Burgers and beer aren’t romantic, unless free-range and craft. The perfect test: casual pretense, maudlin subtext.
They caught each other blowing away their beer-burger burps discreetly. Infatuation.
They cut off each’s “Before this goes further, you should know” speeches with “I already know, and I feel just the same.” Love.
boomer trujillo is a TexMex son, parent to an anxious dog, and a perpetual student. He’s grateful for readers.
I think about his freckles sometimes.
One under his eye, two on his cheek, and twenty-six on the bridge of his nose. I get hung up on the three on his lips. They were my freckles. I claimed them every day.
They’re still there. But they have a new owner.
Carly Huss lives with her boyfriend and dog in Lewisville, Texas.
“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.
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.
Our jilted heroine, her energy field depleted, her chakra channels out of whack, still believed in the bread of intimacy and the dance of oneness.
And so, clinging to detachment, our heroine took the path to Barnes & Noble and, letting go of thirteen bucks, bought If the Buddha Dated.
Ozzie Nogg’s flash fiction has been published in Diddledog, Dew on the Kudzu, Apollo’s Lyre, Flashshot, Apocrypha and Abstractions, 50 Word Stories and is upcoming in Donut Factory. Her very short work, Escape From Crete, is represented in the 100 Stories for Haiti Anthology. In 2003, her story, Blue Plate Special, appeared in MARGIN: Exploring Modern Magic Realism, and was later nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her book of personal stories, Joseph’s Bones, won First Place in the 2005 Writer’s Digest Press International Self-Published Book Awards. Visit her at ozzienogg.com.
She flushed the toilet three times, washed her hands three times, folded the last sheet of paper on the roll exactly as before, wearily descended the stairs never touching the handrail.
He grinned; she noticed his thrice-polished shoes.
She must leave, while there was still time. Apparently OCD was contagious.
Ruby Ray has been a Jill of many trades and mistress of some of them. Anyway, she hopes to have mastered (mistressed?) a few more before she takes it easy for good.
He chose two wheels, not four, for his commutes to and from work, citing improvement in health and environmental concerns.
When he started dating a co-worker, he worried she’d find him cheap.
Instead, she embraced his philosophical outlook and their love deepened as they wheeled a bicycle built for two.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She delights neighbourhood cats with her singing.
You held her on your arm. She was stunning, and classy too. You didn’t tell her.
You opened the door and walked through first. Like you always do.
That’s how you lost her.
Another guy moved in and swept her away. He held the door open on their way out.
With a background in filmmaking, Justene studied writing and directing at the University of Auckland. Her short story Seven Dollar Fifty Life was recently published in Snorkel Magazine #17. She is from Auckland, New Zealand.
She treated him like dirt.
She showered him with gifts. Soap-on-a-rope, shampoo in a bottle, deodorant in an environmentally friendly container, cologne strong enough to go one-on-one with a sewer rat…
He didn’t take the hint, or a shower either, for that matter.
She dropped him like a used tissue.
John H. Dromey has had a short story published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a mini-mystery in Woman’s World, plus fiction online at Liquid Imagination, Mysterical-E, and elsewhere.
Before we knew what was happening, I was hanging by my fingertips over about a billion miles of empty sky, my buddy and his parachute were dwindling into an invisible speck somewhere below me, and the chicks were whooping like banshees.
What’s wrong with being boring? I LIKE being boring!
This story was based on the prompt “before we knew” at TypeTrigger.