I hurried to the restaurant, my heart full of hope.
Will she smile at me today? I wondered. Ask me how my day was? Comment on my haircut?
She was sitting in the corner, reading. She didn’t look at me.
“You’re late,” she said as she turned a page. “Again.”
Eszter Molnar is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside with her partner and two children. She has been published in one of the UK’s biggest subscription magazines for children. By day, she cleans up after preschoolers, by night she writes picture books and Middle Grade fiction.
They had the kind of love
that camped out in cotton shirts
Damp with perspiration from
Evenings with her back pressed against his chest
As they looked into an endless sky
And pondered how the love they shared
Felt bigger than the entire universe before them
Ran Walker is the author of 21 books, including the 50-Word story collection THE STRANGE MUSEUM. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia.
- Preheat your heart to 37 degrees C.
Open your eyes and ears.
Don’t make selections based merely on appearance.
Mix, knead and prove. It may take years.
If friendship does not rise, mix in more dough or start again.
May require variations depending on ingredients.
Joey believes there is at least one recipe for everything but many are not easy, especially if it’s important. But at least getting to his website, joeytoey.com, isn’t hard.
Monday morning: I know she’s wrong.
Tuesday: I think she’s wrong.
Wednesday: I ask my workmate, “She’s wrong, no?”
Thursday: I cook pan-roasted salmon, wait for her.
Friday: “Are you still angry, Baby?”
Saturday: “Sorry. I knew I was wrong.”
Sunday: We drive to the beach, curl up under stars.
Mandira Pattnaik is an Economics graduate who lets her degree gather dust while she word-weaves. Some of those pieces have made their way into Spelk, Lunate, Gasher, Star82, and fiftywordstories. She tweets @MandiraPattnaik.
Paying for company isn’t new to Alfred.
His father shoehorned him into a high position in the family business, and Alfred was keen to splash his cash about town. He dated, he married, he dated some more.
These days company is in the form of a television, programs carefully chosen.
Laura Besley writes short fiction in the precious moments that her children are asleep. Her fiction has appeared online, as well as in print and in various anthologies. Her flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, was published in March 2020. She tweets at @laurabesley.
He knelt, burying
his face in her waist,
of how many times he’d die
could only say
you have no idea.
Held fast, she
(looking out the misted glass
at the crabapple trees with their pink heads
you have no idea.
Celine Low lives in Singapore, a tiny country in Southeast Asia with a hodgepodge of cultures. She holds an MA in English Literature and loves to dance and take long walks. Her works have appeared in Blood Moon Rising Magazine and 9Tales From Elsewhere.
I cast one last glance at the phone, still dark on the bedside table. My heart ached for it ring; my body willed it to stay silent. I let myself slip into the embrace of another, and watched the distance between us stretch beyond what two lost souls could repair.
Patrick Eades writes stories about people who are misunderstood, whose voices don’t get heard despite having something important to say. He has worked in the healthcare industry for nearly a decade, giving him a perspective into life, death and everything in between. His work is soon to be published in Idle Ink and Scarlet Leaf Review. He lives sandwiched between the National Parks of southern Sydney with his wife and dog, and has appeared in one film, where he played a drunken boxer with a strong dislike of DJs who think they can sing. He can be found at patrickeades.net.
Each morning Jenny places a glass of chilled water on a small table beside a large reclining chair. She never sits in his chair but sometimes, when passing, tenderly touches it. Sometimes she takes a sip of water from his glass. In the silence shared, she often thinks of him.
John Young is an old chap, grappling with themes of limits, longings, and finitude. He likes spooky stuff, and lives in St. Andrews, Scotland, an ancient town with an ancient university, home of golf, and home also – allegedly – of many ghosts. (He has not met any yet.)
“I’m not sure what I’m hungry for, but this definitely isn’t it.”
She meant me. Us. Our sacred union.
Playing house had become wearisome, mind-numbing work.
Our holy matrimony had leaked whatever holy it held.
We’d become seasick passengers, nibbling at remnants of a sacred ritual gone sour.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
It wasn’t a lonely life.
It was just different.
She talked to the flowers, and they listened.
She could almost see the marigolds raise their little orange heads as she passed.
And the lilies always waved.
But you couldn’t trust a yellow rose…
Or the man who gave you one.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She likes all flowers, even yellow roses.