I counted on my fingers every time my best friend failed me after becoming popular.
One—she called me a loser, behind my back.
Two—she copied my homework.
Three—she winked at my crush.
I stopped after four and five. By then, my hand had balled into a fist.
Zenith Knox is a Korean-American writer from the DC metropolitan area. Her stories are published at BULL, The Citron Review, Literally Stories, and elsewhere. Visit her at ZenithKnox.wordpress.com.
Two men crouched under an old pine, waiting for the rain to pass. Its needles drawn together, the pine became a shelter for them. Down below, by the river, an old ghost wrapped itself in newspapers. On every page the same story was printed. On every page were different words.
David C. Porter is a writer and photographer from the American northeast. He edits Keep Planning, and writes Garden Scenery. His work has also appeared in various other places. His first novel, NTTN, is available now from Organ Bank Industries. He can be reached on Twitter at @toomuchistrue or via his website, davidcporter.net.
I don’t remember the first hands that held me as I entered this world, vulnerable and mewling. I won’t remember the last hands that cling to me as I leave this life, helpless and silent. This is half my story. In the end, I hope they aren’t the same hands.
Katie lives on a farm in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Lately, she and her husband have been embracing the hint of early autumn air and exploring the creative side of writing. In addition to 50-Word Stories, her microfiction was recently featured in Short Beasts Flash Fiction and is forthcoming on 101 Words.
I’ll stuff each cloned version of my dog when it dies until the path I walk through my garden becomes littered with the same white terrier. I’ll stare up through the glass dome at the red sky. At my end, the hazmat suits will light my whole world on fire.
Harmony Mooney is a teacher and writer living on the North Coast of California with her husband, two cats, and two dogs.
Thursday, my sponsor says, surrender works.
Friday’s dealer says it too.
Saturdays, my therapist says addiction is a disease.
Sunday, the priest says it’s a sin.
Monday’s doctor says it’s genetic.
Tuesday, Mom says I’m killing her.
Wednesday’s mirror tells the truth:
I’ll believe whoever makes this feeling go away.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
Before summer got too hot we fooled around on playgrounds. We swung blistered palms on monkey bars, got dizzy on tire swings.
Before winter got less cold we played in the snow. We ate icicles off our parents’ cars, sipped cocoa with tiny marshmallows.
The world was still hospitable; home.
Audrey Lee is a student from New Jersey. She enjoys writing flash fiction and poetry.
Sunset. We let it. I regret that. Orange orb, opulent lozenge dissolving upon the horizon’s tongue. Arriving night starlit, tarpit ignited by fiery eyes, infinite suns where one once was, numbed by the number.
I’ll hold the morning back, quash the dawn like we’re swallowing sick then keeping it down.
Steven Holding lives in the United Kingdom. His story TURNING A TRICK appears in the collection BLOODLUST from Black Hare Press. You can follow his work at stevenholding.co.uk.
One evening at the Westend Grill, Reid looked up from his chili to see his dead uncle sitting across the table.
Uncle Kirby sported his usual half-smile and red-checkered shirt. He nodded at the bowl.
“I liked lots of crackers in mine, too,” he said.
Reid crumbled in another saltine.
Jim Anderson is a retired college teacher who lives and writes in south-eastern Michigan.
Of course we’re wondering about the dead bus stop crow. Raven? Grackle? A smash of black on cement, witch-guts gross. We see the suited man who’s been hounding us before school, his Jehovah pamphlets flapping: “WHERE are YOU going?”
We bend to the bird, searching for its ears. Whisper: go.
Adele Gallogly’s very short stories have been published in FlashFlood, Writers’ Hour, Six-Sentences, and Paragraph Planet. You can follow her on BlueSky.
The woman strokes century-old, burgundy-colored poems on crumbling letterhead to time-travel. Memories magically appear. She is five years old standing behind her beloved grandmother, watching while the poet writes. The child wants to be old too, an author, like her idol. Not a lost ghost visiting from the distant future.
Former journalist and technical writer Lilian Pomeroy Edmonds is working on a poetry anthology with braided essays inspired by her grandmother’s poems written from 1899-1932. You can browse her work on Substack at wavingfromadistance.substack.com.