loved her quietly, a faint whisper that stirred him in his sleep. Sometimes he’d bring Godiva to the breakroom. Her husband was allergic to chocolates so he watched her devour each piece. In dreams, he pulled a star from the sky so she could wear it on her finger.
Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, The Dribble Drabble Review and Friday Flash Fiction. In 2018, her story “The Roommates,” was made into a short film. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. See more at Angela Carlton Stories & Art | Facebook.
It seems in vain that he’ll complain
although he fain will make it plain
along this vein, severe wrist pain
is driving him insane.
And though his writing’s not inane—
the words are clear, they’re not arcane—
since some will chafe at his campaign,
he should refrain from this refrain.
Ken Gosse usually writes whimsical, rhymed verse. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in Pure Slush, Home Planet News, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, and many others. Raised in Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife live in Mesa, AZ, with rescue dogs and cats.
Today I became a father.
At the hospital, I spent hours sitting, not knowing where to put my hands. I observed my son sleeping. At the same time, the new year was beginning.
I believe life restarts like this: silence, with fatigue, fear, and desire to do well, today on.
Sebastian Funari is an Italian author who writes short stories for those with little time but who don’t want to stop reading. Simple texts, inspired by everyday life and personal experiences, strange or ordinary.
The story of the week for December 29 to January 2 is…
BB by John Szamosi
A couple argues in the front row. I perch forward on my seat and fan myself with a leaflet foisted on me at the bus stop. The soft glow of an orange sunset flashes onto us in rhythmic intervals through the roadside trees. Overhead, a skein of geese glide home.
Marinda Kotze wrote this micro story on a long bus ride home.
“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.