Yes. This tour is quite legal.
Observe the unnecessary space.
The quietness is rather extraordinary, isn’t it?
I respectfully disagree. It’s quite orthodox to contemplate the aliens’ mind set.
This is a complex carbohydrate. This is alcohol. Please activate your toxicity filters.
This is not illegal.
Please eat and drink.
Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.
After rolling out of bed at 8:00 every morning, I shuffle into the kitchen. I make breakfast. I shower, iron wrinkled dress shirts, and read headlines pretending to be news.
I leave my house for work at 10:00 and remind myself to be thankful that I’m not a coal miner.
Jon Harahan used to be a writer. He now sells beer for a living. It’s nice work if you can get it.
There, by the pond, was the prey. Taking careful aim, I killed it instantly.
Ever since the drought three years ago things had been bad. Really bad.
Global warming? More like global meltdown. But survive we had.
Throwing the twitching body of the boy over my shoulder, I headed home.
Tony is 54 and lives in Manchester, UK. He became interested in 50-word stories after helping his son with his homework, and enjoyed the challenge of bringing a story to life in so few words.
The aroma of chicken soup teases my nostrils, now red and swollen.
I squinch my eyes from sinus pain. Temples throb. Joints ache.
My pity party halts as I reflect on the chicken’s last day. What it ate. How it died.
Maybe I’ll eat scrambled eggs and buttered toast instead.
Jeff Switt likes to write.
We held a backyard funeral for Oscar the dachshund. I delivered a memorial about squirrels, ear scritches, and bacon.
Our toddler loved him fiercely. I asked if he wanted to add anything. He knelt, patted the grave, and offered, “Just, ‘Good boy.'”
He always did know what Oscar liked best.
Beth is a whirling dervish who pauses now and again to write something. Her blog can be found at sideglimpses.blogspot.com and she can be found drinking coffee.
He hid her name in others’ tattoos: in mermaids’ scales, dragons’ spines, and the red of bleeding hearts. Now he was too blind to do the work.
He pulled a lever: mechanical fingers splayed opened his eyelids. Tears came just before the needle pricked HELEN into his eye’s soft flesh.
Petra McQueen is a writer and teacher. Her writing has been featured in The Guardian and You magazine, and her stories and poems have been published in the UK and abroad. She lives in the farthest reaches of Essex with her wonderfully supportive family who suffer with grace her moody silences as she composes yet-to-be-written award-winning novels in her head.
The sage meditated on a pile of quicksand, his face tilted towards the sun. He had a dull smile on his face, exuding tranquility.
The quicksand consumed him, devouring him in its cold, gentle embrace.
“I am one with nature,” he said, right before his lips sank into the pit.
Billy Higgins is a 21-year-old louse with a penchant for madness. He’s neither a sage nor a pile of quicksand, but who knows what the future may hold?
Shifting his weight on the cliff’s edge, Fred wrapped his arm around Wilma’s shoulder. Silently, they watched as the last great herd of Triceratops slowly moved across the landscape far below. She leaned in close, trying to savor the moment.
Deep down she knew.
Times like these don’t last forever.
Jason manages a bookstore in Tennessee and enjoys writing short stories in his spare time. You can find more of his short stories, as well as his comic, at jasonlhart.blogspot.com.
Our home faces Bayou St. Moss.
Albert, an eighteen-foot croc, likes to haul out onto our front lawn and sun himself there.
Our mail and newspapers are delivered to the post office downtown. Our last visitors were the Bartle boys, who tried to prank us on Halloween three years ago.
Joe Malone is living in a mud hut in South Sudan. Read more from him at joem18b.wordpress.com.
“I am the winner!”
“How can you be? They called my name!”
A gaming commissioner intervened. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. What exactly IS the problem?”
“I am the winner!”
“NO WAY! I AM!”
“What was the name that was announced?” the commissioner interjected.
“John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmitt. His name is my name too.”
Anthony J. Geist is a man of many words. In an effort to become concise, he is trying short prose, like “50 Word Stories.” Geist was inspired by two of his English professors in the lifelong pursuit of writing. He’s starting to get it. This bio is even fifty words.