Location: empowering laguna
Where you can see the world.
A beauty resembling
a beach of the past.
Powerful pops pulsate past the timberline.
Banjos sound on a stranger’s radio.
In their tent, light above shakes,
With the slowly
Stilling momentum borne from
Love, that vibrant lightness,
Those lavender fingers.
J. of Newark is a custodian at his local library and writes fiction for fun.
Nobody saw the tree coming.
The great trunk ruptured the sun-blasted concrete, folding the collapsing buildings into itself as it expanded. Roots burrowed through underground railways, branches pierced the brittle glass of windows, and asphalt flowers blossomed in the air.
The city was abandoned overnight.
Tourists returned only cautiously.
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. He is fearful and respectful of all trees. You can find him on Tumblr
, where he writes haiku poetry about Doctor Who, and on Twitter
After the storm we walked the shoreline, sifting through mounds of brown-green algae, looking for survivors. The wind does such cruel tricks, tossing hatchlings onto their backs, offering them up to sun and birds. We left each right where we found it, after turning them over and setting them straight.
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”. Visit BobThurber.net
Gentle sounds of gulls and rhythmic waves echo in the heavens above, returning hauntingly to my ears, resounding in my heart.
Enchanted, I watch nature’s magnificence paint itself around me, glorious imperfections perfected with every brush-stroke.
Awakening, I see I too am a brush-stroke in life’s portrait.
My soul relaxes.
Lisa Lysen is having fun exploring her passion for words, hoping an adventure in writing may be somewhere in her future.
People pass; most don’t notice my existence.
I lived through two world wars, bearing witness to horrors. I harmed no one.
Yet they want me gone.
They come to end my life. I hear the saws, suffer the cuts in my trunk. Soon I will fall.
They call it progress.
Lynne North writes humorous fantasy novels for children. She decided it was time she tried something else…
Melissa, Greek for queen bee, settled on soft grass. Her flaxen hair complemented an array of colourful flowers. Her hands picked lazily at the weeds.
The distant river’s current swooshed at the banks. She was at peace, just like her beloved Jacob whose dreary head stone overshadowed her.
Kerry Valkyrie Kelly lives in Ireland with her five children. She went there for the ‘craic’ and enjoys the rural life and local humour.
He revels in his mystic communion with wildlife.
Birds perch on his wrist and peck birdseed from his palm. A skunk visits his porch nightly to be petted. He hand-feeds squirrels, raccoons, rabbits, even deer.
Their trust in him is a blessing. He’s having rabbit stew tonight and venison tomorrow.
Alex Markovich lives in a suburb of New York with Jackie, his wife of 57 years and his toughest literary critic. His stories have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Blue Lake Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Still Crazy, and other lit mags.
Quiet ceased as the storm began. The rainfall drowned out the sounds of his footfalls as he rushed forward to his foe, knife in hand.
He slashed and tore. Wires dangled and lines leaked their fluids.
His job was done. This mechanical monster would not fell another tree.
Brandon Magruder wrote this story.
Where cars once drove there is now wilderness, overrun with animals who never used to call this place their home.
The buildings now serve as monuments for a great society forgotten in time.
He stares across the city and listens to it speak, with the realization he is truly alone.
Adam Randall has previously been featured on 50-word stories, and hopes to one day complete some great masterpiece. He just needs to figure out just what that might be.
They cut down every tree around the swamp and left them to rot.
The experts said the downed trees would make good habitat for wild animals, that it was good for the environment.
Next summer the water got too hot. Ducks and geese left. Herons left.
The swamp dried out.
Joanna M. Weston is married and has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, “Those Blue Shoes”, has been published by Clarity House Press. Her poetry, “A Summer Father”, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, “The Willow Tree Girl”, is available through her blog