There was a great gaping hole in his life. He hadn’t dug it himself; he’d certainly allowed them to backfill it on top of him.
He could be assertive; he’d just never seen the need.
He toyed with a bit of kidney on his plate, doubting that cannibalism would help.
Absorbing the Donegal hills from distance only now, Perry McDaid’s creativity subsists on nature’s palette and scents. Unfortunately this sometimes involves silage.
Sophie’s walking home in bloody clothes.
Telling herself:
Moonlight’s sunlight gone round the block.
Telling herself:
Eight Chicago blocks is one mile.
Telling herself:
Eight blocks from here to home.
Sophie’s telling herself:
She’s not going to Hell for shooting and killing three frat boys who cornered her in Wrigleyville.
If you like, keep in touch with Jim at his Substack.
Edward massaged his seventy-three-year-old back as he sat in his cramped attic. When he opened the largest box, he laughed out loud.
“Grandpa?” Maddox tapped his phone and removed his earbuds. “What’s that?”
“My old vinyls and my record player.”
“Cool! Play them for me.”
Edward’s heart swelled with pride.
Jenise Cook lives with her husband in the north-central highlands of Arizona where it snows. Jenise enjoys visitors to @jenisecook on Twitter and JeniseCook.com, where you can find a list of her published works.
Watering a plant on the balcony, he glanced across the street, comparing his withering creature with a lush garden opposite. His neighbor’s eyes were green, her fingers were emerald. Taking a leaflet from his mailbox, “Plant care for busy professionals”, he smiled for the first time since losing his job.
Nelly Shulman is an author of four popular historical novels in the Russian language. She is working on the fifth novel in this series and on the non-fiction book about the Russian revolution. She is a recepient of three literary awards. nellyshulman.com
I once dated a man who never smelled. No sour morning breath, no corn-chip feet, no pungent sweat. My nose—less trusting than my heart—sniffed for signs of humanity. But even his gas didn’t provide a whiff. Farts of a hollow man, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Laurie P. Mendoza is an elementary school counselor and children’s author who has been published in Spider Magazine. She also dabbles in playwriting, personal essays, and holding a grudge. This is her second story for Fifty-Word Stories.
The story of the week for June 21 to 25 is…
Dot to Dot by Laura Dobson
I saw the creature dart into the woods. A fawn, I thought. The sun gleamed on its back for a second, then it was gone.
I watched as you got into the car. No sunlight gleamed this time, just dark clouds gathering overhead. But you were gone, just the same.
Pauline writes mostly crime, and has a novel published on Kindle. She also enjoys working in very short bites.
“Fairies are real!” she insisted, with a five-year-old’s unwavering conviction.
“I’ve never seen them,” I said.
“Wait,” she said, exasperated, leaving the room.
She returned, triumphantly, handing me a blue pillow, covered in stars like it was sacred.
“Here, use this! I see them every night when I fall asleep.”
This story was written by Martha’s granddaughter. Alyce will always be grateful for the 95 years of joy Martha brought to the family. She always made everyone feel special and loved. Alyce will miss her.
Cardiac ablation is the art of treating heart rhythm irregularities with freezing. Not like musical statues at our wedding, where the music stops, you freeze, and when it starts you dance. There will be scars. These stop abnormal impulses. Nothing reaches that part of the heart again. The feeling’s gone.
Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London, has words in lots of lovely places and can be found on Twitter at @quotes_52 and 52Quotes.blogspot.com.
I glance at the sign outside the church when I should be watching the road. Love Like Jesus, it says. A nice sentiment, I think, as the sun goes down in a profusion of toxic colors, like a ship full of chemicals burning intently at the edge of the world.
Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).