After we’d unloaded the snowmobiles from his truck, my father pointed toward the lake. Someone had driven a blue Volkswagen Bug onto the ice and just left it there.
“What did I tell you? Ten feet thick at least. You could drag a house out there and not break through.”
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and appeared in 30 anthologies. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled Nothing But Trouble. Visit BobThurber.net.
His peers worshiped him like a god.
The leader must be the first to rise, he proclaimed. He would proudly situate himself in the holy morning sunlight, so the others would awake to witness his golden fur in the sacred light.
An overcast day abruptly cast doubt upon his superiority.
Jason’s inspiration for this story was his tuxedo tabby, Rusty. While Rusty may not be worshipped, he is still a spoiled cat who loves the sunlight.
The police officer really hurt my feelings. I said I was sorry for running over the old lady and that I didn’t mean it, but he still yelled at me and made me cry.
I guess I will have to take my driving test again.
Daddy will not be pleased…
Olga Klezovitch is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Necon E-Books.
Just before he’d left the room, he’d commented that he thought he knew her, but couldn’t think where from.
She’d smiled and said that she couldn’t think of anywhere they may have met before.
But now she was scared.
If he worked it out, if he remembered, there’d be trouble.
Mark plays the ukulele, rides a motorcycle, and likes monkeys. He can easily be lured into a trap with the promise of chocolate.
It’s the poetry of precision. An atypical prose through which half the story remains unwritten, but not untold. An exercise in speculative brevity where quality always trumps quantity. A minuscule door to great expanses of imagination. A strict form which flows as if oblivious to its boundaries: exactly fifty words.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 24 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
Grinning, Earl invaded Gomper Hall, sporting a fuchsia waistcoat with orange-striped breeches, a feathered fez. His belt had bells!
Earl slapped distinguished backs, strutted past mouths agape, open as though for fishhooks. Gentlemen fanned woozy ladies.
Earl was removed.
(Nobody expected that heist. We’re still taking inventory of the loot!)
C.B. Auder might someday dream of a life jam-packed with flexi-twill cuffs and apricot capes.
Worse than ants, worse than soured milk. Worse than forgotten forks.
The drone of the helicopter ambulance roared in their bellies the closer it came. It set down in the field, sending the banner that read CELEBRATING 50 YEARS soaring over their heads.
It was clear the party was over.
Ashley Hutson has been published in Hedge Apple Magazine and was a finalist in this year’s Lascaux 250 Flash Fiction contest. She lives in Sharpsburg, MD.
Chosen as a soldier.
A box of bullets and a gun.
Across the line, he spots movement.
Through his scope X marks the spot.
A thousand thoughts.
As he pulls the trigger
I hear the shot.
My heart races.
I feel the pain.
One life to live.
This was insane.
Patrick is about to retire. A favourite person in his life introduced him to this site.
The girl ran. The girl shouted, “Mother! That radio! It’s ea… Ahhh!”
The mother ran. The mother shouted, “Husband! That radio! It’s eating my… Ahhh!”
The husband ran. The husband shouted, “Max! That radio! It’s eating my fam… Ahhh!”
Max yawned. Max farted. That awful radio said, “Bye, doggy doggy!”
Madeline is almost ten. She likes reading, drawing, writing, and learning new things. Madeline hopes to be a scientist.
I watch him from across the street. The ice cream cone in his hand leaves pink drops on the pavement.
I watch as she bends down, tenderly wiping the sticky mess around his beaming smile. I watch my son slip his hand into hers and walk away with his mother.
Megna Murali is an amateur writer who has vowed to escape corporate stoogedom through the power of words. She likes to put one word after the other and watch magic happen. Her blog is the outlet for her chaotic creativity.