FIFTY WORD STORY – First Kiss

It starts with a spark on the lips, quickening like kindling in a dry brush. The heartbeat runs as fast as it can, but one by one the synapses catch fire, until one is engulfed it in the wave of heat. Yet they see only the blush and a smile.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Dryad’s Song

The voice hung in the air like a leaf, drifting over fields of grass until it landed in Arin’s ears like a whisper. He turned to the trees to see who had spoken the wooden song, but the forest of bark held no mouths—only the faint outline of bodies.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Dragon’s Roost

The sky was blue as the dragon soared overhead. Its scales shined like wildfire in the light. Its shadow mocked the dry trees as it flew by. Men and beast alike hid as it passed—even the rivers seemed to roar quieter, until it circled the mountain once, and disappeared.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Pouring

The air seemed to freeze. Sounds seemed to hesitate. The room stood still as eyes spread wide with awe and fear. All things seemed to stop. The rain had grown so strong it that it pelted the roof like drums; the stream from the gutter grown into a gushing waterfall.

——

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 4

A man sits in the room.

He’s still just staring at the wall. Like a rat in a cage. All he does is sleep, shit, and nibble absentmindedly at the plates we give him. He pushes that pen from page to page like they were his claws, tearing through newspaper just because, even if he doesn’t get anywhere.

But what do I know? I just bring the water and make sure his inkwell never runs dry. I ain’t like you, who waltzes in here without a care in the world, takes two looks at a sheet of numbers, and runs back to wherever it is you came from.

I yelled at him the other day just to see what would happen. It shocked him right out of his writing. He jumped with such a start that he knocked over the ink and it spread across the pages like a slow, creeping disease.

I’d apologize for ruining his notebook, but it’s not like he’d written anything important there. You might have been able to piece out three or four words in that heap of scratched out pages.

Maybe next time you’ll get him some non-spill ink or something. Go on, get out. Let me know what your seniors think about his wild antics. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 4. See part 1, part 2, and part 3.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 3

A man sits in the room.

He has taken up tapping; usually with a pen, against the paper on the desk, but every once in a while I’ll catch him rapping his fingers on the wall. It is driving me insane.

It’s like the slow rolling tick of a clock. Sometimes he loses himself and strikes the surface so hard he shocks himself out of the daze. You know how it is, when the world is lost when you adventure in your mind.

He seems to have found other motivation as well. The ink pours so much like a waterfall nowadays, you might be temped to think he was copying a book, rather than writing one. Unfortunately, every page seems to be nonsense.

Perhaps, the next time you run out to the market, you could get him some more of those pens? He definitely likes the blue ones you bought him the other day.

What’s that? You didn’t buy those? Well, I always thought you might be a regifter. Ever since you got me that shower mat—you know, the one with the red and green flowers on it? It’s not a big deal though—I’ve quite enjoyed them! Ah, but look at the time. Next week?

——

 

Hello there! This is part 3. See part 1 and part 2.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 2

A man sits in the room.

He’s been sitting there since you left—adjusting his tie without a mirror; picking at his teeth. I added a few bags of food for him, which he perused absentmindedly for a while.

The paper is still there too. A few lines were scrawled, before he crossed them out again. You know how it is, trying to build a fortress without the proper tools. Such a shame about the wall though.

I thought I heard him get up for a moment then, but when I turned my eyes back to the window, he was still in that heavy desk chair. I wonder what he sees in the dim yellow paint. A good choice you made there.

I understand you must be off. An empty stomach is a recipe for destruction. The room will still be here tomorrow. It was nice of you to stop by though. A man is wont to hear other voices.

Don’t let him keep you. Go back to your slat roof and wooden dining table. Enjoy your four walls, and the voices that fill them. Be sure to set the plates before you pile onto the food. A man should enjoy his meals properly.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 2. See part 1 here.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room

A man sits in the room.

He’s been sitting there since before you showed up, fiddling with the strap on his pant leg. For a time he was so still I might have forgotten he was there, were it not for the occasional breath seeping from his nostrils.

Ah, but what else is one to do when they sit at a desk? You too might stare at the blanket of white papers before you, wondering whether you should pick up a hollow pen and draw yourself a bed of black ink.

‘Pick it up!’ I said, ‘Pick it up!’ but the man doesn’t seem to hear me. I might have wondered if he was still in the room with us at all, had it not been for the gust of wind trickling out again.

But where away did you go? Off to drain your leaky bladder again? No matter. Off to bed with you. The room will still be here tomorrow. I can’t say the same about a man.

Ah, but I hope you think about him. Mull over those flecks of grey hair as you lie in your sheets tonight. Don’t wonder about the paper, or the black ink swimming around you. A man doesn’t sleep with such thoughts in his mind.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Let Me Be You

Let me be you. Let me square my shoulders as you do yours, draw back my locks with the strength of your neck. Let me smile with your white teeth, kiss with your red lips, speak with your hot tongue. And let me bleed with the warmth of your heart.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Creation

When water fell from the sky he knew thirst. When trees bore their fruit he knew hunger. When the sun broke through the clouds he knew warmth, and when the moon took its place he knew wonder. But when he met her, he knew nothing, for he had felt love.

——

 

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