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.
I was a childhood insomniac. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the quietest hour before dawn, I’d slip out of my bed and drop out the window to the spongy dew-grass—and under the wan light of the moon I’d twirl, my night dress lifting like a gypsy dancer.
Jane Hertenstein is the author of numerous short stories and flash. Her work has been included in Hunger Mountain, Word Riot, Flashquake, and Rosebud as well as earning an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train. Her literary interests are eclectic, evident in the titles she has published: Beyond Paradise (YA), Orphan Girl (non-fiction), Home Is Where We Live (children’s picture book), and two self-published eBooks: 365 Affirmations for the Writer and Freeze Frame: How to Write Flash Memoir. Jane lives in Chicago where she blogs at Memoirous.
“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.
Rabbits escaped her hat; their itchy feet ached for dry dirt over dry-cleaned velure. Her sleeves cried pigments of cheap pretense. On the mortician’s table, her final trick was unveiled: a heartless ribcage—a taunting gimmick—was the oldest trick in the book. The coroners still queued for the show.
Alex Creece is a snow poff.
The girl fell, once. Gingerly, her father picked her up. He kissed her wound. “Roses bleed, too,” he said, drying the tears from her face.
She looked up to him, beautiful, bright-eyed, and unknowing of the secrets behind his eyes. Because given time, even roses grow dull and wither away.
Joaquim Chichava is unbearably quirky, and has grown to love wearing shorts.
I came to wearing one sock and with a twenty in my wallet. A reason to celebrate. Roommate was sleeping naked on the cold kitchen floor. I kicked him awake and told him the good news.
Hate to ruin this for you, Roommate said, but that’s not even your sock.
Will Radke is from Oak Park, Illinois. He now lives in Chicago.
I awoke with a start. Did I hear someone downstairs?
My husband was beside me in the bed, but I couldn’t wake him.
So I went downstairs very quietly,
and I found my husband making a drink in the kitchen
Then who was in my bed that I couldn’t wake?
Barrie Bishop is an accountant and business adviser. He has spent over 50 years as a musician (Drummer). In his latter years he has taken to writing for his enjoyment.
It had been preserved for ages, licked and leathered into the sediment. They flexed their nimble digits and unscrewed the module, marveled at its state of preservation, and they hinged their necks for a closer look.
It had actual skin. They felt dirty, ashamed.
They dimmed the lights, and processed.
John M. Bellinger is the former Managing Editor (2006-2009) and a current staff editor of The Comstock Review. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Blue Unicorn, and Ekphrasis. He also has upcoming work in Cottonwood, America Magazine, and One-Sentence Poems.
He was brushing his teeth when he noticed he’d misplaced his thumbs. He spat green toothpaste and bloody saliva in the bathroom sink, looked around, then shrugged and kept on brushing.
Oh well, he thought. If they’re gone, they’re gone. No need worrying. Besides, I’ve never needed to hitchhike anyway.
Willem Myra, 24, lives on a satellite of a city gravitating around Rome, Italy. Sometimes he thinks he makes less sense than Google Translate.
We were army kids, moving ten times in fourteen years.
Mother ruled the house like an angry nun. Dad seldom spoke, always thinking, thinking…
It wasn’t until our last move that he slipped up, the trail of dead bodies he’d left behind a connect-the-dot drawing of every place we’d lived.
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans. His story collection The Dark Sunshine debuted from Connotation Press in 2014. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.