“It’s midnight!” shouted Colonel Mustard. “Nothing’s happened!”
So he whacked Mrs. White with the pipe, while Ms. Scarlett and Mr. Green smashed Mrs. Peacock and Professor Plum with wrench and candlestick, respectively.
Green strangled Colonel Mustard with the rope, grabbed the knife, and stabbed Ms. Scarlett while she shot him.
Since he retired in 2009, Harry Demarest has published in Fiftyworstories.com, Festival Writer, Compassion and Choices, and Gold Man Review.
We would be the first family to fly to the moon. I don’t know why they chose us. Dad hates flying, mom fears open spaces, my sister needs too much space, and I get severe motion sickness.
At least I’ll find out if the moon really is made of cheese.
Stephanie Amargi lives in Oregon with her husband and some house spiders. Her poetry is forthcoming in Foundling Review. She writes about her love for food, words, and being human on her blog.
Then I think
Y oh Y do I bother.
When I’ve slapped myself good and proper,
Other ideas come
Ring my bell
I don’t know now
Every word seems trite
So what the heck; I just type. Cheers Ronald Chilcutt; nice.
David usually sends custom bios, but forgot this time, so I’m writing some nonsense for him. Nonsense like this: Grimbledorf.
Then there’s the parallel universe entirely identical to our own, with two exceptions.
Firstly, racism doesn’t exist. Race and heritage are not commented on at all; the world is one big melting pot.
The second exception: cannibalism is a normal way of life.
We all look the same when cooked.
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes like heck they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
Do I look to you as though I’ve recently suffered spontaneous human combustion, you silly man? I say of you, Lawrence, what I have always said: that you are a silly man.
Wait. Perhaps that charred looking fellow in the bandages is the one to whom you should be speaking.
Philip Zunzuncito Sequoia is a writer whose work has graced such fine publications as Freedbook and Patternotion.
“Think outside the box,” demanded Mr. Big. This company needs innovation.
“Yessir!” answered three voices in harmony.
One suggested a company necktie.
Another, free vending machines.
“Mobile offices?” asked the third.
“Jones. What about you?” questioned Mr. Big
I closed the lid on my box and went back to work.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured online at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Magazine, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story In 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
He was drunk. Staggering drunk.
I was the only guy, so I walked him to the bathroom, holding him up every step of the way. And every step I wondered just how much help he would need.
Fortunately, not much. I held him up while he peed on his shoe.
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.
John awoke one day to find that all of his bones had been stolen.
Incensed, he painstakingly flopped his way to the house of his friend Jamal, suspecting he had something to do with it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jamal, a bloody chainsaw in his hand.
Steven B. is a human being who lives on the planet Earth.
My parents never believed me that I had an evil clown living in my closet until they met him one day.
“Stop telling tall tales,” mom would say, and dad would chime in, too. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
It took me days to remove my parents’ bloodstains from the carpet.
Doug has contributed to the popular horror anthology Demonic Visions 50 Horror Tales. Doug’s poetry is also featured in Poetry Quarterly and was an editor’s choice in a New England poetry publication.
“I am the winner!”
“How can you be? They called my name!”
A gaming commissioner intervened. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. What exactly IS the problem?”
“I am the winner!”
“NO WAY! I AM!”
“What was the name that was announced?” the commissioner interjected.
“John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmitt. His name is my name too.”
Anthony J. Geist is a man of many words. In an effort to become concise, he is trying short prose, like “50 Word Stories.” Geist was inspired by two of his English professors in the lifelong pursuit of writing. He’s starting to get it. This bio is even fifty words.