During the night, Alise often left the ground floor bedroom she shared with Matt, sleeping instead in the spare room upstairs.
She liked waking early and standing by the window. The view offered promises, lifting her hopes as high as her location.
Then Matt would wake and bring her down.
GB Burgess loves her two-storey house.
I write, “Don’t chase after him anymore. He’s shown he can’t handle the relationship you want.”
I forget the revelation and forgive. “Don’t be a victim,” I scold myself.
I fall asleep.
Facing the morning mirror, I say aloud, “He’ll be different today.
“He’ll apologize, and we can try again.”
T.R. Jordan wrote this story after staring in the mirror again.
I am standing on wet ground outside my childhood home, under mid-morning tropical sun. The air smells of earth and newly banished rain. Adults speak indoors; their everyday worries are abstract, distant.
I wake up to a snowy Chicago morning, work on a weekend, and infant needing to be fed.
Priya Balasubramanian is a writer and physician. She’s written a novel, and no longer wakes up to snow.
“We could sit there?” She points tentatively at a cafe table facing the busy market square.
He heads for their usual unpopulated corner. Following obediently, she glimpses a hanging cobweb. At its centre, a desiccated corpse spins slowly.
She watches him suck his drink dry and plans her escape.
Viv Burgess wrote this story.
“Cappucino, love. Quick.”
He yanks the cup from my hand, throws change in my direction, and dives off, ticket in mouth. And the next suited man goes. And the next. I watch from under my cap.
The barriers slide open and each one glides off. The counter pens me in.
Matthew Keeley is a teacher and writer from Central Scotland. He is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel, ‘Turning the Hourglass’.
They call it astral projection. Plane-walking. Body-jumping. I’ve been doing it for years: I’m the master, the sensei.
To float above your body, your anchor to the world, is quite the trip. Most of the time…
That’s me down there, lying so still.
And I’ve lost my key.
Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum. He blogs on an irregular basis at kevinbufton.com
Falling, falling, crashing hard into the cold earth.
A tunnel without start or end, no light, only darkness.
Flickers of a glimpse—something is possible.
Fumbling forward for escape, grasping for the last.
Tumbling through, stumbling out—such blazing light.
A cliffside, toes curled over the edge, unable to fall.
Rebecca Milton is an author from London, England, who is currently preparing her first print novel for publication whilst writing her second. She has been featured here at 50-Word Stories and in Here Comes Everyone magazine.
The roof shook; the walls shuddered. Then everything went quiet.
Muhammad peered over the windowsill. They were coming for him, like a dog that never tires, constantly hounding him.
He had caused this. Now they had found him.
But if Muhammad was to die, someone would take his place.
Liam likes to spend his free time reading. He plays hockey, basketball, and volleyball, and he also likes to snowboard. He is a 13-year-old in Grade 8 from Vernon Christian School.
I am Tutankhamen, Pharaoh and immortal. When I left the mortal world, priests provided me with a chariot, jewels, everything needed for the afterlife. They embalmed me, performed incantations, and placed me in a magnificent coffin. A coffin with a golden lid—a lid too heavy to lift.
Since he retired in 2009, Harry Demarest has published in Fiftyworstories.com, Festival Writer, Compassion and Choices, and Gold Man Review.