She gazes into the abyss, a gnawing itch tickling the back of her brain. A wisp, a puff, a shroud of a notion keeks through the fog—before vanishing in an instant. Her eyes glaze, her mind blank.
“Why did I come in here?” she wails, glaring into the pantry.
Haley M. Hwang is a writer living in the Chicago area. Her career spanned working as a newspaper reporter, medical writer, and online entertainment editor. She has a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in journalism from Northwestern University. When she isn’t writing, she is drinking coffee, eating pastries, and thinking about her next meal.
In this hostile environment
Where all are trapped, and none can escape.
And a mob’s slowly forming
To strangle that jerk
Blasting 70’s pop out his window.
Meanwhile, most sit,
With fingers drumming
For all eternity…
…until the stoplight changes,
and civilization returns.
Nelson Scott is the pseudonym of a student who has occasionally wanted to travel to New York City–and then has promptly remembered the crowds, traffic, and sheer degree of expenses that would likely greet him there.
I don’t know what possessed me to do it.
I was tired, feverish, losing my voice. That night, I’d had the audacity to ask for help with the boys at bedtime.
His words stung; I was very angry.
But I was smiling as I swished his toothbrush in the toilet.
Michelle is an award-winning author and poet. She is a contributor in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada, and was a quarter finalist in the 2017 ScreenCraft Short Screenplay contest. Her writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail (one of Canada’s National newspapers) and a number of local magazines and newspapers including The Briar Crier, Total Sports, Voice of the Farmer, Arts Talk and Focus 50 Plus. Her short story “Lightning Strikers” (also featured on Commuter Lit) was made into a series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper because fans asked for more! In 2018, Michelle won the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starter Contest in two categories. You can find her online at commuterlit.com, fiftywordstories.com, femininecollective.com, michelledinnick.com, and @MichelleDinnick.
Fifty-word stories force you to find the heart of communication.
My therapist was less than pleased when I explained to him I had found my cure using this process.
It took him fewer than fifty words to present me with his final bill for seventy-five dollars.
Charlotte has been writing most of her life. Fifty-Word Stories gave her the courage to submit her work.
At the centre of the sun, the dark matter eggs cracked open. The creatures emerged, stretching their massive wings into fifteen million degree heat. They looked outwards, ready for their first meal.
The first planet was too small, the second too dry.
But the third planet…
It looked just right.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His most flanturbulous ambition is to create a new word that will eventually appear in the Oxford English dictionary.
Ken believed our scoutmaster when he said adding dry leaves would give the stew a nice “hickory” flavor.
We couldn’t stop Ken in time to keep all of the leaves out, but when we won first prize for “Best Camporee Meal,” no one mentioned the secret ingredient to the judges.
Ran Walker remains perpetually amazed by what you can do with fifty words.
On Monday, the Cassie hivemind forecasts a global superflu, ninety percent lethal.
On Tuesday, Aspasia predicts five percent.
The differing projections hinge, it appears, on the mathematical solution to Rostwick’s Paradox, on which the AIs disagree, and which no human can understand.
Quite in the dark, we’re rooting for Aspasia.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
When I said crafts were therapeutic, I meant something like crochet or pottery. He settled on taxidermy.
True, he’s sleeping better now. He’s less stressed. But I can’t get comfortable with six glassy eyes staring at me.
And sometimes I think the kids were more rewarding when they were alive.
Hannah Whiteoak has no children and a large collection of stuffed animals.
Father flattens old photos, my boyhood hair white as snow.
He looks at my dark head, asks again if I color it. All my friends have been gray for years.
I consider the truth: I’m expelling inner darkness that beckons demons. It exits through my hair.
“No, Dad. It’s natural.”
Jeff Stone has published several short stories and many poems. He has three novels in various stages of completion and loves learning too much for his own good. Albert Camus said fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth. Dark Hair is a short piece of fiction that resides somewhere in between.
“The rules,” the nanny said. “No running. No shouting. No sweets. Clean your room. Stay neat and tidy.”
Tommy stopped listening because it all meant one thing: no fun. He nodded, while planning the biggest, loudest sugar-fueled bedroom mud fight of all time.
It was time she learned his rules.
GB breaks at least half of Nanny’s rules every day.