At the family’s yearly Seder, Mom farted.
Dad farted to deflect her embarrassment. Grandpa let one rip, and grandma came out with her silent but deadly. My brother nodded at me and we doubled down.
A cousin, the youngest, asked if these could count in place of the four questions.
Paul had a micro story, “Brother Speak”, selected for the 2018 Norton Microfiction Anthology. His published story website is paulbeckmanstories.com
Phineas Phelps found figurative fiction fascinating, frankly.
As an author, alliteration always added authenticity.
He carefully crafted creative copy, constantly cultivating killer quotable content.
Naturally, news networks need new knowledgeable know-it-alls, Phineas figured.
His hottest headline?
Prayer Park Pair Peeps Pope Pooping Per Private Property; Prez Promises Prompt Papal Persecution.
Jonathan writes written words by tepidly typing text. You can find more micro writing of his on Twitter
After my husband’s departure, I acquired a dog for company.
Out walking, Rufus found a body in the woods. The policeman gave him some treats.
He scented the second corpse in the canal.
When Rufus brought back a finger, he had to go.
He’d also started scratching at the patio.
Viv Burgess wonders why dog walkers who find bodies in crime novels never get suspected. There’s a book in there somewhere, but it would take more than 50 words.
A black cat dashes across the busy highway. I slam on the brakes.
A siren chirps.
In my broken rear-view mirror, I see the fractured image of a police car. I pull over and the officer approaches my window.
I’m let off with a warning. Must be my lucky day.
Pontius Paiva protects himself every Friday the 13th by eating cereal with mini marshmallows shaped like items commonly associated with good fortune. See more from this superstitious scribbler at pontiuspaiva.com
I have been reading all of those stories about some strange creatures invading the Earth from another planet. One politician even says that there is a space war starting.
Don’t believe any of those lies. We are only visiting. We are staying for a long time because we like you.
Usually, Fillip writes in the fields of international politics and economics under a different name. These flash stories are creations in the shower when he can remember ten minutes later what he has composed.
Wayward Willie was warned—woods were worrisome.
Wayward Willie walks woodward, whistling.
Werewolf wanders, weary.
Werewolf whiffs, wonders. “Whistling wimp, walking woodward? Wonderful!”
Werewolf wallops wayward Willie. Willie whimpers.
Werewolf Willie wakes.
Werewolf Willie whiffs.
Werewolf wanders, weary.
Werewolf Willie wanders, whistling, wayward.
Maura Yzmore’s day job involves quantum mechanics, dry-erase markers, and bad puns. She lives with her family in the American Midwest. Maura’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Fiction Pool, Storyland, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Dirty Pool, and 50-Word Stories. See more at maurayzmore.com
“Be careful what you wish for.”
If Billy never heard those words again, it would still be too soon.
He loved Cindy completely. He brought her flowers and told her she was beautiful, but she looked right through him.
And all because he’d wished—just that once—to be invisible.
Philipp M. Selman is an artist, songwriter, athlete, and professional copywriter. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Dark Fire Fiction and Fifty-Word Stories, and examples of his art, music, and writing can be found at pmselman.com
Alone in the office at night a slow madness overtakes me. It begins with a paperclip chain. It ends when the cleaner finds me, the Emperor of the Paper Cup People, berating the massed ranks of my subjects, my nudity covered only by yellow sticky notes. The horror! The horror!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he works as a professional haggis hunter.
“Take one more step and I draw.”
Six years old, he carried a toy gun and barked commands at everyone within earshot. Most days, I ignored him. I really couldn’t blame him. At his age, I’d done the same thing.
I really should have listened. That bullet nearly hit me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She spends her days writing poetry, short stories, songs, and the occasional cartoon caption.
Fingers table-tapping impotently. Clock striking, but not the keys on my laptop. Blank face reflected on white empty screen mirrors the inside of my dark empty head.
I prod my muse. “Any thoughts?”
She waves a bottle in my direction, hiccups and sinks into a torpor.
“Try Facebook,” she mumbles.
Vivienne Burgess needs to get some perspective in life, get her muse off the booze, and take a holiday from Facebook. It’s not helping her creativity… or blood pressure.