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Preview: fifty word fiction

fifty word fiction



Submit a short-short story of fifty words and watch it appear on the screen, as if by magic.



Updated: 2016-07-15T16:26:43.164-07:00

 



Impatient Patient

2008-07-16T18:55:36.988-07:00

Scott makes a tally mark on his note pad.
“What’s the mark for?” Sharon asks.
“I’m working on patience. I make a mark each time I become impatient. It’s supposed to help by recognizing when it occurs.”
“What’s today’s count?”
“Twelve.”
Sharon frowns, “It’s just 9 a.m.”
“Make that thirteen!”

by Hugh James



Just Throw Some More Meat Down

2008-07-06T19:15:03.463-07:00

High of eighty with no chance of rain. Beautiful. Everyone's been looking forward to this day. Sweat forms around my forehead; it's hot. July fourth. People are everywhere, waiting in anticipation. The sizzle, the pop, I burn myself. No time to complain, I'm working the grill at McDonald's.

by Hudson Kemna



Ara Batur

2008-07-06T19:14:00.796-07:00

With each key and every string the world disappears. Like a burning ember slowly fades in the coolness of a summer night. Glowing all the while, illuminating what was once covered in darkness. Just enough to sparkle in your eyes revealing the depths of your soul. Alive. Pure. Free.

by Hudson Kemna



Dilemma

2008-07-03T15:42:14.994-07:00

This is not fiction, it's a question to you, the readers. I've got this backlog that I'm working on adding to the blog. I've been adding about 10 pieces at a time, but I just got a new submission.

What do you think? Should I continue to publish the older stuff in the order it was received until I get to the new submissions, or do I publish all the older stuff to a date in the past and give the new stuff today's date to keep the newer things at the top of the blog?

Thanks for visiting, and for letting me know what you think.



Bad Poetry

2008-07-01T19:13:58.328-07:00

Now that you've read some short-short fiction, how about some bad poetry? Come to my new site and submit a poem. Make it a really bad poem from your adolescent years. Submit any poetry to the same e-mail address, fifty word fiction, but make sure to indicate that you're submitting to Bad Poetry either in the subject line or at the beginning of the message.

Thanks for visiting!



What Flavor Is Your Life?

2008-07-06T19:11:39.864-07:00

Sand is grating under foot when the black water embraces me. Over my head
and air is no longer mine to share. Something explodes within me; I burst to
the surface screaming to live. I am enlightened by the thought of what I
almost threw away-- The flavor of life.

by Jody Montoya



Small World Realities

2008-07-06T19:12:51.732-07:00

The coffee table's edge is my goal; so tantalizing, so unattainable. I
chew a cookie, wet my pants, and plot anew. The cigarettes and coffee of my
elders will be mine. Rolling over, I squirm again; alas, scooped up. I
shouldn't have pooped too--foiled by smell.

by Jody Montoya



An Attempt

2008-07-03T16:04:25.026-07:00

A fifty word fiction, “Now that’s a short story!” I told her. She agreed with a nod but little else; she was writing her own.

It would have been easier I suppose had I the slightest clue ‘what’ to write about. And then I realized I had already done it.

by Relsieg d'Arb



the archivist

2008-07-03T16:02:57.673-07:00

First wife called me a pack rat. I guess she
was the only one that saw me that way.
Second wife didn't stay with me past the
honeymoon.
Third wife saw my collections and panicked.
Fourth wife seemed eager to join the others.
I wish I would have married them alphabetically.

by Daniel K. Brower



Old Man

2008-07-03T16:01:23.458-07:00

Stanislaus Komansky drove a Nova, perfectly tinted avocado with a rust spot near the bumper. He avoided inspecting the paint's imperfection just as he avoided the imperfection he perceived in the mirror. It had been seventeen years since he had seen his face. He wondered, "Any rust spots on me?"

by Amalisa Piccinino



The Prodigal's Mother

2008-07-03T15:57:30.675-07:00

After the peaceful years he came home singing,
on a lame camel, over the mountain,bringing trouble,
spoiling everything.
His father running and skipping to greet him,
his brother sulking, kicking sand.
The servants, charmed,danced all evening,
while I, grieving in the kitchen,
poisoned his portion of fatted calf.

by M D Essinger



On Dharma Mountain

2008-07-03T15:55:58.187-07:00

From the top of Dharma Mountain you can see almost everything and hear almost nothing except birdsong. Here an old pine tree preaches wisdom and a wild bird cries out truth. The mountain always seems to ask me a question. Today's question: What is Zen? Zen is being present even in your absence.

