Mom warned me not to look in the mirror between the hours of 2 and 4 A.M. “If you do,” she said, “don’t ever look your reflection in the eye.”
I caught my eye and she winked, and yanked me by the collar. My head cracked the glass.
Olive Richardson is an unknown but human adjacent creature made of spite and caramel lattes.
The smoke alarm low-battery warning starts chirping.
Your kid’s stomach virus hits.
The faucet drips.
You notice that the cracks in the bedroom ceiling have gotten wider.
You hear an old train whistle in the distance.
You remember a song you haven’t heard since 1988.
I wonder where you are.
Robb Lanum is a failed screenwriter in Los Angeles. This is his third 50-word story. His longer, epic works have appeared on 101words.org.
A match struck
The scent of sulphur
The candle speaks
Only shadows live within this room
Inside the dancing flame
He blows it out
The curtains thrashed open
His dark eyes open
The spell broken
He breathes deep
And dreams again
Patrick is a novice writer, and would like to say a special thanks to Tim and to those that might read his tenth post.
In the darkness, as outside breezes twirl up leaves along an old worn path, it unsettles the stillness of the night as rattling gates keep some folk awake.
A solitary figure makes his way home, unperturbed by the eerie emptiness of unkempt streets or the shadows closing in from behind.
Connell believes that once a passage has been written it can’t be unwritten, but only added to.
The stars that lie just outside the window seem so close, but as morning emerges from its journey the black abyss is taken over by the flaming sun, forcing the stars into hibernation.
Still the moon stays put, isolated in the bright morning sky, waiting for the stars to return.
Shardia enjoys writing short fiction stories.
On a summer night in the bayou, I wade through dark, brackish water for a rendezvous with my angel. The calm, silent water reflects the moon like a looking glass. Shimmering and magnetic, she draws me toward her in the moonlight, beckoning me, like a child to a candy shop.
Ed Baswell is a 40-something writer originally from Asheville, North Carolina, now residing in Southern California. Primarily a trainer and curriculum developer in the aerospace industry, Ed is trying to hone his creative writing skills.
Every morning, as the sun comes up, the stars awaken.
Stars are not nocturnal, as many assume. They actually sleep all night and dance during the day, when their predators, the owls, can’t see them.
So when you see a shooting star, remember: a hungry owl is chasing after it.
This story is based on a title suggested by @facelesscog.
He didn’t know it worked: one night he’d simply pointed at the sky, and a star had appeared, bright and new.
It was a great party trick, of course, and it stimulated his inner artist, but he didn’t fully harness the potential of his god-like ability until he went commercial.
The howling of wolves pierced the frosty twilight air.
“If I weren’t so scared for my life,” whispered Mina, “I’d find that eerily beautiful.”
“I think it’s still possible to find something beautiful when you’re scared,” whispered Frederick.
“Are you flirting with me?” asked Mina.
She never got an answer.
Just before dusk, the sun crept up to the horizon. He stealthily surveyed the dark but bustling city laid out before him.
The sun sprang forward, dashing across the sky at breakneck speed and vanishing on the other side.
If he was lucky, no one would notice he’d been late.