Their spouses’ corporations had merged.
Wow, she said, blinking.
How embarrassing is this, he said.
I’m having flashbacks, she whispered.
He smiled shyly.
Remember falling, she said, into one another’s embrace? Remember holding on for dear life?
Youthful mistakes, he sighed.
Perhaps it’s time we made them again, she said.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Penelope begs me to call her Mother.
I know what I did. I still love you.
Penelope moves through the house. Seems off, like a newspaper left out.
I needed space.
I believed she loved me. Missed her graceful gait, jokes, tender goodnights.
I utter that word.
Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar’s work has been published or is forthcoming in journals such Scarlet Leaf Review, Ariel Chart, 50 Word Stories, and The Write City Magazine.
26 years old. That’s when my heart first met hers.
26 minutes in and I was already in love.
26 months later I broke her heart into a billion bits.
26 seconds. That’s how long it took her to leave.
26 years older and I’m still picking up the pieces.
Dylan Martin is a University at Albany alumnus who currently lives in the New York metropolitan area. His passion for fiction tends to gravitate towards the characters involved, and his writing tends to focus on the characters as well. See more at dm-writing.com.
I sit on the curb, shaken to the core. Its 2 AM.
I hear sirens from the police cars in the distance.
My mother cries inside the house. I look down at my hands to see the blood still wet, dripping onto my jeans. He is gone now, mother.
Paige McDonald wrote this story.
I looked into her eyes.
I held her hand.
I should have said, “I love you.”
Should have said, “Thank you for the good times.”
But I was angry still,
after all those years.
I looked into her eyes.
I dropped her hand.
and then I died.
Harry Demarest has written 30 50-word stories that have been published, and another dozen or so that were not good enough. Two of his longer stories have been published.
Yesterday he took me to heaven.
Then he took me to the cleaners.
Strangest one-night stand ever.
“You want a beer?” I’d asked.
“No, I’m good.”
Yes, he was.
So was his accomplice.
All my valuables, gone… except for those I carried with me.
Only one of them was missing.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing and thinking about writing.
I didn’t give her my password because it was “I LOVE SUSAN,” and I hadn’t told her yet. She ended the relationship the following morning with a text. She said if I couldn’t trust her, she couldn’t stay.
I responded with the password, but she said it was too late.
Rob O’Hara works with computers all day and words all night. Find out what Rob’s up to at RobOHara.com.
Happy New Year!
Another resolution to make; another resolution to break…
Perhaps this year will be different?
Yet, as 2017 rolls into 2018, I am mostly happy.
Never the same, one day to the next.
Everyone has bad days…
Wandering off the path, hoping it always leads back.
Michelle is a contributing author in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada. Her writing has won several awards, and appeared in The Globe and Mail and a number of local magazines and newspapers in Alliston and Barrie. She has a monthly series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper based on her short story “Lightning Strikers.” You can find her online at michelledinnick.com.
“Happy New Year, Dave,” you whispered in my ear.
Resolution broken; same old routine. We’d played this game before. We’d dance close all night while our partners glared at us from the sidelines, neglected.
When we got home, we’d have a whole lot of explaining to do. I would, anyway.
David is no longer listening. Read more at davidrae-stories.com.
“Goodbye Patrick.” Cindy moved in for a half-hug and cheek-peck, but he held her until she pulled away.
Patrick fit bulging duffel bags into her rusty Mazda, shut the hatchback, then stepped away as she reversed and turned.
The car crunched down the gravel driveway, red taillights glowing in accusation.
Susan Wackerbarth is enjoying her foray into flash fiction so much that she may never go back to writing novels.