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.
I poured one for myself and one for good luck and drank them both. It was going to be a long night.
Through darkness I crept, my heart racing as I clutched the high-value cargo against my chest.
The scream came as I reached to switch on the baby monitor.
Guy is equally scared of war and parenthood. This is his second fifty word story.
I would listen from bed as Father scribbled upon paper. To the soundtrack of snoring I would sneak into the study, steal his pen, and muffle the click with my pyjama top.
I stared at blank pages and waited: but Father had not left any words in the pen tonight.
Guy Preston writes with a pen he found abandoned in a train station car park. He has never changed the ink, and hopes there’s at least another 50 words left.