I was working my way through the wedding checklist, making sure I had thought of, paid for, and arranged everything.
Cars, reception venue, meal, gifts. I’d cracked it. A job well done… and with days to spare!
Now I just needed to find someone to marry.
Jon is an aspiring writer from the North West of England, currently boring himself to tears working in local government. He is looking forward to getting wed himself in the next month, but fears his own checklist is never ending… You can read more of his ramblings on the new web presence he has finally gotten round to creating at writingsonthewall645.wordpress.com
Sitting alone on the plane, a pretty girl came and sat next to me. We immediately fell in love at first sight. At the end of the holiday we were really close and exchanged numbers.
Back home, I called her.
“My wife is in the shower,” said a masculine voice.
Negin Aghajari wrote this story.
For full access to its content and special features, a website required Roy to key in a specific alphanumeric sequence to prove he was not a robot. After several failed attempts to decipher the blurry, unintelligible squiggles, he gave up.
Roy’s android assistant got it right on the first try.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Montgomery Jackson’s luck ran out when, at the annual manoeuvres, and in front of the new Commander, he proudly showcased the new guerrilla tactics he had developed.
Charging headlong at the enemy whilst bellowing, hurling vegetation and beating one’s chest like a dominant Silverback was simply not the done thing.
From the North West of England and currently working in local government, Jon likes to write and be creative. He is inspired by flash fiction and other short works, and is regularly blown away by the high standard of 50-word offerings on this site.
It wasn’t really a bad thing. Well, okay. So maybe it was.
No one got hurt, though. Alright, so maybe a couple.
I’m sure it was nothing that was my fault. I followed the internet instructions to a tee.
The still was most likely defective.
It was a small explosion.
Gordon Lysen resides in Manitoba, Canada and spends his time between the city of Winnipeg and his true home at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
“Three. Two. One. Coming, ready or nooot!”
She wriggled between the farthest packing crates, held her breath, and squeezed her eyes closed.
The truck doors shut.
Slowly, the wheels beneath her moved.
“Oh, they’ll never find me now,” she giggled. “This is the best hiding place ever.”
Joan is an educator in Australia.
A barren and merciless landscape stretched out ahead, as we kept trudging on until our mouths were parched.
We had to find water, and fast, or we wouldn’t make it out of there alive.
“Why don’t we buy water in that shop”, somebody begged, but we didn’t have any money.
Connell wrote this to comment on something or other, but lost the plot along the way… Or maybe, just maybe, he found it.
We waited silently in the dark. I stilled myself to the mood so it wouldn’t be broken. The moment of expectation drew close, and tension hung like bar smoke. Others fidgeted, rustled, imagined.
You slipped into the room unannounced.
We sprang from cover. “Surprise!”
You were naked.
It was awkward.
Gordon Lysen resides in Manitoba, Canada, and spends his time between the city of Winnipeg and his true home at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
I approached the director from behind, apprehensively. I had ruined his play, injured one actor, and sent the crowd screaming from the theatre and the flames.
He sensed my approach and turned, his face a melting wax figure of tears and rage. “Son, he said, hands shaking, “that’s strike two.”
Jamie Murphy works for the Toronto Public Library.
On his twentieth anniversary, Michael got a room at the Hilton where they cavorted for three hours.
At five, he said, “Time to go. I’ve got to pick up flowers for my wife.”
He wouldn’t need the flowers. When he left room 154, he ran into her exiting room 151.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching at a university, software development, web application development, and voter database compilation and distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and writing memoirs and short stories.