Hank was a successful plumber, but dreamed of fronting a band. He sang whilst fixing the shower, filling the bathroom with renditions of the 60s classics he heard on his father’s records.
His work complete, he belted out the last note, turned the stopcock, and listened to the shower cheer.
Guy once started a band with a stranger, at 2am, in the frozen food section of his local 24-hour Tesco. It frustrates him that he can’t seem to pull a story from it. This is his tenth 50-word story.
The girl fell, once. Gingerly, her father picked her up. He kissed her wound. “Roses bleed, too,” he said, drying the tears from her face.
She looked up to him, beautiful, bright-eyed, and unknowing of the secrets behind his eyes. Because given time, even roses grow dull and wither away.
Joaquim Chichava is unbearably quirky, and has grown to love wearing shorts.
A Russian man went to the doctor for an eye exam. He visited the doctor every year.
The doctor showed him the letters and numbers on the board: cwxy2 klta2ky.
Doctor: “Can you read the board?”
Russian Man: “What? Read? I don’t even know the guy. He’s my mom’s cousin.”
Dora Cseperkalo is a 15-year-old Hungarian student who enjoys studying English.
You didn’t see
the last selfie I posted,
bitter wind whipping my hair across my face
as I balanced on the narrow edge of the roof,
because you were too busy
updating your status
for the seventieth time that week
and waiting for the likes and comments
to pour in
Joanne R. Fritz writes poetry and fiction for both children and adults. This is her seventh Fifty Word Story. Unlike her young protagonist, Joanne doesn’t believe in taking selfies.
Every year, since the time I was three, I asked my parents for a pony on my birthday. Every year they would smile and say, “We’ll see.” I knew what that meant in parent-speak: “NO!”
Last week they were killed in a car accident. They left me a pony farm.
Candace always wished for a pony. Some wishes are better left ungranted. You don’t usually have to clean up after a story.
Laserhearth was very hungry. His kitchen was clean, but he didn’t know how to cook.
Five minutes later, the kitchen was very dirty because Laserhearth couldn’t find the salt. Angry, he burned up the kitchen and the food with his superpowers. Laserhearth didn’t eat anything.
Later, Laserhearth died of hunger.
Rubén is 10 years old and is learning English. The editor only helped a little bit!
He stands petrified and nauseous in an arc of blistering light.
The cold clutch of fear steals his breath as beyond, in darkness, the watchers wait expectantly for him to deliver all he knows.
Jolted, he surrenders. Words pour forth, unstoppable.
Then silence, tension, and the crack of thunderous applause.
Viv is still in Somerset and in state of shock that her story got chosen last month. Flushed with success and a bottle of plonk, she has had another go.
He has no control as he falls deeper into the unknown abyss. Its essence finds him, surrounds him, and becomes him until he can scarcely breathe.
The deeper he falls the dimmer his past, but as desperation dies away it’s replaced with something far more stomach-churning yet wonderful… called love.
Connell is known, in some parts, for writing a reasonably eclectic mix of stories.
The doctor looks at me with sad eyes.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I gulp.
“I know I’ve been cheating death for too long. But doc, don’t tell me my time’s up when I’m just learning how to live.”
“Well,” he says, “it’s me who’s dying, not you.”
Sharon is a communications strategist and storyteller for companies ranging from technology start-ups to Fortune 500s. When she isn’t wordsmithing for her clients, she writes flash fiction and short stories and is also working on a novel, The Tiger Baby. She has a masters of professional writing degree from the University of Southern California and has been published in EastLit, Ethos International, and Reed Magazine, among others. Follow Sharon at Twitter or Instagram at @sharonysim.
A dance of death performed a million times. His mind and body recall every pivot, every feint, like their first memory. The audience thunders loud enough to put Mother Nature to shame.
Wave, bow, catch the rose. Show off your uniform; flourish your cape; begin the dance.
“Toro… Toro… TORO!”
Tony is 22. He loves American cars, horror movies, playing the saxophone, and writing fiction.