His hands shook, spilling vodka. Thumping came from the small hotel wardrobe.
He’d hoped to spend quality time in Berlin, but had caught her on the phone with her BFF. He examined her scrawled itinerary map again: “Shopping” and “Spree” were still predominant.
He suddenly reddened. “Oh… The River Spree.”
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry close to the Donegal hills. His diverse writing disciplines and genres appear in international multimedia, recently with entropy2; Amsterdam Quarterly; Flash Fiction Chronicles; Plotters Ink; Alfie Dog; and 50wordstories. He has one imaginary cat, Stinky, mostly nailed to a board above a ruined allegorical flower bed.
Easter came with a furry furor.
Their padded toes marched two by two and on the streets of capitals, the blood ran sour and crimson.
Eggs spattered and bucked teeth sank deep into ankles, then thighs, then more.
The homo-sapiens now languish in their runs and suckle at their bottles.
David Wing was desperately awaiting Easter. (But the Editor had too many submissions, so he didn’t get this one up in time for the holiday!)
Your plot and
Too many words,
Or not enough words is
Really the hardest part.
Stocking the story’s last line with a whole lot of extra, unnecessary fluff until I reach fifty words.
Ronald Chilcutt is a 44 year old High School Special Education Math Teacher who lives in the greater Chicago area. He lives with the lady love of his life, their two kids and a dog. Ronald has always believed that there is a great American novel buried in him somewhere but has not found the right shovel to dig it out.
Her eyes are like shimmering pools of living fire.
I lean closer and feel their heat radiating against my cheek.
Mesmerized, I stare into her widened pupils, flames flickering in ever increasing circles.
I’m lost, I’m lost; I’m falling in.
“They look painful,” I say.
“Painful and infectious,” she replies.
Alan is a primary school teacher working in south London. He doesn’t like where he works.
“Aunt Trudy’s going to become a scarlet woman,” Jen announced.
Her mother was shocked. “Why would you say such an awful thing?”
“She told me she’s knitting a sweater and I saw her bagful of red yarn.”
“Oh, Jennifer, you shouldn’t judge a person by the color of her skein.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Of all the despots, megalomaniacs and common or garden dictators, Fluffy was the least objectionable. Her demands were few: a little salmon here, a subservient bow there, and as an afterthought, the total and complete dominance of the Human race.
It was for their own good, after all, wasn’t it?
David is a creative writing student and recently won two flash fiction competitions back to back. He’s rather pleased with himself.
Any account of this game, without the express written consent of Major League Baseball, is strictly prohibited.
“Oh yeah?” thought Devin. He dialed the phone.
“Steve! Two home runs from Pujols! Nice pitching from Richards, too.”
Somewhere in New York, an alarm sounded.
Steve is still searching for his friend.
Dustin Petzold is a recent graduate of George Washington University and a resident of Washington DC. He co-founded Crooked Scoreboard
, a blog focused on humor and culture in sports. He thinks this bio should be shorter than the story, so he’s ending it now.
My assignment is writing a lipogram excluding the letter ‘e’.
First frustration, followed by my head hurts. I lack the discipline, perhaps the vocabulary.
I would rather be at the dentist having a tooth pulled.
Inspired, I use a pair of pliers to excise the ‘e’ key from my keyboard.
Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry’s stories can be found at Cyclamens and Swords, A Story In 100 Words, and here at 50 Word Stories.
I should’ve shaved my legs, I think as my neighbor invites me in. Or worn pants.
He smiles. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Just the phone.” I avoid his gaze and pull my bathrobe tight.
Then I call my roommate and explain how I locked myself out.
Crystal Moore doesn’t like to reveal much about herself, which is why she won’t be found working the pole at a strip club. However, she can be found dividing her time between the realm of her imagination and North Carolina’s Coastal Plain region. Her publication credits include humorous greeting card copy, children’s short stories, and flash fiction.
It had started out as a cry for fairer wages, better living conditions, and dental. Then the revolt had become inevitable.
Santa sat in his cell and ate his microwave Christmas dinner. His wife had led the charge, and now she flew the sleigh. It was better that way…
David is a fan of Christmas, honestly. Last year he made his own crackers, minus the ‘crack’.