Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.
That is a photo of my girlfriend; it was the last good day she had before she died.
She doesn’t look sick, but she was. That wasn’t going to stop her doing what she wanted to do. She had spirit.
How do you get used to losing someone like that?
Susan Cornford is a retired public servant living in Perth, Western Australia. She has pieces published or forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Akashic Books, Antipodean Science Fiction, CarpeArte Journal, Fewer Than 500, Ghost Parachute, Medusa’s Laugh, Speculative 66, Subtle Fiction, Switchblade, The Fable Online, The Gambler, and The Vignette Review. She considers herself an emerging flash writer.
Lieutenant Harold Demarest stands on the bridge, watching a kamikaze roar towards him.
Below, Gunner Frank McClelland fires the 40mm cannon and hits the suicide plane.
It veers downward, exploding into the ship.
Demarest is alive, a flimsy clipboard shielding his head. Below, Frank McClelland and seventeen others are dead.
Frank McClelland was awarded the Silver Star Posthumously. Harry
Demarest wrote this story about his father, Harold Demarest, who attended
many reunions with his shipmates until his death at age 96.
They met on the sand, slow waltzing to wavesong under a rainbow of stars and deciding love should last beyond forever.
Now he whispers those memories and her smile smooths the wrinkles of their pain.
He catches her last breath with a gossamer lasso and ties it to his heartbeat.
A.J. lives in Australia and wouldn’t mind being reincarnated as a kookaburra. She’s on Twitter at @manicol1.
The dead got up from the battlefield. Some played with their wounds. Others witnessed the horror of what they had become. As they walked away a young private looked back and saw their bodies where they’d fallen and sighed, “If all this is for that, why did we bother coming?”
Connell writes a bit and no more.
We talked for hours, while making lists of people to call. Halfway to morning we went to bed. We were shattered. Before we fell asleep the wind picked up, gusting snow off the trees. As the branches lightened, they scratched against the windows, like something asking to be let in.
Author’s Note: For Sarah Kate 1980-2010
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.
Things I’ve done for money: collected cans for cash, sold chocolate, shoveled sidewalks after a snowstorm. Once I built an amusement park in the backyard and sold tickets. That was the summer Mom quit chemo.
I told jokes for a penny. She bought a hundred, and listened from her bed.
Jane Hertenstein wrote this story.
For months the space next to me had been empty. Yet tonight, it was occupied by a stranger. My husband glared at him.
“How could you do this to me?” he whispered.
“Til death do us part,” I replied.
My husband glowered. His ghostly figure slowly disappeared into the darkness.
Patricia Santillan likes climbing up chairs because she is too short to reach the top cupboard. Because self-love is important to her, she loves hugging herself. Her most recent publications can be found in Leaves of Ink and Fairy Talez.
I’ve thought of you so very often these past thirty years or more. In my head, I still hear your gentle tone and I feel the touch of your warm embrace.
Good memories last a lifetime. I’m coming to see you soon.
You never let me down.
You won’t now.
Jean lives in a village near Bath in the UK. She refuses to believe this is all there is.
The smell slaps me back to the business at hand as I avoid the onslaught of memories that serve no purpose. She left me her cashmere sweater, reeking of mothballs. I sneeze, entrapped by envious eyes.
“You were her favorite.”
“You were always so easy to torture.”
Kim Kalama is a latecomer to fiction writing. She draws upon the quirkiest dynamics of her life experiences to stir her imagination.