He managed to get over the stout fence with ease. The derelict hut lay waiting as a fine, light snow began to fall.
If he could just get away from the voices.
Here. It must be far enough.
Obese. Grotesque. Vile. Slob.
Here he could be himself, without their judgement.
Abbie Mapley wrote this story.
From the very start the bear’s life had been miserable and brutal. Locked away in the dark for weeks without food and water. Brought out in public only to be beaten.
But now his torment was at an end.
He was taken to the charity shop with the other toys.
This is John’s very first attempt at a 50-word story. When he was teaching English last year in Lithuania, the 50-word story came up in a study book. He asked his students to try (with varying degrees of success), and to encourage them he wrote this one. He is not a writer of any sort but is attempting his first novel, based on his experiences in Lithuania. He is now back in the UK, living in Scotland and working as a Tour Guide.
James heard the Gestapo dogs barking relentlessly as they chased him.
He banged frantically on the church door. A man wearing a black cassock answered. “Come in, my son. You are safe here.”
Relieved, James knelt to receive a blessing, then froze in horror. The man was wearing combat boots.
Joann Majerle retired and recently took up writing as a hobby.
Falling, falling, crashing hard into the cold earth.
A tunnel without start or end, no light, only darkness.
Flickers of a glimpse—something is possible.
Fumbling forward for escape, grasping for the last.
Tumbling through, stumbling out—such blazing light.
A cliffside, toes curled over the edge, unable to fall.
Rebecca Milton is an author from London, England, who is currently preparing her first print novel for publication whilst writing her second. She has been featured here at 50-Word Stories and in Here Comes Everyone magazine.
My greatest loves have all been in my head.
Safe from failure, I dive into passion; into romance; into perfection. I know things will go as I plan; I am planning them all.
Sometimes I wake from these daydreams, longing for them—struggling to remember their lips are not mine.
Rebecca Milton is a writer from London, England who was once described as “cute like a polar bear sliding down a rainbow”. Coincidentally, that has always been her aspiration in life.
She tore down each of her MISSING posters, cursing her own name more than her mother’s. She slinked beneath bridges, laid on the mattresses of marsh slime, or drifted into alleys.
Yet, she preserved the posters, her printed visages, because they documented the time, long ago, when she could smile.
Caroline Cao is an Earthling residing and surviving under the fickle weather of League City, TX. When she’s not doing poetry or researching techno-babbles for sci-fic drafts, she’s out swing dancing or experimenting with ramen noodles. She nudges you to scan through her film and writing portfolio
A cockatoo gnaws at the twisted wire holding his cage shut. Upstairs, humans hurl insults and furniture. Again.
These bars, their anger: a prison within a prison. Enough.
Snap! A puff of feathers, an open window. The sky, foreign but irresistible, challenges his wings to embrace a new, dangerous freedom.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com
Our prison break was a success.
I followed Kyle to a house in the dark. “Won’t we get caught?” I said as he broke a window.
“No chance. This guy will be out all night.”
“How do you know?”
Kyle grinned. “He runs the prison. He’s out looking for us.”
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk) is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
“My house, my rules!” he’d roared.
My legs complain of the extended sitting of the journey, the chill no one else seems to acknowledge, the vibrations of the traffic.
Deposited among chaos and unconcern by a cabbie who’d taken money I’d put aside for a meal, I reappraise father’s “tyranny”.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.
All I can see is the faint glow of a pulsating green light. Voices are getting louder.
The cave is damp and smells of sulphur. The purple rock glistens from the flashes of lightning and the rolling thunder echoes deep into an underground chasm.
It’s just a matter of time.
Gordon Miller is a writer living in Oakville ON. He enjoys getting ideas by writing 50 word stories. Getting them published is a bonus.