He saw the other man across the ridge.
Broad-faced. Heavy-browed. Uncanny curiosity in his eyes.
They watched each other without language.
He felt warning rise in his chest.
The other lowered his spear first.
The world held two kinds of man. Both fearful and weary.
Neither certain who would endure.
Bobby Battle Jr. is a speculative fiction author, who enjoys telling stories big or small. Thank you for your consideration.
A buzz of good humor hangs in the air, filling my now empty rooms. The walls still reverberate with thrice-told tales and leftover laughter. Each beloved guest adds unique gifts to the crazy quilt of our family. I wonder—do they feel the comfort I feel from the lingering warmth?
Carol Huebsch Reeves embraces the freedom and creativity of Flash Fiction. Most of her stories speak to life’s joys and challenges. Her work is often found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 50 Word Stories. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.
Years ago, I knew a skinny hippy we called Click, because he took photos with a film camera without any film. When I asked why, he tapped his temple. “They’re all in here, man.” Even now, I can see Click in my head, clear as day. Guess he was right.
One of Marc’s short stories, The Violin, first published in Thin-Skin, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
…are the glittery comet tails of vanishing connections.
“Busiest year yet.” Crumple.
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.” Toss.
“Promotions, renovations, travel.” Bin.
“Remember the afternoon light, that time we ditched staff training to hike in the snow?”
One for the mantelpiece. Glowing evidence of a friendship still in orbit.
Joanna Norland is a UK-based playwright, currently collaborating with Shake-Scene theatre company on an adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen – the mud kicked up from the puddles catching on the hem of her jeans as we walked. I followed behind, our steps in perfect sync, together. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to anyone in my life.
Sarah lives in Vancouver, Canada. She has a forthcoming publication in The Closed Eye open.
Red dust clung to his moccasins as the bus groaned east. Behind him, mesas hummed; wind drummed songs through cedar bones. In white hospital halls, he stitched wounds gently, his people’s breath guiding each thread. Pine Ridge pulsed within him, steady, sorrowed, sacred, a heartbeat he would never unlearn.
David A. Lee was born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and is a physician and poet whose work bridges medicine and memory. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in In Parentheses, The Shore, and Rattle. He trained at the Mayo Clinic and lives in Texas.
I saved the last apricot from summer, wrapped in a napkin like a secret. In winter, I found it shriveled but whole. I bit into memory: tart, soft, sun-warmed. My daughter watched, puzzled. “It’s just fruit,” she said. But I could taste my childhood, my mother’s hands, the orchard’s hush.
Aisha is a poet and storyteller based in Srinagar, India. Her work explores themes of memory, displacement, and emotional resilience, often through lyrical prose and quiet imagery.
Of a summer’s evening we gather around the campfire, laughing and singing the old songs. Most of all we revel in the tall tales about granddad. And as we speak, each in turn with a riotous story, he comes alive once more, his ruddy face beaming in the dancing flames.
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. In addition to 50-Word Stories, his writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, “Deadline,” was published in 2023. He can be found on Bluesky at @youngnick.bsky.social. He lives outside Chicago.
Eighty frozen peas, thawed, four times a day, down the pigeon’s leathery beak.
An ambulance. Across the street. Up, down, with a body, siren mute, lights still blaring.
Baby bird cries for more.
New widow already in black.
Weeks later the pigeon flies back to the flock.
Unrelated, but inseparable.
Nicholas De Marino is a former journalist and aspiring bon vivant. Read more at nicholasdemarino.com.
A tuft of her hair sits in my drawer. She asked that I cut it so it wouldn’t get in the way as she died. We stood in the bathroom, sharing our last mother-daughter moment. Catching each other’s eyes in the mirror, we smiled: a final gift to each other.
Melanie Stern is a journalist and writes poetry. She misses her Mum.