TimSevenhuysen (joined almost 11 years ago)
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I write 50-word stories at www.FiftyWordStories.com. I post a story every weekday, with guest submissions featured on Mondays.

I enjoy writing all kinds of microfiction, and I love seeing what other people come up with.

Stories


"Who among you, if her son asks her for bread, will instead give him a stone?"

I was paraphrasing, and quoting out of context, but she didn't know that. She was just a foolish, naive, ignorant, innocent young girl. She'd begged and pleaded for the opportunity to raise a pet. The goldfish just hadn't been enough, either. Oh no; she wanted a mammal.

So the baby gorilla came home with me one day, fresh out of acting school. This little guy was GOOD. He could play dead with the best of them. He could even slow his heart rate to...

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There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.

He showed up yesterday. Waltzed in through the front door like he owned the place. Maybe he does, actually. I certainly don't.

I've been here for a couple of months. When the sun's up, I'm usually out doing something else, like fishing in the creek out back, or building a dam with rocks and fallen branches. It passes the time. Every now and then it even gets me something to eat.

But in all my time here, I'd never known anyone to even step off the sidewalk onto the lawn. Never...

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Swing.

Pump your legs, stretch your shoulders back, breathe the joyful rush of air, and swing.

Lift your front leg, lean back, transfer your weight towards the ball, and swing.

Grab a partner, shake your hips, move your feet, and swing.

Mind your temper. Think back to happier days: swing sets and baseball games and high school dances.

Be calm. Forgive. Consider the consequences. And if that fails...

Say your prayers, keep your dignity, savour that final sensation of the rope around your neck, and...

swing.

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His life was on the line.

Strung from tree to tree, across the back yard, his priorities blew in the wind. There were his coat and slacks, accompanied by an assortment of lively, but respectable, neckties. There was his underwear. There was his hockey jersey.

There were his one-year-old's Big Boy Diapers, and his wife's sweaters, and his dog's blanket.

And there was the note.

He slowly, thoughtfully pulled in the line, taking the items down, one by one. When he reached the paper, his heart caught in his throat.

"If you had another chance," it said to him, "would...

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Six minutes...

Was that really all he had left? Three hundred sixty seconds? Well, less than that, now.

He looked into the eyes of his family, gathered around him atop the hill.

What was a man supposed to do in a situation like this? Pray? Meditate? Impart wisdom? Plan some last words? They'd have to be really special... You only got one chance at Last Words.

He thought for a moment. Two hundred seconds, now.

He nodded imperceptibly, straightened his back, and reached for a pair of scissors. With a confident, even snip, he pulled away a handful of hair...

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The storm clouds gathered as Isaiah stepped back to the edge of the green.

The weather mirrored his mood: top ten was not enough. Podium finishes were not enough. Second place was NOT ENOUGH. He was the BEST, and he was going to prove it to the world once again.

A soft pitter-patter of raindrops began to sprinkle down upon the aged lawn bowler's wispy-haired head. He ignored its effect on his body, blinking the water out of his eyes, but he factored it in for his movements, making subtle adjustments to his stride, his footing, and his release. He...

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