My new swim trunks were still crispy and smelled of a fresh paint. I plunged into the warm Hawaiian water, ready for my long-postponed vacation. And then I saw Her.
She gave me a hearty, genuinely happy smile, exposing a string of perfect, pearly white teeth. Her tight black skin glittered under the sun. She was clearly into me.
I looked back at my family uncomfortably. Little Johnny was pointing his little finger in my direction: too late. My body split in half, the ocean stained scarlet.
Luckily, my swim trunks remained completely intact: Sharky did not like their taste.
From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch
Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Necon E-Books, and A Story in 100 Words
Walter Goggins is known to stock brokers everywhere as Wall Street poison. Every stock he’s purchased in the past 30 years has immediately gone into the tank. He turned 18 on October 19, 1987 and by the end of that afternoon, they were already calling it Black Monday.
Since then, he’s been quiet in his investments, ruining a Sears here and a Blackberry there with his ill-timed purchases. His urges sometimes get too much, however, and he’ll start buying up whatever stocks strike his fancy, as in 2000 or 2008.
Walter doesn’t care that he’s unlucky. He enjoys ruining companies.
The elevator doors close with a ding. Alone inside, she hums and checks the mirror. The speck on her cheek looks unsightly, like a coal mine bent forward and kissed her.
She pulls out a tissue from her bag, and dabs at it. No luck. Nagging speck, like someone spit tar on to her face. Two more tissues, nothing.
The skin around it is reddening. Three more tissues, one after another. She’s getting restless as her floor draws near.
The seventh tissue does the trick. Someone from behind was kind enough to hand it to her.
The elevator doors open.
From Guest Contributor, Indu Pillai
Indu is a commercial writer based in Bangalore. Her fiction has appeared in Mash Stories and 50-Word Stories. She delights in all kinds of stories, written and unwritten. Twitter: @InduPillai01
I did it. I killed her in cold blood. I hesitated at first, but she finally got on my nerves.
She tickled my ears, sat on my lap, and touched my private body parts. I asked her to stop but she kept going.
I slapped her in the face. She dropped onto the floor at once. Her skinny, crooked legs twitched a few times in utter disbelief and then she went silent. I picked her up, dropped her dead body in the garbage can, washed my hands, and went back to work.
My office is a “No-Fly Zone.” No exceptions.
From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch
Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Necon E-Books.
The headlights shine into the speckled misty darkness and my tires shoosh me along the Interstate, still late and many miles from the warehouse. How many hours have I been on this road?
I roar past the billboard that urges me to arrive safely, before I pass one that tells me to drink and drive. Then comes my favourite: the cute white Nivea girl, her frilly chest lit up like cat’s eyes. I would love to think about that chest as I close my eyes and drift to sleep, but this vague honking will not let me sleep, just sleep
From Guest Contributor, Garreth Keating
100 seconds to detonation. All crew evacuate immediately.
You used to say “we were stardust once and we’ll all be stardust again.” You always were a sentimental son of a bitch.
Bobby, I’m about to break my promise.
60 seconds to detonation.
The Centauri ambushed us. So, new orders: set the charge. Lure them in. And then…
Well, there are worse things in life than a quick end.
30 seconds to detonation.
I’m sorry, Bobby. There’s so much to say…
Don’t worry about me. I’m staring at death,
10, 9, 8-
but all I can see is stardust.
From Guest Contributor, John Murray Lewis
“Have I met you before?”
“Are you sure?”
“Where I have I seen you then?”
“I have met your mother, your father, your sister, and grandparents,” he said, irritably. “But not you.”
She looked at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, at least, not until now.”
They laughed; his far heartier than hers.
She shivered. His black cloak and queer scent was off putting.
“So,” he said, leaning closer, “I suppose introductions are in order.”
“No,” she said. “I know who you are.” She clicked her seat belt in.
‘Drat.’ He left. She got home safely.
From Guest Contributor, Joey Harlow.
by thegooddoctor in Uncategorized
There’s not a lot you can say about Patty Kerns that hasn’t already been pontificated on at length. But there’s one story about her that belongs only to me.
We were sitting on the porch when a gator came crawling from the swamp. It wasn’t so unusual and we’d normally shout for the gardeners to come scare them away. But Patty wanted to prove she wasn’t scared, so she started kicking at that gator with her brass-buckle shoes until it turned back from lawn.
She was only 8 years old at the time. I knew then we were all doomed.
Jesse saw his blood staining the grass behind him as he was dragged across the lawn. At least he thought it was his blood. He’d taken such a beating that he was starting to worry about Mr. Jordan’s fists.
Most people thought Mr. Jordan had an awful temper and they generally quit his service after only a few weeks. Those that lasted did so because they stood up for themselves.
That meant, when Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods, Jesse was the singular focus of all the boss’s anger.
Tonight, Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods.
“Have you been scammed? Call now!” the billboard said. A man in a suit crossed his arms in defiance. She wondered if he could see her somehow. When she got home, she followed him online, looked at photos of his family. She explored the website of his alma mater and pictured him walking through the imposing, wooden doors of the library. She found his address, learned the square footage of his home.
At their first appointment, he stood up from his desk chair to greet her. “Nice to meet you,” he said. She stifled a giggle. How could he forget?
Sarah Vernetti is a freelance writer. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.