You fell in love with me at first sight. I loved you long before that.
We met at the corner shop: you were unshaven, hungover, your hair still wet from the shower.
I had rehearsed my opening lines, been planning my outfit for thirteen years.
You didn’t stand a chance.
Guy is still waiting for the fame and prosperity promised to him three years ago by a fortune cookie. This is his nineteenth 50-word story.
Life had taken over. I’d tried to get it back on track. Thwarted at every step, I finally called the children to my feet. In simple language I tried to explain how life sometimes runs amok, despite our best efforts.
The television remote was beyond my mental capabilities, I explained.
Gordon Lysen is enjoying retirement one day at a time.
Visiting a dark church, I notice a bowed head in the front pew, haloed with rainbows from stained-glass saints in leaded windows. I respect his need for peace and soulful prayer.
Quietly tiptoeing to the altar, a sidelong glance reveals his cupped hands radiating light, and that he is texting.
Viv Burgess likes writing, it’s the thinking that is troublesome.
The story of the week for June 12 to 16 is…
Heirloom Gardening by Candace Kubinec
He awoke.
The memories all came flooding back. The screams. Blood. Lots of blood.
She awoke.
Her dreams lingered… two black butterflies flitting about on a warm day, dancing just for her.
I awoke, resigned to their presence. Ours was an uneasy alliance, here in this darkness behind my eyes.
Dave James Ashton favours short fiction as he has a bad memory and poor attention span.
He cared more than words could say. All the signs were there. One day, she was depressed; another, enthusiastic. He experienced her life in snapshots — health, sickness, good times and bad ones — more devoted than any husband.
He lifted his leg, left his reply, and proceeded to the next hydrant.
Philipp M. Selman is a graphic artist, musician, historical martial artist, and professional copywriter. His art, music, and writing can be found at pmselman.com.
You began as a light, a face, a screen, a swipe. Soon enough you were flesh and blood, a hand in my hand, lips for my lips, Friday dinners.
Light faded. Lips met less often. Dinner went cold. You chose to fade, back to a dim screen. Ashes to ashes.
This is Alexandra’s ninth 50-word story. She thinks some internet strangers are a little too strange. She’s looking at you, Mister I-Can’t-See-You-Anymore-Because-You-Have-Bangs!
I didn’t know who she was but she wasn’t my wife and that wasn’t our house. The television had carried news, she said, of the inflations, and the suicides, and the sudden economic conditions, but the news was not my news, told in a voice that was not her voice.
Dave Guest lives on a hill by the sea in England. He spends his spare time planning to write more short stories.
Act One (Crisis): “Oh No! My coupon is expired! Then why am I even here? I’d be better off at the grocery store.”
Act 2 (Complication): “But I do still need to buy toothpaste. And they do have my brand.”
Act 3 (Resolution): “Whatever, I’m going to get some beer.”
Daniel Paul received his MFA from Southern Illinois University. His fiction, non-fiction, and humor writing has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s, Puerto Del Sol, Hobart, The Briar Cliff Review, New Delta Review, Yemassee, and other magazines. He lives in Ohio where he is currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Cincinnati.
“Chicken,” he argues, accepting a plateful of my scrambled eggs.
“Egg,” I counter, despairing.
“Chicken,” he pluffs, eggs carelessly falling from his smug mouth.
Unzipping my skin suit, feathered breast bursting, I peck him solidly in the chest. Mouth agape, he flees the kitchen.
I hate it when he’s right.
Judy Crawford met the love of her life in a college writing class. They don’t always agree either.