The baker cuts chunks from the amoeba dough. It’s sticky in his hands, protesting against separation onto the kneading board.
From the display of loaves, shiny like glazed pots, I choose the largest and the assistant swaddles it in tissue. I carry the loaf like a babe in my arms.
Gail Aldwin’s debut novel, The String Games, has been long-listed in The People’s Book Prize. If you’d like to support her to reach the next level, you can vote using this link. Voting is open until 15 October 2019.
Sugar is the enemy. Fat is poison. Mantras like these run on a loop inside my foggy mind.
Staring down the overflowing plate, my heart thunders against my ribcage at the thought of eating blacklisted snacks.
Grimacing, I take a bite of the Hershey bar. Recovery is a slow process.
Lauren is an undergraduate student studying Creative Writing at Emerson College.
“Hunger has been banished,” he thundered.
The crowd roared. Kalawati, too, feebly cheered.
They had been ferried in a truck to the election meeting. Meeting over, she clutched the 500 rupee note which she had been promised and hurried home. She didn’t want to lose one more child to starvation.
Vijai Pant is a teacher in a school in India. In his free time he lets his creative juices flow as a freelance writer and poet.
I drizzle honey over yoghurt and imagine that I am Jackson Pollock.
Yesterday’s dessert was a masterpiece, worthy of MoMA, but this looks amateur. I need precision. I need clean lines.
But it’s freezing and my honey has crystallised into thick, sticky globules.
I bet Jackson Pollock could afford heating.
Danny Beusch started writing flash fiction in 2017. Find him on Twitter: @OhDannyBoyShhh.
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.