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.
The lettuce is leggy and the bokchoi has bolted. While I’m scrambling after runaway cabbages, the slugs launch their offensive. Calling them swift may be overstatement, yet under the cover of a single night, they behead the French marigolds and disembowel the strawberries, leaving a trail of slime and destruction.
Melissa Fu grew up in Northern New Mexico and lives in Cambridge, UK. She finds the difference in the climates very confusing for gardening. Learn more about these and other messes at SpillingtheInk.com.
Cuddles. An order.
Cuddles? The robot paused, processing.
Error 404.
A brief demonstration.
A jerky imitation. Processing again.
I do not understand. You want to remain in contact with my exterior form. Why?
The question hung in the air.
Why indeed.
Perhaps a chemical analysis of oxytocin was in order.
The thought of a fledgling artificial intelligence trying to learn the ways of humans has always amused Jenora. This is a story about the merging of the undefinable with the empirical. If you’d like to see more of Jenora’s work, pop along to her website at openingdoorsofperception.com.
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.
Salt well.
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.