While I explore the famed Loch Lomond, an insect darts over my head, and whispers. “Hello, mortal.”
It’s a she: wings and tiny antlers. “Am I crazy?”
“No. You entered a haunted zone.”
“You’re a ghost, then.”
“Only sprites and water fairies, here.” She whistles softly. “And I’m your guide.”
Russell Hemmell is an alien from Mintaka snuggled into a (consenting) human host. His fiction has appeared on Gone Lawn, Not One of Us, Strangelet, and elsewhere. See more at earthianhivemind.net.
I could smell her rat’s nest presence when no one could. Of course, no one was a bona fide witch hunter like me. Every victory made me sense their presence even more.
She smiled demurely. A school counselor; what a great cover.
I’d run her out of town by Monday.
Since Lin Jenkinson was introduced to 50 Word Stories, she has been addicted. But only micro-addicted. Hopefully Zoey will have many witch-hunting adventures in the future.
The streetlight and trees conspire to turn my ceiling into a dance floor every night, a masquerade of ghouls and long-limbed shadowy dancers flailing arms and legs. His legs drape across me, stop me from floating to whirl with them, my bedsheet a bridal gown, the pillow my swelling belly.
Mohini Malhotra is from Nepal and lives in Washington, DC. She runs a social enterprise that promotes contemporary women artists from emerging markets and invests profits to better women’s and girls’ lives. She loves words, she loves flash, and she has had several stories published (in Blink-Ink and 50-Word Stories, amongst others) and several forthcoming.
In this new world, the colors carried their own sounds, the air tasted like gingersnaps, and birds tweeted the blues.
A gruff gnome told Philip, “You are the chosen one.”
Nancy from HR hovered above, frowning. “We know you’re on drugs. We have to let you go. Get some help.”
L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found lurking in places like Flash Fiction Magazine, Dali’s Lovechild, Literary Orphans, and in shoe boxes under her bed.
I picked my son up.
As I drove home, I peered at him. He looked like my son but he smelled different, talked different, and his smile was so wrong.
As we sat at traffic lights, I received a text: Dad, where are you?
That was how the world ended.
Steve Coverdale is an Englishman living in Nova Scotia. He keeps trying to write short stories with a happy ending but keeps on getting dragged back to the dark side.
Helm in hand, the knight revealed himself. A dying man deserved to know the name of the adversary who’d bested him. He gripped the cold, spiraled hilt of his father’s blade.
The old man’s eyes widened, not because of the pain, but because of the ghost in front of him.
AC Baldwin wrote this story.
After the queen died of consumption, we smothered the old king in his sleep and condemned his son for the murder.
We then put in place to rule our territory the speechless blind prophet who always wore a crown of sparrows, their tiny talons tangled in his coarse filthy hair.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net
“Bring me his head!” yelled the Queen. So they packaged it up in paper and string and delivered it to her on a cracked white plate.
She unwrapped it with care, then asked for the body. At night she put him back together on her bed and watched him dream.
Mark Farley lives in Swindon, UK, dividing his time between web page development, opera singing, and occasionally using the Oxford comma. He blogs his random attempts at creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk
She stepped onto the abandoned platform. The breeze from a nearby train forced her tartan scarf to wrap around her icy neck. Reaching inside her pocket, she pulled out the tattered and torn ticket and held it loosely above her.
She closed her eyes and let the wind carry her.
Lisa Bird is a 12-year-old pupil at Longhill High School in Brighton, UK.
My friend Lisa is scared of mirrors. She heard that mirrors were gateways to evil, alternate worlds. She feared her evil self would pull her through, take her place and no one would ever know.
I hoped she would.
Lisa hadn’t noticed when I took her friend’s place, after all.
Robyn Smith is a young writer currently working on a series of novels while attending Charlottetown Rural High School.