There was a low growling, buzzing sound coming from far away. Suddenly something was trying to suck the life out of me. I slapped, twisted, turned and tried to escape. Claws pierced my skin. Hot breath filled my mouth. I bolted upright.
My cat jumped to the floor and smiled.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
There is no cost. The supply is endless and always at our disposal. No boundaries, no rules. They are, however, a double-edged sword. They create us just as we create others.
If they could speak on their own, they would not always approve of our careless abuse of their power.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
There’s a steady hum of voices sprinkled with laughter coming from the recreation room of Happy Days Rest Home.
A new craze called “Write A Fifty-Word Story and Then Read It” has taken the residents by storm.
The winner gets an extra helping of soft-boiled eggs and prunes for breakfast.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
Leaves dance with the fall breeze
The sun steals the early frost
The moon waits in the wings
I shiver in respect of nature
I shiver in respect of my age
Eighty years young
I am beyond the age of expectation
for women according to the insurance
companies age calculations
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
Winds whisper the sounds and sights of fall; fading flowers and falling leaves.
Dancing shadows slip away at dusk to appear again in the chilly dawn.
Golden wheat fields fall to the force of gobbling combines.
The Meadow Lark’s song signals change.
The harvest moon fills the night with mystery.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
Fifty-word stories force you to find the heart of communication.
My therapist was less than pleased when I explained to him I had found my cure using this process.
It took him fewer than fifty words to present me with his final bill for seventy-five dollars.
Charlotte has been writing most of her life. Fifty-Word Stories gave her the courage to submit her work.
“Ten cents a dance,” I said. He held me close.
We curled around the room like automatons performing selected sequences of human movement to Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade,” oblivious to the sounds and smells of war. He, the prince. I, Cinderella in my glass slippers.
Stealing peace out of chaos.