“There’s a bug.” The new project manager steps into Charlie’s cube. She smells fresh, like she showers.
“Impossible.” He knows she can’t read Java so he points to his screen. “Show me.”
“Good Lord, never mind.” She removes her ruby high heel and smashes the cockroach crawling across his desktop.
Anne Anthony once worked as a systems project manager, but she never wore heels. She writes fiction and hand-carries bugs to safety.
First she declared a bonus for landing on Free Parking, then accidentally-on-purpose collected twice for passing Go. But even when she raised the rent on me, I didn’t object: it’s comforting to know that even at her tender age, my daughter’s got what it takes to run the family business.
Ingrid Jendrzejewski grew up in Vincennes, Indiana and loves cryptic crosswords and the game of go. Recently, she won the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Links to Ingrid’s writing can be found at ingridj.com
and she occasionally tweets @LunchOnTuesday
On Saturday, I pedal through the rain to the school gym, where dodgeball reigns.
Elizabeth, who sits atop the bleachers, rules elsewhere. Red balls splat faces and bodies.
I shake off the rain, join the banshee chaos, and hope a ball finds me before she decrees us all hopeless naives.
Penn Stewart lives and writes in Wichita Falls, Texas. His most recent short fiction appears or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Word Riot, Dogzplot, Front Porch Review, Union Station Magazine, and elsewhere.
Flashing silver, the fish wiggled on Dad’s line, rippling with life. So beautiful. “Hurry, Emma,” Dad said. “The net.”
Luckily, Emma had snipped tiny cuts in the new net’s fibers last night. She hid her smile as the fish slipped through.
“What the…” Dad’s shoulders sagged. “There goes another one!”
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA and writes poetry and fiction for children and adults. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in various magazines. She blogs at My Brain on Books
She promised to save me a seat.
“I’ll drape my sweater over the chair next to mine.”
I’ve looked every where and can’t find her. The only sweater I see is on a chair beside a little blonde girl.
Estelle has white hair
Maybe she didn’t make it into heaven.
Candace hopes someone will save her a seat.
“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.
Not to be outdone by Grandma’s cat, who slathered a gob of squirrel viscera upon the sidewalk, Boon whined at the screen door. Usually it was dross—holey sock, long-gone bones—but something’s different today: a tobacco tin with old coins, curled Greybacks.
Good dog, I say, over and over.
Leigh Ward-Smith is a writer, editor, and amateur duck-wrangler with a passion for literature in its many forms. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming for The Ghouls’ Review, 52nd City literary magazine, and the Bikes in Space fiction anthology. When not reading, parenting, or being outdoors, she can most likely be found blogging at Leigh’s Wordsmithery.
My invisible unicorn dies, so I dig a big hole in the garden and sing a happy song. My parents come outside and frown.
“If he’s in unicorn heaven,” they say, “why dig the hole?”
I cry, and they hug me. I love all this.
My unicorn dies quite often.
Brenda Anderson’s fiction has appeared in various places, from Andromeda Spaceways to SpeckLit. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia and tweets irregularly.
Alone again herself, she saw the loneliness of others. Stray mittens and gloves in parking spaces, on snowbanks and sidewalks.
She brought them home, washed and dried them, wore them as others wear mismatched socks.
Now when she claps her hands the soft thick sound makes her broken heart glad.
Mary Steer is a word nerd living west of Toronto, where she works and reworks stories from life and imagination. When she’s not writing or editing, she likes to dabble in physics (knitting) and chemistry (baking).
“Eat like this!” Mama demands, nibbling the bagel like a caged gerbil with a toilet paper roll.
The boy giggles, takes his like a harmonica, raising it like a singer reaching for that final high note. Cream cheese squirts out for the audience’s enjoyment.
She rubs her expectant belly. “Kids…”
Jennifer L. Smith lives in Eagle River, Alaska. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Cirque, Yellow Chair Review, Eunoia Review, and Alaska Women Speak.