One crisp wafer cone. Two scoops of chocolate ice cream, hastily piled. Third Sunday of June, every year.
Lonely walk across unruly grass that tickles at exposed ankles, in search of a serenity found only among abandoned tombstones.
When you arrive, a tearful, tender whisper to yourself: “Happy Father’s Day.”
Carrie is morose, taciturn, and perpetually hungry, but only one of these traits is inherited from her father.
Nineteen-fifties medical protocol was shock treatment.
Mother’s psychiatrist put her in the hospital for her “breakdown.” She crocheted socks in the bleak ward.
She couldn’t remember much after her release.
She was never crazy, simply lonely for my wayward father.
He didn’t believe in psychological hocus-pocus.
He left us anyway.
Leslie Sittner has been writing prose and poetry for the last two years hoping to avoid the psych ward. With print stories in the Apple Tree and online work in Silver Birch Press, 101Words, and 50 Word Challenge, she has so far avoided admission.
Lying on the bed, atop soft cotton sheets, she gazed at the ceiling of the elegant suite and thought this was one the best moments of her life.
Suddenly, someone knocked on the door: Rose! Have you finished the first floor?
She picked up her cleaning supplies and rushed away.
Ana BL Veira lives in Madrid. She works as secretary. She has a pile of dreams. The last one: Writing a short story. Here she is.
For several years, it was a truly loving relationship.
She beat him in private and humiliated him constantly in public. He never forgot to thank her for every moment, and they both felt safe and happy in their chosen roles.
But then, one day in late autumn, she said, “Sorry.”
Michael D. Hill is a Londoner who has lived in Dorset for more than half his life. He enjoys reading, writing and breathing.
I wake up in a sweat and remember.
Their hollow, hopeless eyes.
I see the guards, grinning while they torture thousands.
I hear the screams, as if they were today.
I remember the commander, watching and smiling, and I cringe every morning when I see his face in the mirror.
This is Harry Demarest’s 17th 50-word story to be published.
Last Thanksgiving, I baked a pumpkin pie and showed up on the doorstep with a huge knot in my stomach and a little sliver of hope in my heart.
Little did I know, that sliver of hope would be carved up before the turkey even came out of the oven.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry and short stories. She has been published in Haiku Journal, Sleeve, and 50-Word Stories.
I could smell her rat’s nest presence when no one could. Of course, no one was a bona fide witch hunter like me. Every victory made me sense their presence even more.
She smiled demurely. A school counselor; what a great cover.
I’d run her out of town by Monday.
Since Lin Jenkinson was introduced to 50 Word Stories, she has been addicted. But only micro-addicted. Hopefully Zoey will have many witch-hunting adventures in the future.
Metabolisms are slow where I live, and memories are vast… As immeasurable as the distances we travel in our timeless lives.
We have no need to multiply like the younger races, no desire for the fleeting light of seeking out transient knowledge, for everything comes to us eventually.
Everything sinks.
Born into an age beyond the partition of Ireland when there was little work to be had and nothing but a library for entertainment, Eva has always loved reading and creating own stories up for brothers and sisters and eventually children. Eva lives in Londonderry near a Gothic Cathedral and an old park, great inspirational tools, especially at night.
From his chair, he watches the cellar door. His hands folded patiently along his lap, each knuckle stiff and cold. Eyes glazed over, witless.
The door hasn’t opened for three days. Only the smell has made the ascent. Fetid bloat, sweet with decay. Ripening, ever since he died down there.
Kyle Cortright is from eastern Pennsylvania. He is a pretty rad dude.
Driving along he could see how the road separated them yet their leaves and branches bridged the expanse joining in a perfect arch from one side to the other. There were other trees forming grove after grove of arches.
Then he reflected for a moment, and exhaled. “Why can’t we?”
Connell finds little reason to intervene when some of his stories decide to write themselves.