Monty R. Nolan



At Last

2008-07-03T15:52:51.177-07:00

We dine outdoors on a warm April evening, too tired
and not talking. Dinner becomes tasteless. So walk me
to my car and kiss me goodnight. No. Please, not yet.

Months spent waiting, but no word. Suddenly he smiles
an invitation. Maybe music and dinner bring that now
anticipated kiss.

by Lilly



Daphne

2008-07-03T15:51:13.654-07:00

I thought I only had to cuddle. I assumed my only obligations would be to join tea parties with panda bear or keep monsters at bay while she softly dreamed. Now it seems, I was always meant for this higher purpose, to be the effigy of her inner child.

by Mueller Nylander



Three Days

2008-07-03T15:49:24.675-07:00

Three days to go and off to college,

Room full of boxes and stuff.

Standing on the brink of adulthood, independence

Future unknown, stretching far as thought can imagine.

Possibilities, which road to take, choices, how should I travel…

To do it over again, nah… not in this lifetime anyway.

by Roz



News from Dale

2008-07-03T15:47:58.398-07:00

Yesterday Dale waved me to his cubicle. “Steve,” he whispered, “I’ve been living a lie.”

Living a lie?

Dale?

Now, Rip Torn, sure. Eddie Money? Come to think of it, yeah. But you? Sorry, Dale. Talk to Janine: she’ll gab with you.

by Michael Brown



Life

2008-07-01T18:53:57.425-07:00

It did not matter to her. She had left him on his birthday. He had been part of her for so long, but now she chose to leave him with strangers so that she could do the things she had done before. She was a prostitute, he was an orphan.

by George Tolson



Deflated

2008-07-01T18:51:47.252-07:00

He didn’t understand why bicyclists wore such fancy shorts, but no helmet. Weirdos. What he wanted was to have his bike tire repaired. Was that so much to ask? He looked for a bike shop, (walking around half the day) but found nothing. Disappointed, he walked the slow road home.


by Mavis Farr



Walk Off

2008-07-01T18:50:51.226-07:00

He dug in with his back foot until it fell perfectly into place. The pitcher’s stare gave him an incredible rush as they locked eyes and prepared for the final confrontation. He knew immediately that it was over when the ball left the hurler’s hand.

by John Ferracuti



Two Minutes Into Death

2008-07-01T18:50:08.138-07:00

A woman slit her wrist. Blood, a liquid, very red, trickled at first and then oozed as her skin gave way. Green nerve was invisible in the crimson bordello. Two minutes into death she heard somebody sobbing.

Her two year old was crying.

She had forgotten to feed him.

by Rajarshi Singh



The Walk

2008-07-01T18:47:30.814-07:00

It took its toll; too far, glad my pre-arranged ride showed up early.

Even Missy, my canine companion, the tireless Frisbee chaser, was drained.

We luxuriated in the air-conditioned car, soft cushions massaged my body, she stretched out in the rear of the SUV.

Exercise and bonding, a satisfying day.

by Roz



A Life Cut Short

2008-07-01T18:46:53.593-07:00

They will never be worth this.
So now what idiot, I ask myself.
Was all this pain and suffering worth it?
Mary was right, I was born out of time.
Okay, fine. You wanted a martyr, you got it!
Father, Into Your Hands I Commend My Spirit.
Here I come.

by Daniel Brower



Small Hands

2008-07-01T18:45:05.477-07:00

They held hands. The sun was bright and strong it stung their eyes.The boy
sniffed, his sister grasped tighter. The early morning air was cold, their
hands were cold, they shivered in their winter coats. She called to them and
waved. With small hands they slowly waved good-bye

by Ali Waks



How to Hide-Out

2008-07-01T18:44:23.780-07:00

If you’d asked Samuel, he’d say life’s too important to do anything like that. Samuel’s boring, so you’ll ask Lizzie instead. She'll take your hand and say, "Next week I’m gonna apply to be on a reality television show. Reality is the last place anybody will look for the living."

by Laurel Hudgins



Maine Vacation

2008-07-01T18:43:17.056-07:00

They ate lobster every day for a week, in every way, shape & form you could imagine. It's hard to believe that you could grow tired of lobster, and seafood in general, but it can happen. I don't even want to look at another lobster for at least another year.

by David Stalcup