The day before my sixth birthday I sat on mother’s knee and stared into her crystal ball. She’d flinched at shadows that screamed and slammed doors, clutched my arm so hard her nails broke the skin. Among whirling smoke she saw broken skies, suffering, the End…
I only saw you.
Guy was once declared dead by a fortune-telling fish he found in a Christmas cracker. This is his eighteenth 50-word story.
She appreciated, more than ever, the smell of her coffee and the sunlight reflecting off her back porch. The weather was unfairly perfect. Soon enough, the kids would know. But, for now, she let her smile hide the hopeless, sinking feeling welling up in her gut.
The cancer was back.
Myron Tetreault is a Calgary-based businessman, athlete and author.
Stephen Felix meets his Savior, her with long black tresses and long black dresses, and she deceives as Saviors often do, yet Stephen Felix fawns and trots and gloats at her side. This behavior is common among those in Stephen Felix’s unfortunate home, where they all die, eventually, even Saviors.
Atwater is a Minnesota/Manhattan abstract painter and literary fiction writer with stories forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Heavy Feather Review and published in PANK, Vestal Review and others. See more at ajatwater.com
Winter aged me,
took away muscle tone
with each mound of snow
I stared at my flaccid arms and legs.
Surely they belonged to someone else,
my mother perhaps…
when she was ninety.
Then spring arrived
With its noisy insistent presence.
Too much growth –
I’m done with that.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
That first, immaculate, unfurling leaf. It knocked her sideways every year, felled her with its soft, green promise.
So many dead months of waiting. Did the arms of the beech sprawl up in silent prayer? Did they cling to the same frail hope? Maybe… this time… spring would never end.
Tamsin is certainly very glad to have escaped another grey British winter.
Today I notice the guy on the subway rising, in a swoop, and offering me his seat; the old man in the tattered coat and saggy skin waiting patiently for everyone to be seated before dinner begins; the teenaged cashier smiling.
Glimpses of goodness that I desperately need to see.
is a novice at flash fiction writing and is now a huge fan.
She’s handing out samples of frozen dinners that never taste this good when reheated at home. Hanging around for seconds and thirds, the growing gathering of strangers tries to make a meal out of giveaways. Tongues tied in awkwardness, silently questing for the elusive secret ingredient, no one dares ask.
Lee DeAmali resides in Los Angeles.
The snow was falling softly as I packed my last bag and closed the trunk. Seventeen years of my life and it all fit into a 1997 Toyota.
The porch light suddenly came on and I saw him standing on the porch with no slippers.
I turned off the ignition.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry, songs, and short stories. She has been published in Haiku Journal, Sleeve, and 50-Word Stories.
Falling, falling, crashing hard into the cold earth.
A tunnel without start or end, no light, only darkness.
Flickers of a glimpse—something is possible.
Fumbling forward for escape, grasping for the last.
Tumbling through, stumbling out—such blazing light.
A cliffside, toes curled over the edge, unable to fall.
Rebecca Milton is an author from London, England, who is currently preparing her first print novel for publication whilst writing her second. She has been featured here at 50-Word Stories and in Here Comes Everyone magazine.