In the shallows of the gently lapping waves, the girl, dress tucked in knickers, had played.
The sun, low in the sky, casts an orange glow.
Shops long closed. Curlews, in flight, send out their cry.
A mother comes out to call her daughter home.
There’s no one to hear.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK and loves reading 50-word stories. She has a go whenever she gets the time.
Jack forgot his hat. His gloves. His coat, too. Down the street to where he thought Betty was. She wasn’t. Across the park, if it was a park. Grass anyway. Big empty blue sky. Tired. Sat down on a bench.
So stone cold. Jack wanted to go home. Forgot where.
Paul Negri has twice won the Gold Medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in The Vestal Review, Bartleby Snopes, Piff Magazine, Jellyfish Review and other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
The beasts surround me, a wall of teeth. I can run no longer.
Why did I leave Earth?
Inside my helmet, I flick through photos from home. The white sandy beaches obscure the beasts. The smiles of family calm my heart.
Lost in memory, I barely feel the first bite.
Tim lives in Sydney where he is writing two fantasy novels, whenever he can spare the time from writing software and collecting sci-fi.
They call it astral projection. Plane-walking. Body-jumping. I’ve been doing it for years: I’m the master, the sensei.
To float above your body, your anchor to the world, is quite the trip. Most of the time…
That’s me down there, lying so still.
And I’ve lost my key.
Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum. He blogs on an irregular basis at kevinbufton.com
At each corner, she read the street sign. She studied the shops and houses, examined the faces of passersby, searching for someone or something that looked familiar. She squeezed her brother’s hand. He was too young to remember anything except their mother. Maybe the next one, she said each time.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
“The buildings outside look bizarre, different. The people we pass look… odd. Whose idea was this?
“Let’s take the bus to the terminus. See where it goes!”
We’ve been driving for hours now. It’s dark outside, but there are two moons in the sky.
I just want to go home!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His campaign to be crowned King of the World has yet to really take off.
Temperatures soar in the day and plummet at night, here in this God-forsaken desert. Stretching to the unimaginable horizon are miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles.
Don’t leave your car, they said.
Our rations are finished. Our water is finished.
I love you, we tell each other.
Mary Steer enjoys writing stories of all lengths, from fifty words to fifty thousand and more. More of her stories may be found at marysteer.com
Camping! The family hadn’t done this since Arrow was a pup.
His tail wagged wildly as he sniffed every tree.
He was digging—something smelled exciting—when he saw his family was gone.
They’d be back. He was a good boy.
Tail still, Arrow waited by the road, forever loyal.
L.L. Madrid has an overactive imagination and a short attention span. Naturally, she writes flash and microfiction.
The Kingdom of Lost Things hides away, as you’d expect. Its borders are shrouded in fog. Shifting, fluid.
Sentinels at its gate are Time and Place, the agents of loss. Their form fades and twists, mingling and separating, allowing through only the treasures desired by their rulers, the lost Kings.
Dean Marriner is a production director at a design company in Newcastle, UK. He spends his spare time drawing pictures on old books to create new artworks.
“Jimmy, keep practicing that paradiddle, loud and in time.” It was up to the boy now. Dave lay back exhausted.
The boy banged that hollow log, eyes closed, finding comfort in the rhythm.
He played and played, his cheeks wet with tears.
The rescuers heard the call.
Was Dave alive?
Feeling optimistic after the success of her first submission, Anmari decided not to kill Dave off.