I’d go down to the beach every day and watch him treading water, only his head visible. I didn’t know him. My name for him was Head.
When the doorbell rang, I recognised him at once. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I’ve been watching you,” he said.
David Mark Williams lives in Scotland and writes poetry and short fiction. He has published two poetry collections to date, The Odd Sock Exchange and Papaya Fantasia. See more at davidmarkwilliams.co.uk.
She had tried to teach you, ever since you were a little girl putting on your first pair of sneakers. “Later,” you would say. “Maybe next time. I promise.” You can’t remember how many times you promised.
Now she’s gone, and you still don’t know how to tie your shoelaces.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessful recovering javaholic, and most importantly a writer. She occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe.
The lesson wasn’t going well. Lucy was trying to concentrate, but she couldn’t. Games, phone calls, messages, viral videos—everything was distracting from her work.
“If you use your phone, at least turn off the sound! It’s impossible to study!” Lucy snapped, even though shouting at the teacher was rude.
Sophie is a high school student from Ukraine. She’s been studying English for five years and she loves writing stories, so 50WS is a great combination of her favourite hobbies.
It was the first time I’d worn a suit in years.
Nervously, I feigned nonchalance. Made small talk. Nodded to people, surprisingly youthful, who didn’t nod back.
Now, seated near the back of the room, punch in hand, reality began to set in.
I was at the wrong class reunion.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories and poetry and looks for inspiration in lots of strange places.
They’d only been married since the weekend, but she could readily identify his writer’s block.
She suggested that he might at least try to write something short, perhaps about a convicted criminal in his cell, awaiting the executioner’s call.
“Nah,” he replied. “I’ve never really been that much into autobiography.”
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
His wingless angel protests, “You won’t like it,” but Derrick insists.
In the world in which he’d never been born, his parents haven’t divorced, his wife married Ryan Gosling, and the Beatles are all alive and still together.
“Nothing’s worse without me?” asks Derrick.
“Fruitcake still sucks,” his angel offers.
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University and is sure that we’d all be one step closer to living in Pottersville if 50-Word Stories didn’t exist.
Millions of microbes live symbiotically on every body, but this particular infestation was way out of control. Gaia had tried shaking them off, drowning them with strong showers, even killing them with heat, but through it all they persisted.
Finally, she stopped spinning and watched them float off into space.
Nathan Alling Long’s work has appeared in over 100 publications most recently in Manhattanville Review, Mud Season Review, and The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts. His collection of fifty flash fictions, The Origin of Doubt, was released in Spring 2018 by Press 53.
“I’m fat,” Chris told his mirror image, clutching his paunch. “Diet in the new year, Mary.”
Another year passed. His resolution lacked resolve.
“Oh Chris,” Mary soothed. “That’s why the children and I love you.” She tugged his beard towards her and kissed him. “Santa is supposed to be cuddly.”
Mark Towers writes children’s books, short stories and poetry.
Guiding the knife carefully, he cut through skin, exposing the flesh beneath. Carving a chunk off, he popped it into his mouth.
The sweet juice of the mango washed over his taste buds; a bit of heaven.
At his feet, the bloody puddle expanded inexorably outwards while distant sirens screamed.
Bill Lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His genius is only surpassed by his modesty, humility and ability to eat extraordinarily unhealthy amounts of fried food.
The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.