At fifteen, the Pakistani boy knew the world was evil.
He saw the stranger outside the school gate, noted the bulge against the man’s chest. Unafraid, the boy stepped forward—and died in the explosion.
His mother cried, but that boy saved hundreds of mothers from crying for their children.
Diane Callahan is a freelance developmental editor and dreamer of fantasy and speculative fiction. Her YouTube channel, Quotidian Writer
, provides practical tips for aspiring authors.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
Tears wanted to flow but nothing came. I wanted to cry but the guilt was too strong. In one fell swoop, my entire world crumbled before me, and I could not have done anything.
In that one moment, I understood what love and friendship meant because I had betrayed both.
Armaan is a bibliophile who listens to punk and alt rock, plays APRGs and likes to get serious sometimes. He started writing because his friends told him his English was better than theirs. His strong belief in friends has made him continue writing short fictional stories after high-school even though he currently pursues a degree in business management. He has recently entered the flash writing scene.
The girl in that house burned to death. Her father was burning leaves.
She was pirouetting round the fire.
The hem of her dress swirled over the flames, just long enough to ignite.
She didn’t feel it until she stopped, dizzy with her dancing.
She shouldn’t have, but she ran.
Jennifer M. Smith is an author and adventurer. She is working on a memoir of her sailing adventures, a tale of 40,000 miles at sea with her husband aboard their sailboat Green Ghost. She also enjoys writing creative non-fiction short stories about her childhood.
I loved her for 28 years, yet brain cancer won.
I loved her for 40 years, yet breast cancer won.
I loved me, but lost my mind losing my beloved, lifetime friends. I lost my job because I lost them and my mind.
Why is loss so sad and ugly?
Terri lives in Bucks County, PA where she’s healing her heart and looking forward to brighter days…
Falling, falling, crashing hard into the cold earth.
A tunnel without start or end, no light, only darkness.
Flickers of a glimpse—something is possible.
Fumbling forward for escape, grasping for the last.
Tumbling through, stumbling out—such blazing light.
A cliffside, toes curled over the edge, unable to fall.
Rebecca Milton is an author from London, England, who is currently preparing her first print novel for publication whilst writing her second. She has been featured here at 50-Word Stories and in Here Comes Everyone magazine.
Melancholy clung to him like skin. An abusive father, a difficult childhood.
Into his cloud of sadness, she walked in. His silver lining.
The sun was just melting the cloud when death snatched her away.
A new cloud of sorrow. The tiny baby in his arms, his new silver lining.
Tejaswinee Barua is an Engineer by profession and a writer by choice. Visit Tejaswinee’s blog
You didn’t see
the last selfie I posted,
bitter wind whipping my hair across my face
as I balanced on the narrow edge of the roof,
because you were too busy
updating your status
for the seventieth time that week
and waiting for the likes and comments
to pour in
Joanne R. Fritz writes poetry and fiction for both children and adults. This is her seventh Fifty Word Story. Unlike her young protagonist, Joanne doesn’t believe in taking selfies.
Every year, since the time I was three, I asked my parents for a pony on my birthday. Every year they would smile and say, “We’ll see.” I knew what that meant in parent-speak: “NO!”
Last week they were killed in a car accident. They left me a pony farm.
Candace always wished for a pony. Some wishes are better left ungranted. You don’t usually have to clean up after a story.
She had tiptoed through life, always on the periphery of happiness, teetering precariously. The decision brought her peace.
It was not impulsive, but rather long contemplated. It quelled the voices.
She slid over the bridge railings, and as her body slammed into the water, the motorists continued busily on above.
Alison is an executive in a mental health agency. She knows that fostering hope is the most important element of treatment, and she witnesses recovery daily. The trauma of completed suicide continuously haunts her. This is her fourth 50-word story.