I’m all cozy in bed when the closet door creaks open.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Outside, the wind whips and howls. I recall the earlier news report: Escaped convict, armed and dangerous.
The door’s sliver of darkness stares at me.
Should’ve buried them before calling it a night.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Papierdoll, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
Alex was a deaf, mute tour guide. Today he was under with a group of twenty or so, signing to explain how, just fifty years ago, people worked in these vertical buildings stretching into the sky. In the tallest of them, the upper windows, not far underwater, were still intact.
Tom Harris is an engineer and teacher inspired by daily life. When words fill up his head, he shakes them out on virtual paper.
I think my neighbor’s a psychopath with his vacant, roving eyes. Amazon keeps leaving his packages at my door: wood planks, duct tape, a chainsaw. And then: doghouse instructions.
I call him over, laughing. (I’ve always had an active imagination.)
As he steps inside, I see the leash.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
Life is about winning the prize. He thinks nothing can stop him but always ends up back where he started. Get after it again. Success requires dogged determination, and he has it aplenty.
Again he attains the prize. Again it’s tossed away.
Never give up. Never.
Squeak squeak. “Fetch, Boy.”
David Henson and his wife reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has has appeared in numerous print and online journals. His website is writings217.wordpress.com. Follow him on Twitter at @annalou8.
It was the job of Sharon’s dreams. The interviewer rattled off a string of easy questions: “Professional goals?” “College grades?”
Then… “Any personal hobbies?”
Sharon squirmed. Should she tell him about the three bodies buried in her backyard?
A long pause. “Um, I garden,” Sharon responded. “White lilies, white mums.”
Roberta Beach Jacobson won first place in the Iowa Poetry Association’s 2020 competition for her haiku.
Such meticulous planning: poignant prayers, elegant oak casket, extravagant flowers. All ruined.
Overlooking the river from the flower-adorned hill, the plot I picked had guaranteed eternity with a view.
And what did those imbeciles do? Lowered me in backwards. Now I face eternity gazing uphill at my own rotting feet.
Jenn is a former English teacher who has only recently entered the world of writing. She decided to begin with flash fiction and has quickly fallen in love with the crafting of very short stories. Jenn is a Scot based in Manchester, UK.
It started with surreptitious phone calls. Overheard whispers about holding her… “she’s the one.” How could he?!
Jenna’s heart raced as his car pulled up. Ready to confront, she threw open the door to find him cradling Millie, their new Labrador puppy.
Moral: distrust can be ruff, but fur-giveness heals.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl who enjoys writing and appreciates the amazing writers of Fifty-Word Stories.
The wheel is spinning.
I am gambling on red.
If this pays off I will be very rich.
It will be the perfect casino heist.
the traffic light is green. A truck hits me side on.
The wheel is spinning. I can’t control…
This getaway is strictly
Brian Maycock lives in Glasgow, Scotland. His short stories have appeared in magazines including Dreamcatcher and The Weekly News.
Lots of soap. Scrub. Sing a happy song for twenty seconds. Rinse. The officials say if I wash my hands real good, I’ll help stop the virus’ spread.
But I don’t know any happy songs, and washing my hands may get rid of germs but it won’t cleanse my sins.
Marc Littman’s short stories have been published in magazines ranging from Fictive Dream and Cafe Lit to The Saturday Evening Post. He also writes novels and plays. He lives in Los Angeles.
I give him a teddy bear and tell him it will keep him company, someone to talk to, while I work.
He returns him minutes later, saying the bear won’t stop talking about scratching his bum on trees and digging for bugs.
Such is life in quarantine with my husband.
Sharon Gerger loves to write and play more than she likes to work.