My first work day. Grown up.
During lunch I went to the shop canteen. “Chips, egg, mug of tea.”
A pretty girl caught my eye, smiling as I poured several sachets into my drink.
“I like it sweet,” I explained.
She got up and walked over to me. “That’s salt!”
Dr. Mike Reddy FRSA (http://sixminutestory.com. He is running a video equivalent of 50 word stories (but probably less, to be honest) on the 30 second video blogging site, Ticckle, under the #TicckleTuesday banner.
My grandmother called me by name today, but I’m not sure she knew it was me. I share my name with my mother. Margaret.
It doesn’t matter. I will be whoever she wants me to be.
Of course, my grandmother’s name is also Margaret.
Perhaps she was talking to herself.
Hall Jameson is a writer and fine art photographer who lives in Montana. Her work has recently appeared in “The Red Asylum”, “Redivider”, and “Eric’s Hysterics”. When she’s not writing or taking photographs, Hall enjoys playing the piano and cat wrangling.
The scout was young, only fourteen, and he was one of the best.
Countless times he’d saved his people from both ambush and defeat, but when the arrow took him, their fate, like his own, was sealed.
The enemy scout lowered his bow. He was young, only thirteen, but better.
Chris Redfern is new to the world of flash fiction and enjoying it immensely. Follow his adventures at www.aatwatchtower.com.
“Where to, Captain?”
“We will cross the Ocean Sea on a voyage of great discovery.”
“You’re mad!”
“We’ll all die!”
“Why do such a fool thing?”
“To bring new lands to our King!
“What?”
“To bring new souls to God!”
“Are you kidding?
“To bring back gold!”
Aye aye, Captain!
Alexander Key is a high school teacher whenever the moon and stars align perfectly.
“Right hand, left shoulder. Left hand, right shoulder. Squeeze.”
I hug myself using the instructions from your last phone call. For a year, these nine words are all I’ve had of you. Unable to face the world without your love, I let the tears fall and savor your words again.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
“I’ve broken it off.”
“What do you mean, you’ve broken it off? She was the best thing that ever happened to you. I loved her too, if the truth be known. You’re such an idiot! I have a mind to…”
“I mean I’ve broken the tip off my pen.”
“…Oh.”
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music some years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
A male Jew and a female Muslim, both in their early twenties, were standing in a battle field holding guns against each other’s heads.
The Jew said, “If there were no religion, we might be dancing happily with each other right now.”
The Muslim replied, “In your club, or mine?”
Saeed Rezaee, from Iran, holds a B.A. in English Translation and shares his creative writing at teanglish.com.
The walls were white.
Poor Sophie was alone in this room, aside from a gargantuan bookshelf filled with thousands of individually shrink-wrapped books. She never opened them, in fear of ruining the plastic. She never dared to even touch the white walls, lest she chip or smudge them.
Until today.
Ariana Abad is an aspiring cultural anthropologist and loves to write during whatever free time she can find. She collects definitions of Love and is a bike-enthusiast, a daydreamer, and a wish-maker.
On some summer nights, Chicago is as hot and sweltering as Pontianak. The whole city seems to slide off its continental shelf towards Indonesia.
“Sayang, where you go?”
“Got to get to lake.”
“Wait!”
“Come on, then.”
Feet are in water. Waves rush up our thighs, backs, and shoulders… Ahhh!
Living in Chicago, L.S. Sharrow is a dancer, a good cook, and a writer of sometimes funny, sometimes not so funny fiction.
Rain and wicked wind pelted me, inverted my umbrella into a baptismal basin. Not once but three times.
The accumulated water spilled out each time with the weight of my sins. Metal ribbing could not be reshaped and the umbrella had to be thrown out.
I wasn’t blessed that day.
Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry and short stories. She has had several of her poems published, and has recently had flash fiction published online at Flash Fiction World.