Friday, April 16, 2021

Nifty-Fifty Stories

Bloodbath by Stephen Goodlad

In the corner of the garden stands a stone plinth supporting a stone bowl. The

birds like to gather to wash; a shared oasis, common territory in the summer heat;

they flutter and preen. My cat waits unseen in the shadows and pounces the

moment they are in their element.


No Longer Mine by Amy B. Moreno

I stalked the garden; skinny ribs hunting afternoon black birds, without a warning

bell.

I pushed myself up against the patio doors, pink nose flaring with questions – ‘Who

lives here now?’

My tail twitched, I watched, waited for a chance.

I slipped inside, looking for home, but they had gone.


Bloodbath by Emma Rainsford

The sound of lightning cracked through the silence almost drowning out the din of

the crowd hammering down Lady Clarissa’s door. Lounging in her claw footed bath

sipping a red liquid from an ornate goblet, Clarissa chuckled darkly. One way or

another, there was going to be a bloodbath tonight.


Clean Break by Ivan Skilling

Seven years of being monitored in this prison of an apartment. No more. He was my

husband, not my warden. I dragged my bag out the door, slammed it, and glared

into the doorbell camera. Knowing that he was watching from his phone, I flipped

him the bird. Take that.


Clean Break by Andrew Ball

That was it, then. All over. The future looked bleak, stretching out interminably

without access to my monthly fix, my addiction. What was there left in life now that

was gone? Why should I bother to get out of bed in the morning? The Naughty

Forty just wasn’t the same.


No Son of Mine by Ivan Skilling

My son is strong. He ignores baseless rumors about him. He's not swayed by the

snickers and taunts. He knows those messages on the Internet aren't real. So this

body below our building can't be him. My son wouldn't commit suicide over

cyberbullying.

So why did you do it, son?


Table for One by Vera West

Past the hostess, was a cozy table occupied by a man and my wife. They sat side by

side, uncomfortably close. His lips brushed against her ear; her cheeks flushed

blush. The hostess asked if I needed a table for one. I pointed to where my party

was already seated.


Table for One Jonathan Hunter

I liked travelling alone, people annoyed me. As a kid took the last buffet sausage I

sighed. Not looking I slipped over and a pain shot through my leg. I couldn’t move.

“I’m fine” I vented at a concerned waitress.

“Just fetch me if you need a hand” she smiled.


Table for One Marian Myers

Are those the saddest words heard in a bustling restaurant? My words for the last

ten years. No intimacies shared over romantic dinners. No whispered jokes. No

spilled secrets. Only the silent meals. All because I am the table in the corner, fit

only to be the table for one.


Table for One by Lorna Ye

“Sorry. It’s a table for one,” she said, avoiding his eager eyes, her tone as cold as

the iced tea in her hand. She’d rather keep the chair across the table vacant this

time. “Go home. Your wife’s waiting for you,” she added, taking a big sip of her tea.


Garden of Bones by Lorna Ye

The rain washes over the garden of bones, purifying the whiteness of their hard

surface, brushing off darkened bloodstains. Bones burst and grow like bamboos,

making crackling sounds with each sudden thrust. Along with the rhythm,

numerous souls are singing, laughing, and cheering for the foretaste of their new

adventure.

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