“Don’t you open that door!” she’d say to anyone visiting her house.
Stench of cat urine almost overpowered the smoke that clung in cancerous clouds to the curtains, carpet, newspapers.
They found little left of her but glasses hanging amiss, unopened cat food in hand.
She must’ve opened the door.
Alexandra always remembers to feed her cat, who sleeps outside for good reason.
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
Most people de-vein their shrimp, say they don’t wanna eat the feces.
I peel back the brown track with my teeth and suck it out first.
Most people also don’t know shrimp will strip a corpse in three months.
Two more, and the wife is out of my system forever.
Alexandra Keister is an executive assistant and writer hungry for success, and on most days a good maple bar. She always de-veins her shrimp.
The day they met, he knew she was the one. She had such beautiful eyes. Now he would be able to gaze at their beauty every day for the rest of his life.
He admired them in the pickling jar, knowing her other body parts would keep in the freezer.
Carol Browne first appeared on the planet in 1954. Now living in the Cambridgeshire countryside with her cockatiel, Sparky, she is a contracted author at Burning Willow Press.
“I read she passed away. Your plump little neighbor with all the cats.”
“So sad. She tripped on the stairs and broke her neck, poor woman. She lay there, dead, for two weeks before they found her.”
“Poor lady. Poor cats. Alone. Trapped. Starving.”
“Oh, no. Her cats didn’t starve.”
Allen Lang, a recently resurrected member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, was born the year the first Yo Yo factory opened.
Inflation hit everybody hard, Santa included.
Carrot prices had skyrocketed, and hungry reindeer could hardly pull a sleigh.
Santa emptied his sack into the reindeer pen, ignoring the crunch of tooth on bone. Rudolph emerged, snout matted with fresh, red blood.
Freddy’s bad behaviour would never be a problem again.
Guy is twenty-four years old, and still afraid of being on Santa’s naughty list. This is his sixth 50-word story.
Then there’s the parallel universe entirely identical to our own, with two exceptions.
Firstly, racism doesn’t exist. Race and heritage are not commented on at all; the world is one big melting pot.
The second exception: cannibalism is a normal way of life.
We all look the same when cooked.
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes like heck they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
“I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t sleep.”
“We know what’s wrong,” they winked. “You’re in love!”
“No, I’m not…”
“You’re a sly one. Tell us who she is.”
“If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you it was diarrhea.”
“Oh, that’s a pretty name. Is she foreign?”
Connell believes that words can get in the way of meaningful communication. See more of his “Communication Breakdowns” at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.
They wanted stories too grotesque, outlandish, and offensive to be published on FiftyWordStories.com or any mainstream web or print publication.
I selected three stories from my bottom drawer, stories filled with violence, sex, sacrilege, and scatology.
They were all accepted.
I’ll have to change my name and leave town!
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching at a university, software development, web application development, and voter database compilation and distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and writing memoirs and short stories. This is a true story of his experiences submitting to a contest.
Funny story. On a train ride last week, saw this lady with a big, ugly boil on her hand, kind of oozing. Cruel people left her seat untouched. My feet were killing me. Long story short, the doctor says my boil won’t be that bad.
Gee, finished your cake? Handmade!
delights in all kinds of stories, written and unwritten. During the day she works in her design studio.