I watched him pick up those drugs. More than once.
And I watched him smoke them, or drink them, or inject them. I watched him become them.
And I asked, “Why did you let these things change you?”
“I couldn’t change the world. I changed how I look at it.”
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the autumnal hills of West Virginia.
Dance with me, he said.
He in his socks, she in her nightgown.
In the light of early morning, they danced. Slowly. Familiar with each other’s bodies, they danced.
“You’ve Made Me So…”
Holding her coffee cup in her hand while they danced.
“Very Happy…”
We watched, then joined them.
Deanna is a newbie to writing and is having a great time writing 50 word fiction.
By 10:00 Max knew she wouldn’t show. He finished another drink, recognizing a tinge of curiosity, something normally fed with an internet search.
But he was out.
Max paid the bill, then left. It was twelve blocks to her apartment, but he had already crossed countless streets of innocent speculation.
Matthew Gregory is a writer and filmmaker surviving in South Florida. Some of his work can be found at geronimatt.tumblr.com.
The story of the week for October 26 to 30 is…
Mama by Lisa Lysen
I would have chosen this story regardless, but I was very touched by the news that Lisa’s mother passed away only a few days after this story was published. Condolences, Lisa, as you mourn your mother’s passing.
A Father says: “You kids appreciate nothing. I worked three jobs for your meat and potatoes. Turn my baseball game back on.”
The son replies: “I want to be empowered. I’m not content with the scraps of elitists. Slavery has many guises, including your cookie cutter house in the burbs.”
Andrew Kessler is 37 years old and currently resides on the outskirts of New York City. He loves to write, especially on progressive issues, and expresses himself through his writing. Andrew has had numerous poems published. This is a first attempt at a 50 word story.
“I’ll never hurt you.”
Forgetting the promises made in whispered words.
Her mind refused to accept the end,
As her fingers refused to let go
Of the knife plunged into his chest.
She willed him to breathe,
To tell her again that their love was real…
But how could he?
Joya Williams is married and a mother of 2 beautiful girls. She loves writing in her spare time (and if you’re a parent you are laughing at that comment right now). She writes short stories and is currently working on her first novel (with all that spare time she has).
Spotlights irradiated the skeletal forms striding down the catwalk. His calciferous teeth gritted.
One donned a polyester coat. Too short. Insufficiently dark.
Another wore a black bikini. Ribcage was barely covered.
He swept out, his thick cloak fluttering, the scythe in his ossifying grip. At least nuclear war was approaching.
Joey tries to write a little. You can find him and abuse him at joeytoey.com.
At four a.m. I wake
Our hands still clasped, now sweaty
My hair across his shoulder
A crick in my neck.
When I roll over he wraps an arm around me
And pulls me back to him, relentless
To have me close.
And that’s how I knew I was happy.
Liz recently completed a novel a based on her experience as a Spanish teacher through Teach for America. Her story “Habibi” received Honorable Mention in Memphis Magazine’s 2015 Fiction Contest. She is a contributor to the blogs Bustle, TeacherPop and the Elizabethian. She wrote and produced two plays that were performed at Brandeis University.
Frosty, torrential rain soaked his dying form. A twenty-two caliber round to the chest was the chosen instrument of his appointed fate. Heaven had spoken.
Lightning flashed and revealed titanic wings above Racha-el’s shoulders. She gently cradled his head in her lap, whispering:
“I loved you before you were born.”
Matt On Accident is a blogger who writes limericks and Fifty-Word Stories for fun. They may be found at mattonaccident.com.
“Sip, sir?” the wino asked, holding a bottle of cheap wine up to the gentleman ready to jump off a bridge after a stock market collapse.
“I appreciate the thought, but I’m ill.”
“It’d be a tonic!”
“Just one couldn’t hurt,” the gentleman replied, sitting with his new best friend.
USAF veteran Tony Wayne Brown has won contests by Art Forum Magazine and Union Writers, second place in Writers’ Journal, and honorable mention in Writers’ Digest. His fiction has been published about fifty-five times, including by Huffington Post, Main Street Rag, Vestal Review, Birmingham Arts Journal, Foliate Oak, Bartleby Snopes, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Stories, Horrified Press, Liars’ League Hong Kong, Every Writers Resource, The Write Place At the Write Time, Infective Ink, Word Gumbo, and The Story Teller.