Lucky I love the sound of my own voice. Echoing, Echoing, Echoing. Lucky I love the sound of my own voice. Echoing of bare walls. Echoing. Echoing. Echoing. Lucky I love the sound of my own voice. No one listening. Listening. Lucky I. Echoing. Echoing. Lucky me. Lucky
David loves the sound of his own voice, but also the voices of his wife, children and grandchildren.
I saved the last apricot from summer, wrapped in a napkin like a secret. In winter, I found it shriveled but whole. I bit into memory: tart, soft, sun-warmed. My daughter watched, puzzled. “It’s just fruit,” she said. But I could taste my childhood, my mother’s hands, the orchard’s hush.
Aisha is a poet and storyteller based in Srinagar, India. Her work explores themes of memory, displacement, and emotional resilience, often through lyrical prose and quiet imagery.
The bus hissed to a stop, doors yawning open. One passenger remained, clutching a torn ticket. The driver met her eyes in the mirror. “Last stop.” Outside was only darkness and silence. The doors closed. The road itself vanished. Still, the bus moved forward toward nowhere.
Mary Wanjiru is a freelance writer from Kenya who is passionate about microfiction, human interest stories, and exploring the eerie in everyday moments. Her work has appeared on various platforms, and she enjoys crafting stories that linger in readers’ minds.
I don’t remember the first hands that held me as I entered this world, vulnerable and mewling. I won’t remember the last hands that cling to me as I leave this life, helpless and silent. This is half my story. In the end, I hope they aren’t the same hands.
Katie lives on a farm in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Lately, she and her husband have been embracing the hint of early autumn air and exploring the creative side of writing. In addition to 50-Word Stories, her microfiction was recently featured in Short Beasts Flash Fiction and is forthcoming on 101 Words.
Dwindling light shimmers, bounces, dances through the golden-hued auditorium. Take your seat! Trillions of photons shriek with joy — and are extinguished. Towering curtains glide open, revealing the giant screen. From overhead, a brilliant light beam pierces the darkness one last time. Enjoy the show! Tomorrow, the cinema closes forever. Streaming.
John Singh has had a long career in publicity and communications for the entertainment industry. Lately, he has turned his attention to other pursuits, like writing fiction. It seems tolerated, sometimes even appreciated, by his husband Jeff and their dog Walter. Some of his work can be found at www.jswrites.com.
We’re in woodland with backpacks, introductions.
Glowing couples hold hands; our foraging instructor munches leaves. I nibble. He discusses elderflowers whilst sitting amidst daisies; we picnic on sourdough and dandelions.
“Wild mushroom pasta,” he says. “Folklore believes these fungi help people read minds.”
The couples devour bowlfuls, then leave separately.
Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared in Friday Flash Fiction and Paragraph Planet and has been broadcast on BBC Radio.
I wake and wander riverside
on a crisp winter morning.
Sunshine chases chills
from my bones
while my heart warms
with wonder
that I am welcome here
in what will always be
Aboriginal land.
My history not white-washed
but somehow forgiven.
My love for this place
a gift of grace.
Fiona H Evans has lived for 25 years in the suburb of Bayswater, by the Swan River in Perth. She walks the riverside every day in a place named Birralyn by local Noongar people long before it became Bayswater. Ever changing, ever the same, this place is as beautiful as it was 25 years ago. Probably as beautiful as it was a hundred years ago. Or 45,000 years ago, which is how long we have evidence of Noongar people living here. But of course, they’ve been here longer. This was always their land.
The woman strokes century-old, burgundy-colored poems on crumbling letterhead to time-travel. Memories magically appear. She is five years old standing behind her beloved grandmother, watching while the poet writes. The child wants to be old too, an author, like her idol. Not a lost ghost visiting from the distant future.
Former journalist and technical writer Lilian Pomeroy Edmonds is working on a poetry anthology with braided essays inspired by her grandmother’s poems written from 1899-1932. You can browse her work on Substack at wavingfromadistance.substack.com.
Thoughts of his mother flooded his mind: two years gone, today. It seemed so much longer. Outside, no jacket, he never minded freezing air that stung his face. Turning southwest, away from the full moon, Jerry looked skyward. He imagined he could see her ship, hurtling toward a distant world.
John Singh is a long-time publicity and communications executive in the entertainment industry, working for such companies as Disney, DreamWorks and Lucasfilm Ltd. He has lately turned his attention to writing fiction, primarily for his husband, Jeff, and their dog, Walter.
Lila served Gerald the same iced latte in 1892, 2025, and 3041. He never remembered. She always did. “Happenstance,” he said, smiling at the déjà vu. She stirred in grief, knowing he’d forget again before the foam settled. Time bent for him; for her, it only bruised, and always lingered.
AJ Joseph is trying to tame her overgrown garden so that her cats don’t get lost in the weeds.