Roseanne held her five-year-old grandson’s hand all during the burial service for her husband, Sidney.
Adam looked up and saw tears in her eyes. He said, “Don’t cry, Grand mom. I can get Grand pop back.”
“How will you do that, Adam?” she asked.
“I have a shovel,” he whispered.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, The Story Shack, The Linnet’s Wings, The Short Humour Site, and others.
Jeff sensed their empathy as he recalled the loss of physical sensation and the absence of fear.
Feedback from the invisible audience strengthened as he remembered his awareness of others, the unheard words understood.
A surge of shared understanding reached him along with the sound of the Crematorium oven closing.
Jim has been a member of a Writing Circle for just over a year. He initially wrote this story as a 250-word story before adapting it to the 50-word format.
Holding the balloon bouquet to his left hand, Nathan scans a paper which reads, “Thomas Allen Fitzgerald, three years old, car crash.“
Covering his pale skull with his hood he sighs, “I sure hope Tommy likes these.”
Nathan solemnly lifts a scythe from his car’s trunk and heads to work.
Craig has been published on fiftywordstories.com as well as in The Labyrinth. He can be reached via Facebook and has a WordPress blog that is sorely underused.
I survived the crash.
“I am alive.”
Silence.
“I am here. I am okay, I think. Nothing broken…”
I must be pinned down as I cannot turn to look around. The light is dimming.
I see two medics approaching. One says, “Here: we found his head.”
The light goes out.
Gary writes poems, short stories, and novels. Some can be found on his Scribophile account, others on his somewhat neglected Tumblr.
The night came, bringing icy cold air to the battlefield, and the moans once heard fell silent as the first snowflakes drifted down.
A shroud of snow covered everything, and in the morning a more beautiful landscape was unimaginable anywhere else, except for the knowledge of the grotesque shapes beneath.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music some years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“There I was, surrounded by the entire German army! Their tanks and infantry finally cornered me, and I had nowhere to…”
“Wow, Grandpa! Were you scared?”
“Terrified! You can’t even imagine the fear.”
“But Grandpa, how did you escape?”
Grandpa grinned as he replied, “I didn’t.” Then, he faded away.
Guy Church is a software developer centered near St. Louis, Mo. He’s spent 6 years in the Air Force doing the same, and has since moved on to the private sector. He has a wife and 2 children, and he spends entirely too much time devouring the content of computer games.
Hometown boys, grown into husbands and fathers, heroes swallowed up in flames.
If someone had told any of them that they’d be on the news someday, they’d have just smiled and shook their heads no.
Nineteen new, humble firefighters in heaven, their last moments spent in the fires of hell.
Brian Sutherland is married to his writing partner. He has two grown amd married children and spends much of his efforts in trying to keep his wife from buying things for yet to be conceived grandchildren. His artwork and writing are featured on www.sobhanastudio.com.
Editor’s Note: This story is a tribute to the Arizona firefighters who were killed in the line of duty on June 30, 2013.
The Mastersons wondered if parenting was easier when dead. They agreed it was pleasant observing their boys unseen, but Father preferred chastising in death, believing the boys would only argue anyway, whereas Mother felt she could reason with them if still alive, at which Father laughed. The boys would’ve, too.
Raised in the Deep South by a Catholic Yankee and a Korean Buddhist in a magic shoppe turned comic book store, life was always interesting for Andrea, to say the least. Passionate about reading, writing, and all things comics!
2184: Earth’s survivors occupy government-controlled cells provided with oxygen, power and sustenance, or OPS.
Number 215296045 activates his TV to discover he is live on screen.
“Tonight’s randomly chosen contestant on ‘Dying to Live’ is 215296045. Your task is to survive one hour without OPS. Understood?”
“What’s my prize?”
“Another hour without OPS.”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
They held hands. The special moments passed, as they do. She smiled that smile he had fallen for years before. Her eyes sparked. Her grip tightened.
“I love you.”
He heard the words before her mouth even spoke them.
“Always,” he heard himself say.
He died.
Memories remained in her.
JH Statts is paralyzed from the chest down. He writes music reviews, draws a lot, likes tacos, and maintains a blog at aspirento.com. Visit him in Savannah, Georgia.