He found the note taped on his refrigerator.
I’m leaving this note to inform you I’ve stolen your soul for a scavenger hunt. I don’t believe you’ll find this news troubling, seeing as you weren’t using it anyways. Send inquiries to Hell if you want it back.
Andrea Allison currently writes and resides in a small Oklahoman town. You can follow her on Twitter at @sthrnwriter.
Amy dragged her feet and luggage. The 22-hour flight was a killer. She needed food. Bad.
Bright, colorful photos lined the overhead menu.
“How much damage for Burger Meal #4?” asked Amy.
Behind the counter, the skull in a black, hooded cloak grinned. “Four years.”
Amy sighed. “Upsize it, please.”
Joey always upsizes it. He can found at joeytoey.com.
Death’s hand, which I shook reluctantly, was a plumped pillow.
“You’re safe,” he said. “For now.”
“I pictured you as a, you know—”
“Skeleton? You should’ve seen me before the Western diet.” Laughter rippled his corpulence. “Doctor’s telling me to eat better, but she thinks I’m lying about my work.”
Iain Young hasn’t forgotten the childhood nightmare in which he was chased by angry vegetables. That might explain a lot.
Silver moonlight and swaying branches make dancing shadows. I see in them faces which I have not seen for years.
I wonder if any of them see my face.
The doorbell chimes. I open the door to a skull in a black cloak. “Rest assured that nobody thinks of you.”
Joey is good at remembering faces even if he doesn’t want to be. You can find him at joeytoey.com.
After the World Science and Ethics Commission (the W.S.E.C.) discovered the answers for the annoyances of old age, disease, war, and famine, the population—over time—grew beyond humanity’s control.
I smiled broadly at the prospect of coming out of retirement, unpacking my black hooded cloak, and sharpening my scythe…
J.D. Lone Bear wrote this story.
There is one woman left in the world, and I love her.
I watch from afar, fearful of what might happen should we touch.
Sometimes she cries, yearns for me. I’m too selfish to offer my hand.
My arm aches from the scythe, but it weighs less than my heart.
Guy takes inspiration from love, life and the drunk strangers he meets on his way home. This is his third fifty word story.
Holding the balloon bouquet to his left hand, Nathan scans a paper which reads, “Thomas Allen Fitzgerald, three years old, car crash.“
Covering his pale skull with his hood he sighs, “I sure hope Tommy likes these.”
Nathan solemnly lifts a scythe from his car’s trunk and heads to work.
Craig has been published on fiftywordstories.com as well as in The Labyrinth. He can be reached via Facebook and has a WordPress blog that is sorely underused.