Hunt them in dark castles or the bedrooms of virgins.
Dispatch with a blunt instrument. Avoid the heart.
Hang the meat high.
Allow to drain for three days. Do not let it near sunlight.
Slice with a silver carving knife. Serve immediately.
Burn the clothes.
Keep the fangs.
Mark Farley is currently enjoying trying to write a 50-word bio but suspects he may miscalculate. He loves writing short stories and has been lucky enough to see his work appear in several flash fiction magazines. He blogs his creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.com
and often wishes he was better at poetry.
I stop when I see the three previous exterminators decaying on the front lawn, their faces swollen.
The previous owners stopped paying their mortgage and turned the space between their walls into an apiary.
The bank wants to keep the house as intact as possible, despite the growing body count.
J. Bradley is the author of The Adventures of Jesus Christ, Boy Detective (Pelekinesis, 2016) and the Yelp review prose poem collection Pick How You Will Revise A Memory (Robocup Press, 2016). He lives at jbradleywrites.com
Three men walk into a bar.
“Ow!” cries the first man. He clutches his head and falls to the floor.
“Ugh!” cries the second man, slumping lifelessly to the ground.
“It is done,” says the third man. He passes the bloodied rod to the barman, takes his money, and leaves.
Guy worked in a bar once. This is his sixteenth 50-word story.
“We’ve had enough of your cowboy attitude in the workplace,” the boss said. “You’re fired.”
I glanced at the clock. High noon.
“That’s mighty fine,” I drawled, spitting my tobacco onto the floor.
Holstering my six-shooter, I darn grabbed my Stetson and moseyed on out, heading for the nearest saloon.
Jon is from the Northwest of England and wastes most of his time working in local government, when he really wants to just read and write. He thinks his attitude to his hobby of rustling cattle back at the ranch is more lasso-faire than cowboy. He has recently been told one of his slightly longer worded shorts is to be included in an anthology. A doggone first.
It was his birthday. Born seventy years ago on the last day of December. So this is how his year was to end, wracked in pain, body contorted. He always thought he would enjoy retirement, old age, dying gracefully.
He should never have given the kids that stupid Twister game.
Gordon Lysen resides at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
To test the old saying ‘misery loves company,’ Henry subscribed to a binge-watchable streaming video service, rented a humongous flat screen TV, and hired a caterer.
The first weekend in January, with dieting and exercise strictly prohibited, Henry and his party guests broke their New Year’s resolutions in record time.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
The neighbourhood children around here seemed just like mine.
“What have you been doing, sweetie?” I asked.
“I painted an angel.”
“…And you, sonny?”
“I painted Santa.”
Looking around they explained they were in another room drying, so I entered and there they were… Tied up and covered in paint.
Connell often says too much or too little in his biographies and probably will again. Despite this, he has been inspired, by others, to become a great writer of such, but to date his biographies have been sadly lacking in the necessary achievements required by him to embellish once more.
“Who do you think is guilty?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Me neither. I imagine it’s situations like this that drive detectives to drink.”
“Shall we give it a try?”
The two penniless PIs pooled their pocket change and shared a cup of coffee so hot it nearly melted their straws.”
John H. Dromey has a short story in the forthcoming Candlesticks and Daggers: An Anthology of Mixed-Genre Mysteries
edited by Kelly Ann Jacobson.
Mikey and I visited Grandma in the city.
“Look in the apartment across the street,” said Mikey. “They’re not wearing any clothes.”
I tried to shut him up, but he continued: “What are they doing?”
“You little snoop,” growled Grandma.
She reached into the drawer and handed Mikey her binoculars.
Since he retired in 2009, Harry Demarest has published in Fiftyworstories.com, Festival Writer, Compassion and Choices, and Gold Man Review.
Once again, like many times before, he was in the same situation. He’d promised himself not to be defeated by that same enemy anymore, but it seemed so impossible. Along the years, his enemy had become stronger, and he weaker. That was his daily struggle with getting out of bed.
José Jaime is a Spanish guy who wants to improve his writing and his imagination.