“I’m sailing home” cried Ezra Bligh
through cracked and blistered lips.
That night I wept and watched him die
while hailing phantom ships.
I lived a week till rescue came
but the price I paid was high.
The man who tells this tale of shame
survived on poor Ezra Bligh.
Gene Newman took this excerpt from a longer poem he wrote some time during the last century.
Frying the onions had been easy.
Without any bother, she watched as the meat in the pain turned from red to a shade of brown. So eating the liver wasn’t going to pose her any problems.
It was cutting it out of his abdomen that had been the hard part.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK. One day he might buy a train set.
“Isn’t Darryl joining us?” I ask my host.
Otis grunts, gnaws on a BBQ rib. Should ribs be that big?
They’d argued… I heard thuds. This is hillbilly country!
A bruised Darryl appears. “Dang, Otis! Don’t freak our dinner guest.”
Then he stage whispers, “You know fear spoils the meat!”
Mary Sheehan hails from southern Ireland and is vegetarian…
honestly!
The Asmat chief’s wife tossed banana, yam, cassava and butterfly larva into the pot. When the stew bubbled she filled her husband’s bowl.
“Ick. My mother’s was thicker,” he groused. “This needs more body.”
The Asmat chief’s wife added him to the pot. “Now I win me four Michelin stars.”
Ozzie Nogg’s Flash Fiction has been published in Diddledog, Dew on the Kudzu, Apollo’s Lyre, FLASHSHOT, Apocrypha and Abstractions, and 50 to 1. Her very short work, Escape From Crete, is represented in the 100 Stories for Haiti Anthology. In 2003, her story, Blue Plate Special, appeared in MARGIN: Exploring Modern Magic Realism, and was later nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her book of personal stories, Joseph’s Bones, won First Place in the 2005 Writer’s Digest Press International Self-Published Book Awards. Ozzie’s foray into poetry, Occasioned by George’s Visit, Two Bottles of Chablis and Vol. 155 No. 4 of National Geographic, can be read online at Archeology Magazine. Visit her at: rabbisdaughter.com.
Then there’s the parallel universe entirely identical to our own, with two exceptions.
Firstly, racism doesn’t exist. Race and heritage are not commented on at all; the world is one big melting pot.
The second exception: cannibalism is a normal way of life.
We all look the same when cooked.
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes like heck they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
Janet heard her friend’s response and gasped.
“Hate is such a strong word, Linda! And he’s still missing! His poor wife must be frantic after finding all that blood!”
Linda giggled. “You misheard me,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I didn’t say I hate him. I said I ate him.”
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
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.
Kwax’ilanokume spent months memorizing how Man-Eater came to the Kwakiutl. The penalty for making any mistake at that evening’s Hamatsa ceremony was death.
An hour into his performance a fly entered his mouth. Kwax’ilanokume gagged, momentarily stopping. He’d just resumed singing when the spear entered the back of his head.
Michael Coolen is a composer, pianist, actor, and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
Flushing my neighbor’s toilet, I eyed the pus colored soap on the sink. Ew, lemon citrus.
I opened the cupboard, scanning for something else. My eyes collided with jars. Jars with eyes, meat and tongues.
The door opened, letting the crisp barbeque smell waft in. “Are you done in there?”
Lidiya lives in London, spending her free time reading and writing. She runs a blog at http://www.lascarletcat.wordpress.com.
He’d been falling for longer than he could remember.
Boredom was the real problem. The hunger was annoying, but he always got hungry when he was bored. What he needed, then, was some entertainment.
He tried nibbling the flesh of his forearm. Amusingly tasty…
Masochannibalism? Two birds with one stone.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Strange_Fellow.