On the seventeenth day of Christmas, he got the bills. What in the heck had she been thinking? Five golden rings? Calling birds? The poultry was a good investment. The party for the local lords and ladies had been fun. Excellent pipers.
Smiling, she served him stewed partridge with pears.
Elizabeth Archer writes poetry, flash, and short stories. She drinks too much coffee.
He woke, swaddled in mammoth fur. Where she? Fire stoked, he rushed to cave’s gaping hole.
Footsteps in snow. Shivering, he saw her below. What Woman doing?
He snorted: “Hey! ME hunter! YOU gatherer.”
Her club swinging over dead beast, she retorted: “He standing on stuff me wanted to gather!”
L.S. Sharrow has been a storyteller most of her life, and has had pieces published in The Chicago Renaissance Court 2012 Anthology, as well as several fiction websites. She lives in Chicago, where she is currently working on a collection of short stories.
Holding the balloon bouquet to his left hand, Nathan scans a paper which reads, “Thomas Allen Fitzgerald, three years old, car crash.“
Covering his pale skull with his hood he sighs, “I sure hope Tommy likes these.”
Nathan solemnly lifts a scythe from his car’s trunk and heads to work.
Craig has been published on fiftywordstories.com as well as in The Labyrinth. He can be reached via Facebook and has a WordPress blog that is sorely underused.
Joe Ugg had everything a caveman desired: a wife, two children, a cave, and a wheel.
However, the news of an addition to the family meant the need to upsize quickly.
Sadly, he struggled to sell his home, as the children’s scribbling on the cave walls was impossible to remove.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Monday morning sun shines through office windows. She puts down the phone with a Cheshire grin.
He stands over her; his toupee’s lopsided, cologne reeking. “Can’t keep making typos, Jones.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry’s not enough.”
“I’ll try harder.” She suppresses her grimace, knowing she’s just told his wife about his mistress.
L.S. Sharrow lives in Chicago and has published short stories in The Renaissance Court 2012 Anthology and in Fifty Word Stories. She is currently working on a novella, and has recently submitted two other short stories for publication.
Gene paces back and forth. He thinks to himself, “How has it come to this? Look at this beautiful scenery… What am I doing?” He feels the pain again. It’s like chronic hunger.
Silence. More eerie silence. Suddenly, a splash like no other. The ripples emanate into eternity.
The never-end.
Michael Lyons is a trier.
It was never intended to be an astronomical observatory or a place where Druids worshipped their gods.
It was supposed to control the weather.
It should have worked.
But it’s hard for workers to follow plans when writing hasn’t been invented and engineering drawings are lines scratched in the dirt.
Harry Demarest has kept a detailed revision list for this story since he wrote its first draft in December 2012.
Wake up! It’s coming for you. Leave quickly, through the window if you can.
A slimy tentacle forces its way under your door. It wraps itself around your leg as you try to run.
You’re pulled through the door, down the hallway, into the basement.
I tried to warn you.
LB Thomas lives in Montana and owns a Tennessee Walker treeing coonhound named Zumbi. His work has been featured in Every Day Fiction and Flashes in the Dark.
“A UFO!” screeched Becky Turner. “Outside the chem lab!”
We peered through the dusty glass. The silver dish took up the entire quadrangle, having landed on the basketball team judging from the lanky legs protruding crookedly.
Acne McGee grimaced. “I had money on those guys winning the trophy this year.”
B Lee Draper is a teacher and aspiring author. She dreams of one day owning a chocolate-coated vineyard.
Even here in the basement, I still hear the siren wailing in the distance. Mom went with the others to make sure it was safe outside for me.
I’m nine, ten next month, so I wanted to come, but she told me to wait.
That was yesterday.
Where is everyone?
Alexander Scotchfield is a Canadian academic and software developer. He lives in Southern Ontario with his family, including Ulysses, his late night feline writing companion. When he isn’t writing, he can be found writing games, or running in the cool evening hours. See more at scotchfield.com/.