I’m always skeptical when my boyfriend says he’s a lumberjack.
There’s something about the way he cuts his hair every winter, how his checked flannel shirt hangs loose around his trunk and his thorny beard scratches my cheeks when we kiss—but I wouldn’t put roots down with anybody else.
Guy branched out into story writing to compensate for his wooden personality. This is his seventeenth 50-word story.
Red roses are cliché.
Daisies’ friendly faces look pitifully eager.
Orchids make you work too much for their beauty.
Lilies’ quiet elegance masks a faint bridal whiff.
Tulips: unassuming and perfect.
Later, I offer her the painstakingly-selected bouquet. “No!” she yelps, slamming the door. “I’m allergic to those!”
Nina Sudhakar is a writer, photographer, lawyer and wanderer. She writes about travel and culture on her website
I don’t know why,
I don’t know when,
I just know that today
I wanna live again.
you are the one that makes me write
what my heart felt when we began.
You wanna know what I’m trying to mean?
I’m in love with your sis.
The Royal Ballroom was not accustomed to motorbikes careening through its windows, but the helmeted man had a message.
A red triangle on the seal told the King all he needed.
“A storm nears,” he said. “We must ready.”
“Hang on,” said the biker. “Is this not 93 Privet Drive?”
Ben Reynolds quit his job to be a writer. What an idiot. Find more at justpunchtheclock.com
From the very start the bear’s life had been miserable and brutal. Locked away in the dark for weeks without food and water. Brought out in public only to be beaten.
But now his torment was at an end.
He was taken to the charity shop with the other toys.
This is John’s very first attempt at a 50-word story. When he was teaching English last year in Lithuania, the 50-word story came up in a study book. He asked his students to try (with varying degrees of success), and to encourage them he wrote this one. He is not a writer of any sort but is attempting his first novel, based on his experiences in Lithuania. He is now back in the UK, living in Scotland and working as a Tour Guide.
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.
A proper story requires three main components:
All important to form a complete story, no matter the size.
If any of it is missing, it is called an unsettled plot.
I want to share a personal recollection:
A true finished story.
Preeti Singh is an Indian French Interpreter and Media Professional who is engaged in writing scripts. In her free time she loves to play sundry characters for television series. Find her on Twitter or her website.
The chief of detectives saw one of his precinct’s best undercover cops with the lower part of his face nearly covered with blood.
“What happened to you, Morrissey?”
“I was playing dead for a sting operation, Captain, and then my nose got caught in the zipper of a body bag.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
The morphine soothes. Death is fairly quick, ultimately painless. Your spirit ascends like an explosion playing out. Turns out that there is a God, and She’s pissed. A projector clacks, images flutter. And not even your slippery silver serpent’s tongue is going to talk your way out of this one.
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.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net
Pinched between sweaty fingers, the love note—a carefully crafted purple-inked questionnaire that would potentially determine the rest of their lives—was passed to the blonde in front of him. She firmly marked “No.”
“Okay,” he sighed, erasing the dark X of rejection. “Well, would you pass this to Julia?”
This is Alexandra’s eighth fifty-word story. She learned early on that love was a numbers game, but the good news is that you only need one.