We lock eyes at the supermarket exit: White kid; nineteen, maybe twenty; camo and boots in this heat.
I look for the AR-15 but all he carries is a box of Twinkies.
Someone yells, “Hey!” but the kid is fast, already on his moped. Gone, Twinkies crushed between his knees.
Susan Rukeyser loves America but has concerns. She wrote a novel, Not On Fire, Only Dying (Twisted Road Publications, 2015). Find more at her website, susanrukeyser.com.
He hears the wood thrush now
just at the edges of hearing, watches the trickling stream
from his front porch, and recalls
running from the bottom of this hollow
to its very crown—
—with his son on his hip.
And there, looking out
he observed
there was nothing—
—but potential.
Matthew now lives and writes in Maine. He always relaxes, just a little, when driving north on I-95 and crosses the Piscataqua River Bridge. There he is greeted by a large sign, white lettering on a blue background: WELCOME TO MAINE – The Way Life Should Be.
The story of the week for June 20 to 24 is…
The Last Gig by J.D. Lone Bear
I enjoyed the transition from utopia to dystopia, and the turn to dark humour at the end.
She promised to save me a seat.
“I’ll drape my sweater over the chair next to mine.”
I’ve looked every where and can’t find her. The only sweater I see is on a chair beside a little blonde girl.
Estelle has white hair
Maybe she didn’t make it into heaven.
Candace hopes someone will save her a seat.
Ah, there’s a car door. I hope it’s the realtor.
Come show this place, please. Sell it.
Get rid of it for me, finally.
The story of this house, of everything in it, has to end.
But how do you sell a house that so badly wants to be haunted?
Larry D. Thacker writes and paints in the mountains of Appalachia.
After the World Science and Ethics Commission (the W.S.E.C.) discovered the answers for the annoyances of old age, disease, war, and famine, the population—over time—grew beyond humanity’s control.
I smiled broadly at the prospect of coming out of retirement, unpacking my black hooded cloak, and sharpening my scythe…
J.D. Lone Bear wrote this story.
Bringing cups of tea, handing a pillow. It didn’t matter why he was there. The conversations between them were enough to brighten someone’s day. Laughs shared, stories told, and feelings of excitement at the start of every shift.
Paul’s head bowed as he walked away from the empty hospital bed.
Calum is a down-to-earth guy who thinks that anyone can make a difference. This is his first 50-word story.
The train slowly churns away from the platform. From the front car, sitting on the left-hand side, I see the entrance to a world below the surface, its green glow eating at my curiosity. Just as I’m imagining what lies beyond, we’ve picked up speed, and the next song plays.
AC Baldwin is primarily an author of fantasy and science-fiction. This is her third published piece of micro-fiction. She is also currently funding a space-fantasy novel on Inkshares called The Traveller’s Cup.
“How did you meet Gramma?” she asked, eyes sparkling at the impending story of romance.
“I saw the most gorgeous blonde I’d ever seen, next to an okay brunette, and I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna marry that woman.'”
“And you did!?”
“Nope.”
“Then… what happened?”
“I married the brunette!”
This is Alexandra’s third 50-Word Story. She wanted her dad to know she doesn’t “always” write about death or cannibals.
Once, Harry’s big sister told him, “Earwigs creep into people’s ears at night.”
Nightmares followed of scuttling legs, tickling feelers.
Phobic, Harry took to wearing earplugs, his excuse the need for quiet nights.
Earplugs worked admirably and kept the insects out, but also, sadly, the buzzing of the fire alarm.
Viv Burgess is thinking of demanding a promotional fee as half her family and friends are now all writing 50 word stories – and to top it all, better than her own. It is giving her brain cell a good work out though, she says.