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.
To Church on a wet and stormy day in November. Father and daughter together.
On the way there, an oncoming truck rushes madly around a sharp curve – hydroplaning.
Head on crash. Trapped for hours.
Days later, the daughter wakes. “Where’s my Daddy?”
Alone, the girl wonders, “What of God?”
Kimberly Hausbeck wrote this story.
The scented treasure of the park tempered his confusion as he followed the path. Sammy used to know every species of tree. Now they were just comforting presences. Sammy used to know his way back home. Now there was just the terror of loss…
And the invitation of the pond.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry close to the Donegal hills. His diverse writing disciplines and genres appear in international multimedia, recently with entropy2, Amsterdam Quarterly, Plotters Ink, Alfie Dog, and 50-Word Stories among others. He has one imaginary cat, Stinky, who is mostly nailed to a board above an allegorical scat-ruined flower bed.
You see these small roadside memorials occasionally. This one was a white cross with silk flowers tattered by blowing rains, a frayed ribbon, a dog’s collar.
She was Abby. Her dog was Rex.
The drunk, just out of rehab, was leaving another bar, squinting woozily as I pulled the trigger.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.