Your estate, organized by spoons, sweaters, silver. I’ll finish the fusilli ($1) you planned on eating later. I’ll wear your motorcycle goggles ($10) while washing my new tea cups ($4), then hang a tile, painted with moon, stars, and love for you when I was six ($.50).
All good buys.
This is Alexandra’s tenth fifty-word story. She wishes death could always be preceded by goodbyes.
You began as a light, a face, a screen, a swipe. Soon enough you were flesh and blood, a hand in my hand, lips for my lips, Friday dinners.
Light faded. Lips met less often. Dinner went cold. You chose to fade, back to a dim screen. Ashes to ashes.
This is Alexandra’s ninth 50-word story. She thinks some internet strangers are a little too strange. She’s looking at you, Mister I-Can’t-See-You-Anymore-Because-You-Have-Bangs!
Pinched between sweaty fingers, the love note—a carefully crafted purple-inked questionnaire that would potentially determine the rest of their lives—was passed to the blonde in front of him. She firmly marked “No.”
“Okay,” he sighed, erasing the dark X of rejection. “Well, would you pass this to Julia?”
This is Alexandra’s eighth fifty-word story. She learned early on that love was a numbers game, but the good news is that you only need one.
“Taste?” I offered.
One man surveyed the platter I held sheepishly in my hands: my heart in its entirety, chopped to fun-sized pieces. Toothpicks punctuated each morsel.
He popped a red bite into his mouth, then, spitting it into his napkin, daintily placed it on the edge of my tray.
This is Alexandra’s seventh 50-word story.
With jagged fingernails, Wormwood eagerly ripped through the obituary-wrapped gift.
“A candle!” he exclaimed, unscrewing the lid and breathing in deeply through his piggish snout. “Sulfur. My favorite! So pungent, really rotten. Whom do I thank?”
Bezoar blushed scarlet as sin, and raised a claw. “Me. I’m your Secret Satan!”
This is Alexandra’s sixth 50-word story. All she wants for Christmas is Tom Hiddleston and a cup of tea (the tea is optional).
“Don’t you open that door!” she’d say to anyone visiting her house.
Stench of cat urine almost overpowered the smoke that clung in cancerous clouds to the curtains, carpet, newspapers.
They found little left of her but glasses hanging amiss, unopened cat food in hand.
She must’ve opened the door.
Alexandra always remembers to feed her cat, who sleeps outside for good reason.
Girl had never dated a prince. She’d dated Pig, and Dog, and Weasel, but royalty had never bought her dinner or kissed her hand.
One day she was sitting in a café when a handsome man approached her. She smiled. Could this be her forever?
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Frog.”
This is Alexandra’s fourth 50-Word Story.
“How did you meet Gramma?” she asked, eyes sparkling at the impending story of romance.
“I saw the most gorgeous blonde I’d ever seen, next to an okay brunette, and I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna marry that woman.'”
“And you did!?”
“Then… what happened?”
“I married the brunette!”
This is Alexandra’s third 50-Word Story. She wanted her dad to know she doesn’t “always” write about death or cannibals.
My love lies with her head on a silken pillow, hair brushed, hands gracefully over one another. Not at all like she used to sleep, one arm over her face, the other across my chest.
Her favorite dress stretches taut across her belly; another love, forever entombed inside the other.
Alexandra Keister is an executive assistant and writer hungry for success, and on most days a good maple bar.
Most people de-vein their shrimp, say they don’t wanna eat the feces.
I peel back the brown track with my teeth and suck it out first.
Most people also don’t know shrimp will strip a corpse in three months.
Two more, and the wife is out of my system forever.
Alexandra Keister is an executive assistant and writer hungry for success, and on most days a good maple bar. She always de-veins her shrimp.