Quiet ceased as the storm began. The rainfall drowned out the sounds of his footfalls as he rushed forward to his foe, knife in hand.
He slashed and tore. Wires dangled and lines leaked their fluids.
His job was done. This mechanical monster would not fell another tree.
For now.
Brandon Magruder wrote this story.
John awoke one day to find that all of his bones had been stolen.
Incensed, he painstakingly flopped his way to the house of his friend Jamal, suspecting he had something to do with it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jamal, a bloody chainsaw in his hand.
Steven B. is a human being who lives on the planet Earth.
Order up yells the cook. Spattered shoes pinching toes scurry from table to table, pouring coffee, delivering fake smiles painted with morning lipstick.
She scrapes seventy-five cents in quarters, nickels and pennies into her apron. An eight-fifty breakfast should have been a dollar-twenty-five tip. She majored in math in college.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
Melting; last of snow.
My flowerbeds spring into blossoms of ivory, rose, lemony yellow. When they fade, the blues of forget-me-nots. Stems I planted. From a bouquet you gave me.
See them rise under the warming sun, early rains of spring. I long to see you.
You have forgotten me.
Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction, and short stories, and has been published both online and in print. She lives in Edmonton, Canada. Krystyna loves to travel the world and share her experiences through writing.
Voices in my head and lies in my mind, my body cannot move. Soon the pills stop working, like they always do, and the voices celebrate. I tell the people who say they aren’t real, but they tell me I am crazy.
And the white rabbit is simply discarded again.
Lottie Nancarrow is a horrible Rubik’s-cube-solver and an almost 15 yrs old hermit. She wants you to come to the dark side. You bring the tea, she’ll bring the bacon.
Where cars once drove there is now wilderness, overrun with animals who never used to call this place their home.
The buildings now serve as monuments for a great society forgotten in time.
He stares across the city and listens to it speak, with the realization he is truly alone.
Adam Randall has previously been featured on 50-word stories, and hopes to one day complete some great masterpiece. He just needs to figure out just what that might be.
Cremated in December, he left a will directing the lawyer to scatter his ashes with his dog Coco’s.
A floral tin marked “Coco” arrived at the firm. The secretary, a bad speller, took it to the kitchen, glad that someone had finally sent a Christmas food gift she would enjoy.
Beth Tillman’s estate planning practice spawns stories both dark and humorous.
On the bank of a river
she’s never known
gnarled roots
call her home.
Reaching out
with twisted limb,
branches of trust
sing a hymn.
Perched upon
the cypress’ knee.
Within the silence,
He whispers a plea.
Running through
His metered veins,
a thousand lost stories,
a thousand beautiful refrains.
Grace Black, just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Check out her blog at graceblackwrites.wordpress.com.
On their first date he had taken her to a wine bar, kept her to himself until he realized he was in love. That had been two hours after they’d met.
“Tell me your secrets,” he whispered.
“You’ll have to search,” she said, sliding her ring deeper into her pocket.
Eabha Rose lives in Dublin Ireland. She writes for Plum Tree Books and Brazil’s literary journal, O Ecuador das Coisas. Eabha has had her work published both online and in print. Check out her blog at theatreofwords.blogspot.ie.
Andrew had never beaten his dad in golf. He’d been close; he’d faltered before.
Today, he had a 10 foot putt to win.
“Take your time,” whispered dad.
Andrew smiled. This was his time. He knew. His moment had finally arrived.
The Titleist rolled true.
Andrew smiled. Dad was proud.
Dave is living retired in California. He is completely new to writing. He credits Daniel Pink for the inspiration.