She held her baby close as the rain crashed against the window of their dark house. The storm was gathering force and as she saw the waves crashing against the cliffs and breaking on the shore, she knew that he wasn’t coming home this time.
Her tears wet her baby’s head as he slept.
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This story has been submitted by Jeffrey Pyne. Here’s a introduction, in his own words
I live in rural West Wales, near the university town of Aberystwyth where I studied for my PhD. Previous work has appeared in various UK or Irish Magazines: Scribble, New Cauldron, Linkway, Delivered (in press) Albedo One (in press), Countryside Tales, The Recruiter Magazine, Coin News, Country Quest & Picture Postcard Monthly. Current projects include preparing a large family archive for publication, detailing service on a British aircraft carrier during WWII.
Wow, thats pretty impressive. Thank you for the submission, Jeffrey.
Detective Croaker paused …read more
This story has been submitted by David Grantley. He heard about 55 fiction from Yang-May Ooi’s blog, Fusion view. His interests include “literature and poetry, with everything else in life”. Thank you for the submission, David.
No sound but the pounding of waves against cliffs – but surely that was a cry: a seagull, a woman, a sheep in distress?
Alan resignedly closed his book, the outside turbulence irreconcilable with the story within. He wandered slowly back to the house where lay his family tidily murdered.
His book remained forever unread.
This story has been submitted by Rantz Grotto, this is his second story here. Thank you for the submission Rantz, please keep them coming.
The long trip with the family was finally over. Pulling into the driveway I saw the dense jungle of dandelions in the yard. Wearily, I stretch my legs as all the kids pile out of the crowded car. I change my clothes and go outside, alone, to mow. So peaceful, to feel solitude at last.
Seeing as though it’s Friday it’s time for a reader contribution! Today’s story comes courtesy of the ever entertaining Jayvee Fernandez, who writes for b5’s popular cellphone based blog Cellphone9. Cheers Jayvee, keep the submissions coming everyone!
Today I decided to pick up the pen and write. Though it took a huge buildup of momentum to get myself going, the ideas eventually flowed and I was relieved that I still had it in me.
And then it hit me – the essay was only supposed to be fifty five words long. Oh crap.
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John fidgeted all throughout the long flight. The interview with the prestigious company would make or break his career. He had to make a good impression.
He arrived at the unfamiliar airport. A voice announced, “Welcome to Portland, Maine.”
John broke out in a cold sweat. His interview was supposed to be in Portland… Oregon.
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He slid the blackened bread onto a plate. Crumbs flew everywhere as he mashed cold butter onto each slice. Overcooked bacon and rubbery eggs completed the meal. Only the juice was edible – until it spilled on the way up the stairs. He crept into his mom’s room, and shouted.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!”
It all started with an innocent comment by Mr.Potato, who claimed he is the world’s most popular vegetable. Unknown to Joe, his kitchen became a free-for-all warzone, each one trying to better the others.
Ultimately, the war resulted in Joe’s constipation.
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When all you want to do is lie there and slip back into the nothingness of that unconscious dreamworld there is nothing quite like the incessant whine of an alarm clock to bring you around.
So the makers tell me, I find the off button on mine let’s me drift back there anytime I want.
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Author’s note: The original idea for the following story is not mine. I rewrote it to fit the requirements of 55fiction.
The ghosthunter spent the night in the old dormitory, looking for the resident ghost. Bored, he put his eye to a random keyhole. Curiously, he saw nothing but red.
Next morning, he asked the caretaker how the alleged ghost looked.
“Only one thing is common in all the descriptions. The ghost always has red eyes.”
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