He’d treasured that winter. Record snow. Briskly cold.
Mother had carefully arranged a scarf around his neck while he watched the children’s snowball fight. He stifled a chuckle when father clumsily slipped on the ice.
Only when his charcoal eyes slid down his melting frame did the reality set in.
Alison treasures the winter and loves lots of snow.
With nowhere to hide, he stood exposed, naked to the world.
Looking up from where he came, he longed for what he had left behind. Unprepared for confrontation, the choice that led him to this time and place was inescapable.
Couldn’t she at least throw his pants out to him?
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the HWA and has published over 40 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two short story collections, and his first novel was released in October, 2017.
Frank woke up in the early hours of the morning to a loud scraping sound from just outside his close little chamber. His eyes were open before he knew it, and he stretched his long limbs, throwing off the cover.
The grave robbers took one look at Frank and fled.
Philipp M. Selman is an artist, songwriter, athlete, and professional copywriter. His work has been published in Dark Fire Fiction and Fifty Word Stories, and examples of his art, music, and writing can be found at pmselman.com
I must fix my time machine, but every night she comes dancing in the woods and I’m lost.
I wanted to give my legacy to science, not lose it to history, but maybe I’ll ask her name tonight. Maybe she’ll love me,
Maybe they’ll remember Robin Loxley, after all.
Matthew Wilson, 34, has been published over 150 times in such places as Horror*Zine, Zimbell House Publishing, Star*Line, Alban Lake, and many more. He is currently editing his first novel.
They said he couldn’t do it. They said it was impossible for him to become a confectioner. He’d failed culinary school over and over again.
But here he was, baking a cake for the Chief Examiner. He let out a happy sigh as he slipped the poison into the pastry.
Balázs Papp is a 16 years old student in Hungary, he plays soccer, (or football if you will), enjoys dancing, and in his free time, he occasionally writes short stories or poems. He apologizes for any grammatical mistake made on his behalf.
The exhausted hero stumbled into the village square, dragging a monstrous, gruesome trophy behind him.
Onlookers gasped as he pulled the creature’s head from the stained sack. Its green eyes glimmered in the sunlight as he tossed it aloft.
It hit the ground with a wet thud.
The proletariat cheered.
Daniels is a writer of horror and weird fiction. His short stories have been featured in Corner Bar Magazine, Helix Magazine, and various anthologies. He lives in New England with his wife, kids, and a couple of devious cats. Find out more at bldaniels.wordpress.com
Clouds bulge grey and spit fat drops into my river, slate-grey in reflection. I relish their wanton lack of care, their wild abandon, their unthinking fall and splash.
Then come the bereft, sad, homeless seeking shelter under my bridge.
I welcome them, my teeth razors, my mouth waiting underwater.
Aisling Green wrote this story.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” I whispered to the assassin operative from behind as I administered the lethal injection. His body crumpled to the floor. I felt badly but I had my orders.
Our team’s cleaner arrived. He unexpectedly grabbed me, needling me in the neck.
“This won’t hurt a…”
Connie Taylor is not an assassin. By day she is an Operations Manager; by night a writer and reader. This is her third fifty-word story.
His wife sneered at him, her eyes heavy with disappointment.
“While you’ve been in jail, I’ve turned my life around. I won second prize in a beauty contest and I’ve started to invest in property. I can’t wait around for a loser like you,” she spat.
Kevin sighed. “Monopoly sucks!”
Jo Withers is a shrewd, short-sighted Sagittarius. Her debut children’s novel will be published in April 2018.
Trying to outrun his pursuer, the terrified man scrambled and stumbled. It was too late; gigantic spiked forearms grabbed him. His captor was the size of a car.
Inside the Rhinoceros Beetle’s underground lair, human specimens of varying ethnicities were neatly arranged and labelled—each impaled with a giant pin.
Melanie cringes with horror when recalling the time she was made to stick pins into arthropods for a science project.