I am crouching in rain, snapping spruce twigs to place them on my infant fire. He hadn’t checked my pockets, had missed the flint when he stole my gear.
Larger sticks next. First focus on defying death by hypothermia; then get my knife and his gun, and kill my husband.
Rosemary Bush is a scientist and writer living in Chicago. Some of her work can be found at rosemarybush.org.
Again I hear our neighbor arguing with her husband. Some days she is more quiet, on others she screams and often cries. As a new resident in the old apartment, I wait a few months before reporting it to the landlord. “The poor widow,” he responds, “really misses her husband.”
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) exhales oxygen while writing stories. Follow her at debbiantebi.wordpress.com.
“You’ve been locked in this bathroom far too long,” I whispered into the grimy mirror.
I sighed and straightened my black velvet dress. The door creaked open and I could feel their penetrating gazes.
Upon entering my husband’s funeral, I prayed that I could feign the tears one last time.
Isabella Blakeman is a sophomore at Yale University majoring in Latin American Studies.
He once admired her quiet efficiency.
But now she moves cheerfully through her task and he knows that he will never look her in the eye again.
“There you go, all clean.”
He arranges his face into a smile as his wife tucks the clean sheets around his failing body.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at delanceystewart.wordpress.com.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of your husband,” said the cop.
“But it was all his fault!”
“What did your husband say to you when you woke him up this morning?”
He said, “Where am I, Trixie?”
“And that upset you enough to shoot him?”
“My name is Margo.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has nearly 60 short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
Sometimes when I fall asleep I see pictures moving across the back of my eyelids, strange pastel cartoons, usually, where a round-headed caricature of me is trying to escape from a cloud labelled “Future” or “Responsibility.”
My wife says that sometimes she can see the projector’s flickers behind my eyes.
I learned to knit when I was two. Now I can follow complicated patterns and all my friends receive knitted creations for their birthdays.
My husband is annoyed by the click-clack of my needles, and I suspect he is plotting his revenge. Perhaps he’ll knit me up in my shroud.
Cath Barton lives in Wales. She has many pastimes, including writing, but is not a great knitter.
Husband arrives home having forgotten a significant anniversary.
Wife greets him, expecting dinner, flowers, cards, anything.
Husband apologizes, profusely. Wife demands recompense: “Something in the driveway tomorrow that goes zero to 215 fast.”
Next morning she discovers a small flat package. Imagine her surprise at a new set of bathroom scales!
Don Crawford was told this story by a Wendy’s employee and decided to convert it to 50 words and relay it to all of you!
“Hey!” someone shouted from behind her.
Mary turned to look. An elderly gentleman was rubbing his throat confusedly.
“Ow!” cried someone else, rubbing the back of their head.
A hand suddenly covered her eyes; a pen was at her throat. “Gotcha, honey.”
Having a commando for a husband was… exciting?
Ellie wriggled her toes, grinning with grim satisfaction as the joints cracked. She looked down at the delicate, elfin girl nestled underneath the covers beside her.
“Morning,” her husband whispered as he entered the room. “Is she still asleep?”
Ellie nodded, beaming, gently stroking the girl’s sun-dappled cheek. “My baby.”
Vikkie the Mimm originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.