After dreaming of living as a millionaire playboy, I wake up on a lumpy futon in a crummy apartment, alone.
Half-asleep, I nod off only to reawaken cold and weary in an alley on skid row. I’m still tired, but refuse to sleep, afraid of where I’d wake up next.
Pontius Paiva is a dreamer. It’s because he spends most of the day sleeping. Wake him up at pontiuspaiva.com.
Empty for eighty years, the mansion loomed over the village, and cautionary tales spread as wildfire.
She ventured in regardless, her explorer’s spirit unquenchable. To her parents’ chagrin, she returned late, yet regretted nothing.
In the mansion’s window a figure appeared, high above the village.
It watched, and it waited.
Tony is working on a research thesis. In his spare time, he enjoys playing music and writing short stories. Some of his writing can be seen at liretranger.wordpress.com
Injected by an alien
We’re the fallacies
I breathed within
My pulse slower
The mixed up order
Most fit within
Shades of grey
No birds sing
Can I inject you?
Patrick got lost for a while.
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.
It’s not that bad, to start with. Then they turn on the lights.
The skin goes a nasty, fluorescent green colour, the teeth a mucky yellow.
Each shift lasts eight hours. The factory itself is running 24/7.
Each shift ends with a howl. Everyone joins in.
Full moons are holidays.
William Shaw is a student, poet and amateur journalist. He is slightly obsessed with the moon. You can find him on Tumblr at themadmanwithablog.tumblr.com.
“Thanks for the story, Mummy,” Sally said, snuggling down into her blankets.
“Glad you liked it, sweetie. Sleep tight.”
“Night, Daddy!” Sally called.
“Don’t you want a story?” he called back.
“Mummy read it already.”
Still wearing his black suit from the funeral, he came in and stared at her.
Mark Farley is currently writing a fifty-word bio and needs only thirty-two more words after this sentence. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saturday Night Reader magazine, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, and of course the wonderful fiftywordstories.com. He blogs his rambling creative writing attempts at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk.
My friend Lisa is scared of mirrors. She heard that mirrors were gateways to evil, alternate worlds. She feared her evil self would pull her through, take her place and no one would ever know.
I hoped she would.
Lisa hadn’t noticed when I took her friend’s place, after all.
Robyn Smith is a young writer currently working on a series of novels while attending Charlottetown Rural High School.
Janet heard her friend’s response and gasped.
“Hate is such a strong word, Linda! And he’s still missing! His poor wife must be frantic after finding all that blood!”
Linda giggled. “You misheard me,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I didn’t say I hate him. I said I ate him.”
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
He came to my childhood bedroom every night: silent, colourless, translucent, sad.
One night he was waving his arms, telling me to get out. Then he vanished.
I ran outside and hid in the woods.
That night my father, deeply disturbed, strangled my mother.
I never saw my saviour again.
After trying a lot of different jobs, Arthur Brown still has ambitions, but he’s not sure what they are.