Both our wives walked out within a week. We hadn’t spoken in years, but now all we had was each other: though divided by parents, we were united by divorce.
We fished from the harbour wall, with bated breath and baited lines, sharing tales of the one that got away.
Guy has never taken his brother fishing. This is his twenty-second 50-word story.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it; with that expectation of compliance. He sounded like her dad, not like a lover.
Why did some men feel they had the right to compel obedience?
She wondered what would happen if she said no.
Joanne has self-published a novel called “They Called it the Incident,” available on Amazon. She also has a short story published in an anthology put out by Polar Expressions Publishing. She continues to hone her writing skills and is working on a second novel. See more at jmjohnson-author.simplesite.com.
The idea arose when Sophia’s father said her smile was more beautiful than Mona Lisa’s.
After retiring from grade school, she used her savings to go to Paris, where she wandered through the Louvre until she found it.
Staring at Leonardo’s masterpiece, she could only think, “Wow. It’s so small.”
Ran Walker is the author of sixteen books. He serves on the creative writing faculty of Hampton University in Virginia.
Maybe you will call, she manages to murmur while lowering herself into the taxi, before I close the door between us. It is not a question; just a simple statement. She has saved me from lying to us both.
This makes me like her more than I have all evening.
Shoshauna Shy gets inspired by all the other 50-word story authors on this site.
Although he’d never been
from any of the many
he increasingly found himself
at one end of the bar,
choosing to congregate
at the other, even if
half of them had to stand
reaching through the crowd
for their beer.
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from all standard outlets, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Walking the cows down the narrow road after milking, I felt protected by their company. The last light held enough reassurance.
While returning alone with the dusk pouring through the branches, the old ruin became the only presence, harbouring contrary spirits, and I ran.
Forty years later, I’m still running.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and someday hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland where it’s hard to concentrate.
Mean as cancer when no one is looking
Smile, smile, smile otherwise
He walks the dog to feel anything
His unkindness pounds in her head as people look
Neighborhood trash receptors are emptied for the week
The dog poops twice on the walk
He carries both home; people are looking
TPA is currently living her literary dream of creating flash fiction from home in Atlanta, Georgia, where she studied writing at Oglethorpe University.
Every summer we haul grandpa’s ashes down to the beach and listen to the crashing surf.
The roar reminds us of grandpa’s grumbling groans after a long day’s work.
When the tide recedes, the shoreline resembles a long stretch of freshly poured cement, waiting to be troweled, skimmed perfectly smooth.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Life is great. Health, mobility, liberty.
Then, an inadvertent moment. A slip and twisting tumble. The crash is sharp; the crack loud. Such a quick and simple thing.
But the scorching pain: deep, crippling, and endless.
Operations and rehab do little. Each move brings agony and depression.
Life is hell.
Bill Diamond writes in the Colorado Mountains. See more at bdiamondwriting.com
I tell her amidst our constitutional in Plastic Garden.
She lowers herself onto the grass, studying its frozen, wind-blown artifice, then plants her hand into a spongy anthill.
As the mechanical carbuncles stream up her pale skin, bites evoking winces, she whispers to them, “Like me, like me, like me.”
Tim Boiteau lives and writes near Detroit with wife and son. Find him at @timboiteau.