Wrinkles on her nose and graphic tee bestill his heart. Their first album’s good, he reassures, but nowadays they’re trash.
Eyebrows quirk.
Seizing his chance, he suggests they experience real music this weekend, but she declines.
He says she’s playing hard to get. She says he’s playing hard to want.
Chary writes at a snail’s pace.
“If he hopes to hold on to his title, our newly-appointed chief of police really needs to get his priorities straight.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“His first day on the job, he found a housefly in his office. Rather than handle it himself, he called for a S.W.A.T. team.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction’s been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.
Website featuring miniature stories currently seeking apathetic readers. No skills required. No pay, no benefits, no rewards. Lack of enjoyment contingent on how distracted and unmindful you might be. Readers who take their time and pay considerable attention need not apply. Same with those who may wish to contemplate allegory.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
The school reopened. Ava approached her first grade classroom in her iron suit, double pair of blue hospital gloves, face shield that extended to her waist and multi-layered mask that curved around her small face.
Her mother said Ava was lucky. In many states, students were required to stay home.
Eliza Mimski wrote this story.
It was a weekly family competition. My siblings interlocked and huddled over the table like a championship rugby scrum. Instead of a ball, a plate of Mom’s fried chicken was slipped onto the table beneath the players.
Dad blew a whistle. Game on.
Whoever ate the fastest got the most.
James Menges is a writer and photographer. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.
Click, I post a picture of my dog.
Click, click, people like her fluffy fur.
How many did I get? Click, 23 likes.
I post another photo of her, but now with sad, droopy eyes.
Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick
104 likes.
Be more sad, I tell her.
They like you more that way.
Follow Alyssa Minaker on Instagram to give her more clicks.
When the lion emerged from the quarantine, he sidled up next to the lamb.
They had lunch together.
This happened before its time, contrary to Messianic prognostications.
Some say it was a hoax.
Some say it was a miracle.
Some say the vaccine.
Hard to know the truth these days.
Linda Vigen Phillips’ poems have appeared in The Texas Review, California Quarterly, NC Poetry Society Award Winning Poems 2001, Wellspring, Main Street Rag, Independence Boulevard, and The Whole Idea. She has published two young adult novels in verse: Crazy and Behind These Hands. She lives in Charlotte, NC.
David’s Gran smelled of urine and talcum powder, and her parrot always squawked when he visited her. He could not drink Gran’s tea or eat her cake.
“It’ll put hairs on your chest,” she said.
But David is still waiting for the parrot to sprout a fur coat and bark.
K. S. Dearsley’s stories, flash fiction, and poetry have appeared online and in print on both sides of the Atlantic, including in Fifty-Word Stories. Her fantasy novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords. Find out more at ksdearsley.com.
It’s not your fault, Son. After all you went through, they still didn’t follow instructions.
“It didn’t work. There’s too much suffering. What can we do?”
Shut it down. Just like I started it 6024 years ago.
And God said, “Let there be no light.”
And there was no light.
Harry Demarest wrote this story.
Monday morning: I know she’s wrong.
Tuesday: I think she’s wrong.
Wednesday: I ask my workmate, “She’s wrong, no?”
Thursday: I cook pan-roasted salmon, wait for her.
Friday: “Are you still angry, Baby?”
Saturday: “Sorry. I knew I was wrong.”
Sunday: We drive to the beach, curl up under stars.
Mandira Pattnaik is an Economics graduate who lets her degree gather dust while she word-weaves. Some of those pieces have made their way into Spelk, Lunate, Gasher, Star82, and fiftywordstories. She tweets @MandiraPattnaik.