Picasso owned a cat who controlled the weather in Paris. When he painted the cat yellow, it was sunny. Purple, and lightning broke out.
People gathered outside Picasso’s door at sunrise and waited for him to put out the cat. “Darn, more rain,” they said during the cat’s blue period.
Jay Gershwin lives in New York. You can get a free copy of his novel, Poor Man’s Autumn, through Amazon.
The Mad Colorist turned the sun green.
Gently, God said, “Change it back.”
“Never. I’m talented, see?”
“Fine. Your choice. You need a bigger canvas. My choice.”
The Mad Colorist fled from an exploding nebula, while God changed the sun back Himself.
“Talented? Ha. Flash in the pan.”
Brenda Anderson wrote this story.
The diner was a clean, well lighted place, open around-the-clock.
I was working the counter the night Edward Hopper stopped in.
He asked me why I wasn’t wearing a paper hat.
I shrugged and said, “The cook wears a hairnet.”
“Well, I’m giving you a hat,” he said, sketching feverishly.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction,” his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
I sat at a picnic table in the woods, with my pen. I had hoped to honor you.
I would be masterful with my language, weave an imaginary tapestry. All would know of your glory,
had I succeeded. Instead,
I wrote this. My,
what a waste of such precious time.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring something from a mountainous somewhere.
Taking off her eponymous heels, Spanx, push-up bra, contoured make-up, doll-face lashes and hair extensions, she complained bitterly that he wasn’t honest with her, while, oblivious to irony, he admired his reflection in his favourite mirror, applauding his own insight on the importance of artistic integrity in the New West.
Kai Gaitley is an English student in Hilo on the Big Island of Hawaii who understands that an obvious reference is only obvious if you lived through Madchester too.
I pick up a brush or place hands on the keys; the ghosts come out to share.
They’re bored, they’re lonely, with stories to tell.
They fib, omit, exaggerate.
They dream, they yearn, imaginate.
My hands are possessed. Others say I make art.
My beloved ghosts and I know better.
Maura’s ghosts are behind some cool microfiction published in 50-Word Stories, The Drabble, and Microfiction Monday Magazine, and some hot flash published in The Fiction Pool, Zeroflash, and The Dirty Pool. The ghosts also maintain a website at maurayzmore.com and tweet as @MauraYzmore.
Engineers created robots that wrote music based on brainwaves.
We wanted to hear thoughts of wonder, imagining a new wave of ‘sub-conscious’ brain-raves.
Exhilaration turned to panic as a deeply buried sorrow filled our ears. A dying world screamed within our minds, and we had turned the volume up loud.
Alex Massey is a writer and the editor of Story Seed Vault
. They can be found hiding behind decorative foliage at parties or on Twitter
It had been a chore, but she had finally gotten her husband to sit still for a portrait.
She took her time, trying to completely capture him: his peaceful expression, the slight messiness of his brown hair, the blood slowly pouring from the cut in his neck.
Simply a masterpiece.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the icy hills of West Virginia.
I studied under Sinatra for years, learned guitar from Clapton, and pondered the language of love with Shakespeare himself.
I wrote a ballad that stilled the wind and made the moon blush, and serenaded my girlfriend beneath a thousand stars.
“That was nice,” she said. “But where’re my proper presents?”
Guy once wrote his girlfriend a love song, but lost the words. This is his seventh 50-word story.
Adam and the work friends he’d dragged to the exhibition were silent in the Uber back to Manhattan. The four of them scrolled through the messages on their phones without looking up, and no one mentioned the photographs they had just seen, worried about seeming to have missed the point.
Bowen Dunnan lives and writes in New York City.