It was bad enough when Phoebe knew she was eating kale. A single taste, no matter how her boyfriend prepared it, confirmed her aversion.
Stir fried? Vile.
Roasted? Equally so.
Discovering her boyfriend had slipped some into the brownies she raved about? That was a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
Iain Young can’t remember the last time he ate kale, and he’d like to keep it that way.
None could hope to understand her, to survey the mystical topography of her desire’s terrain. Lamenting her ponderous depths, he hoped never again to cross the enigmatic path she trod. He couldn’t bear it.
She nodded coolly as he repeated the dozen modifications to her unique salad order.
Jake Greenblot wrote this story.
It’s Friday. I’m meeting the love of my life, the one and only. It’s 9:50 PM, almost 10. All is prepared. I’ve waited for so long.
Suddenly the bell rings. I’m nervous but I open the door.
“So beautiful!” I think. It’s there looking at me.
Pizza, I love you.
Berta Torras Febrer and Génesis Chamaidan Panchana are students of an English Academy in Barcelona, Catalunya. They are both 16 years old and they study at Sant Miquel dels Sants High school. They are into music and want to become singers. This is their first 50-word story.
“We’re eating healthy this Christmas,” Mom announced. “No artificial flavours or colours.”
Six-year-old Joey winced. “Yuck, more Brouches schproats!”
“Nothing wrong with Brussels sprouts,” Mom said. “Or fruitcake with natural dried fruits.”
Joey and Dad frowned.
Then, a miracle happened: Grandma walked in bringing candy canes and chocolate marshmallow Santas.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her published works can be found online and in magazines and anthologies.
Flapping ducks carried
by their feet
in nets, rope burns
on protruding legs
Only we pale Westerners
gasp; to the bustling
crowds, the animals are simply
fresh as the lush scallions,
circling in barrels, chosen
by pointing shoppers
the way we
Jennifer L. Freed lived in China for one year as a college English teacher. She writes mostly poetry and, sometimes, very short stories. To read more of her work, please visit her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
“Eat up!” said Mom.
Victor stared at his plate. Yuck. What was this slimy, moldy, mushy gunk?
“Don’t you like it?”
“Gross!” said Victor. “Is this rotten food?”
“It’s your winnings,” said Mom. “The ones you gloated about after Monopoly. Like you said, to the victor go the spoils!”
I’m happy to announce the birth of my second son, Victor! This story is for him.
Our waitress, Carlie, promised to “take care of” us. She sliced and served the pizza. With a flourish, she slid the pizza on to my plate. It continued to slide right on to my white slacks, sauce side down.
The manager arrived with club soda, an apology and the check.
Marian Brooks has recently retired and found some time to write short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.
She dieted for three weeks; avoided all soft drinks, steered clear of pie and ice cream. She ate salad for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; consumed plain yogurt by the quart; and drank green tea.
Now she stood on the scale. Weight loss: one pound.
The chocolate melted in her mouth.
Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes’, was published by Clarity House Press, and her poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’, is available at her blog or http://smashwords.com/b/137826.
“Please, Clarissa,” pleaded Sergio, “don’t leave me! I’ll make you better spaghetti, better pizza, better wine!”
“Always food with you,” said Clarissa wearily. “Always wine… Don’t you understand me? What I really want are children… and pets!”
Sergio bought her a mouse. She kept it, and got rid of him.
“I don’t know…”
I gritted my teeth. “Make up your mind! I can’t stand your waffling.”
“Both options look good!” she protested. “I hate being forced to choose…”
“Here,” I said, “I’ll choose for you.” I flung a waffle onto her plate.
“But,” she said, “maybe I want a pancake…”
This story is based on a title suggested by @PoshPlatypus.