I only had one pair of socks from you, a welcoming gift to our new house. After I’d put it in the washing machine, one of them disappeared. Have you ever wondered where lost socks go? I’ve kept that washing machine. Just in case it appears again, missing its half.
Alexandros Zochios is an aspiring writer living in Greece. His dog, Suki, keeps him company for the last 11 years. His wish is his works to reach out both International readers and Greek readers.
Vincent unlocked the door to his closet of collectibles—clothes from his favorite people long dead. He walked in and spent an hour wishing he had help to select an outfit to wear on his last day on earth. He walked out in his birthday suit and thought it suitable.
Kay Rae Chomic, novelist (A Tight Grip), and writer of flash: Ellipsis Zine, 50-Word Stories, LISP, Cheat River Review, Cabinet of Heed, Cranked Anvil, Five:2:One, On the Run, Streetlight Magazine, and more. Kay lives in Seattle dodging raindrops, and loves Motown music.
The parrot’s green eye never changed. The lion never hid. Even the zebra owned its stripes. Why was he cursed to keep shifting, never just being?
Then the shadow came — silent, hungry.
Others scattered, exposed.
He stayed still.
Invisible.
Safe.
Maybe he was never changing. Maybe he was always himself.
Kezang Choden is a writer who finds stories in the quiet, overlooked moments of life.
They both wept that night.
Neither ever told the other.
They would never talk about it again.
Two who had once been friends, fading out until nothing remained.
Two who had once loved each other, leaving each other behind.
There was nothing left.
There never would be again.
Nothing Remains.
John Olafsen is a young adult, gaining his footing as he explores the publishing side of writing. He has written over thirty short stories, has completed one full novel manuscript, and is working on multiple others. Someday, he aspires to have no more stories left untold.
I was six years old when I discovered a community of fairies were living between my toes on my left foot. My mother asked me why my left sock always had holes. I said fairy fights. She laughed and said “no more knives allowed in your socks.” I didn’t laugh.
Barb lives at the Jersey shore and gets inspiration from her house plants.
Things went missing when he was around. A dollar here. A cigarette there. He swore it wasn’t him.
The summer he moved away, we kissed behind the bleachers. I found a fragment of me in his pocket. He couldn’t deny it that time–he’d stolen it the day we met.
Alyson Floyd is camping on a couch in Houston, Texas, writing odd little things for your entertainment.
The story of the week for July 20 to 24 is…
Lawn Ornament by Bethany Bruno
The new tugboat sits on piles of timbers, ready for launch. The horns blare repeatedly before it starts sliding toward the water, timbers falling away as the tug goes over the edge of the slip. It splashes and almost tips over before righting itself in the sea. Yeah, that’s me.
After decades of nattering on about moving abroad, Ed Walker finally retired and is currently living in Catalunya, Spain. His work can be found in 50-Word Stories, The Arcanist, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
After the hurricane, a pink plastic flamingo landed in our yard, one leg snapped clean. Mama wanted to throw it away. I propped it beside the porch instead. For weeks, she kept straightening its crooked neck before work, like something ruined could still be expected to stand pretty.
Bethany Bruno is a Floridian author whose fiction and nonfiction often explore history, place, and the strange beauty of Florida. She holds a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Threepenny Review, The Sun, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, and The Huffington Post. Learn more at bethanybrunowriter.com.
She claims she grows those flowers for their beauty, but she’s careful to pick any tempting berries before foraging birds can find them.
Drinking always makes him worse. He downs another, pleased she’s silent now. Sits alone to eat the food she’s prepared, never noticing the bitterness in every mouthful.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.