Today I became a father.
At the hospital, I spent hours sitting, not knowing where to put my hands. I observed my son sleeping. At the same time, the new year was beginning.
I believe life restarts like this: silence, with fatigue, fear, and desire to do well, today on.
Sebastian Funari is an Italian author who writes short stories for those with little time but who don’t want to stop reading. Simple texts, inspired by everyday life and personal experiences, strange or ordinary.
The story of the week for December 29 to January 2 is…
BB by John Szamosi
A couple argues in the front row. I perch forward on my seat and fan myself with a leaflet foisted on me at the bus stop. The soft glow of an orange sunset flashes onto us in rhythmic intervals through the roadside trees. Overhead, a skein of geese glide home.
Marinda Kotze wrote this micro story on a long bus ride home.
“A little birdie told me you had a bit too much to drink at last night’s party. According to her, you were so tipsy—maybe even drunk—you asked the cat to sing karaoke with you.”
“I must have been drunk. If I’d been sober, I’d have asked the dog.”
John H. Dromey, by his count, previously had 88 stories published online in 50-Word Stories. He thanks John G. for providing him with the premise for this one.
The photobooth strip clung to the wall.
We giggled as our sparkly dresses reflected in the camera.
The tape’s grip loosened.
We danced all night, dodging our dates’ glares.
You touched our matching bracelets: best friends forever.
It fell.
Yet, now, I sit alone.
at the
back of your funeral.
Yuvna enjoys writing flash fiction and personal essays. She also enjoys reading, hiking, and trying out different cuisines.
I half-watch the game, NFL wildcard, mostly commercials. My brother texts: Michelob. Yesterday’s argument lingers.
He arrives with the beer. We sit. Memories. A family thinned to two.
Once hungry, never full.
Once poor, always poor.
Next day he texts me again: Molson, mañana. I agree.
Beer. Brother. Good enough.
John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist. He’s been publishing short stories, satires and poems since his freshman year in college.
The day Dad died, the world didn’t end—but the birds forgot how to sing. His empty chair echoed louder than thunder. I reached for his voice in dreams, only to wake with nothing but shadows. Grief isn’t loud. It’s the silence that follows love, and never quite leaves.
Jenny Hart wrote this story.
During the miserably hot sultry nights those of us renting rooms on the third-floor climbed through a window onto the porch roof. We set up lawn chairs, sipped beers and smoked cigarettes. We talked about things we’d lost, about breakups and custody battles, and we tried to catch our breath.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Stop! I can’t take any more. Shut off the television. Turn off the radio. Cancel the newspapers. Delete the apps on your phone. Pull Alexa’s plug. Close the blinds; lock all the doors. Got to bed. Pull the covers over your head.
Set the alarm for three years from now.
Sherri Bale is a retired geneticist, part-time personal trainer, Jack Russell Terrier mom, and writer of fiction as short as 50 words and as long as 90,000. Whatever it takes to tell the story.
If days in the previous year seem somber, maybe dismal, cut them up into interlocking parts and box them like a 365-piece puzzle. At start of the New Year, resolve to put them together, studying one bygone segment with each new day. You just might find delight in the details.
Judith wrote this. She resolves to smooth out the jagged parts of life’s puzzlements.