Three hundred years from now, they still have AA meetings. After the meetings end, before the attendees take off in their flying cars or hop on airlifts to their dingy floating halfway houses, some still chew nervously at the rims of their Styrofoam coffee cups, unable to grasp the future.
Thomas Tilton is pretty sure the coffee is mud.
“It’s time to go,” she said.
“In a sec,” I called back.
“No! Right now!” she said, even louder, with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Okay, okay!” I screamed back.
The door slammed and I knew it was too late.
I turned back to level two of Panda Pops.
Gordon Lysen is enjoying his retirement, filling his days with painting, carving, writing, and the occasional game of Panda Pop.
My counselor told me “You can beat this, but you need to keep attending our sessions.”
My mother said to me, “you’re going to die if you keep this up.”
As I leave the liquor store, I hear the door chime ringing behind me. Did an angel get its wings?
Amy Elizabeth wrote this story.
You rounded the corner and stumbled across a shrine, all candles and teddy bears. Then you saw the photo posted.
It was the first boy you kissed. You had wrestled tongues before he retreated and called you ugly.
But that was 12 years ago. Your dealer waits for no one.
Christine Stoddard is a writer and artist and the founding editor of Quail Bell Magazine. She lives in Brooklyn.
Editor’s Note: Bed-Stuy is a neighbourhood in Brooklyn.
When Facebook crashed for 14 hours, 911 was inundated with calls from millions of panic-stricken people. This was an emergency on an unprecedented, incomprehensible scale.
Their lives came to a complete, instant standstill. All they lived for had been taken away from them.
Thank God I am not a screenager.
Other stories by Barry O’Farrell
appear in Cyclamens & Swords, A Story In 100 Words and of course here at 50 Word Stories.
The room’s dark. The blue light of the computer screen illuminates his face, its raw desire. He clicks on a name he hasn’t tried before: Double Trouble, a buxom blonde.
The chat room opens to a promising skin show. He is staring into the eyes of his wife, working late.
Indu Pillai writes poetry and fiction when she is not reading poetry and fiction. She delights in all kinds of stories, written and unwritten. During the day, she works in her design studio. Follow her on Twitter.
No more? That’s what you said last time.
Let’s face it, you depend on me now. I help you laugh. I help you feel alive. I help you get through your week of 9-5 job.
Come on, have one more and I’ll even help you not remember her name tomorrow.
Yassi is a novice writer. She is thoroughly enjoying her exploration of short sagas.
She scanned the classroom filled with adults looking for a second chance at life, predicting her neighbor’s answer: My name is Dan Clark and I am an alcoholic.
Then she bowed her head and scrawled her own upon the notebook: I am someone who cannot describe herself in ten words.
Joscelyn Willett consistently has trouble deciding which ice cream flavor to order, so always orders chocolate. It’s a solid choice.
The pawnbroker adjusted his eyeglass whilst circling Joe’s wedding ring through his supple fingers.
“Twenty dollars,” he snapped.
“But it’s solid gold. Cost two hundred new,” Joe pleaded.
“Twenty,” the pawnbroker repeated.
Joe snatched the ring and left, satisfied. For this first day, he was in control of his addiction.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.