Why, Glen? Why did you name the issue after some guido in MTV's newest hit series? Because. Because Jersey Shore is quality television. Wow, I had trouble typing that without laughing. Anyway, the latest issue of 50 to 1 features work by: Sarah Savage, John Brooke, Virginia Winters, Eric Bennett, Anitha Murthy, Eric Nguyen, and Joan Gilfillan. THE SITUATION is the first issue of the new year. Let me apologize for delaying this issue. Usually, I try to put out at least one a week, but the holidays had me quite busy. So I am sorry, faithful readers. But I hope 'The Situation' quenches your thirst for awesome flash literature. For those of you who have submitted but haven't received a response - it's coming. For those of you who have yet to submit - what are you waiting for?! Submit! But whatever you do, remember: read and eNJoy! (Did I really just name an issue after someone who is illiterate? I'm sorry.)
-Glen
Christmas at the Office by Joan Gilfillan
She changed her shoes, put glitter on her eyelids and returned to stand on the same carpet she’d walked all day. Her boss gave her champagne and she watched someone make a huge Y with their arms. Ignoring the fax coming off the machine, she joined them in forming MCA.
Joan Gilfillan has a very intelligent boyfriend who lends her pretty hard to understand books. She rarely gets past the first chapter, preferring instead to drink wine and dance. He really should give up.
She changed her shoes, put glitter on her eyelids and returned to stand on the same carpet she’d walked all day. Her boss gave her champagne and she watched someone make a huge Y with their arms. Ignoring the fax coming off the machine, she joined them in forming MCA.
Joan Gilfillan has a very intelligent boyfriend who lends her pretty hard to understand books. She rarely gets past the first chapter, preferring instead to drink wine and dance. He really should give up.
The Facebook Friends by Eric Nguyen
You stopped logging on. So I found your house, climbed up your window, and ate all your Saltine crackers. I waited hours, you never came. So I stole your dirtied laundry—soiled pieces of you you've never shown—went home, brewed tea.
And I just missed you, that's all.
Eric Nguyen is a writer. He sometimes blogs at www.youfightlikeannerice.blogspot.com.
You stopped logging on. So I found your house, climbed up your window, and ate all your Saltine crackers. I waited hours, you never came. So I stole your dirtied laundry—soiled pieces of you you've never shown—went home, brewed tea.
And I just missed you, that's all.
Eric Nguyen is a writer. He sometimes blogs at www.youfightlikeannerice.blogspot.com.
Happy Birthday by Anitha Murthy
The balloons were up. The streamers were in place. At the stroke of midnight, the cake popped out of the oven.
"Happy Birthday to you." The dark kitchen sang.
"Thank you." The cake bowed, and with one swift stroke, plunged a knife through its heart.
The candles dripped hot tears.
Anitha Murthy is a lazy dreamer, pretty content with life. Her home on the web is www.thoughtraker.com.
The balloons were up. The streamers were in place. At the stroke of midnight, the cake popped out of the oven.
"Happy Birthday to you." The dark kitchen sang.
"Thank you." The cake bowed, and with one swift stroke, plunged a knife through its heart.
The candles dripped hot tears.
Anitha Murthy is a lazy dreamer, pretty content with life. Her home on the web is www.thoughtraker.com.
Shadow by Eric Bennett
I wake you from a dead sleep. You chase me, flashlight burning off pieces of my body which grow back when I move beyond the beam. You follow me into the kitchen but I slip like a pool of oil under your feet and out to corners of the room.
Eric Bennett is afraid of the dark.
I wake you from a dead sleep. You chase me, flashlight burning off pieces of my body which grow back when I move beyond the beam. You follow me into the kitchen but I slip like a pool of oil under your feet and out to corners of the room.
Eric Bennett is afraid of the dark.
Canadian Autumn by Virgina Winters
Rain-black clouds scud across the azure sky. Cold rain falls, blown sideways by the sudden wind. Scarlet leaves from the maples huddle against the fence. A confused apple blossom glows against the still-green leaves. Rain gathers on broken petals and drops, the rose weeping for the lost summer.
Virginia Winters is a Canadian writer, whose first novel, Murderous Roots, was published Dec. 1 by Write Words Inc. http://www.writewordsinc.com. Her website details other publications at http://www.virginiawinters.ca.
Rain-black clouds scud across the azure sky. Cold rain falls, blown sideways by the sudden wind. Scarlet leaves from the maples huddle against the fence. A confused apple blossom glows against the still-green leaves. Rain gathers on broken petals and drops, the rose weeping for the lost summer.
Virginia Winters is a Canadian writer, whose first novel, Murderous Roots, was published Dec. 1 by Write Words Inc. http://www.writewordsinc.com. Her website details other publications at http://www.virginiawinters.ca.
1st Line by John Brooke
The most misunderstood and misused word in the English language does not begin with ‘f’ as the first of its four letters.
John Brooke is a graphic artist who writes to entertain; with poems, short stories, flash fiction, novels, articles, essays and screenplays. He lives in a small village on the East Cape in Baja California Sur, Mexico.
The most misunderstood and misused word in the English language does not begin with ‘f’ as the first of its four letters.
John Brooke is a graphic artist who writes to entertain; with poems, short stories, flash fiction, novels, articles, essays and screenplays. He lives in a small village on the East Cape in Baja California Sur, Mexico.
Hiking the Appalachian Trail by Sarah Savage
I’m on a train full of dead people masquerading as Powers That Be. Nearly one myself once, I escaped by the soles of my feet. Months I walked with the rhythms of the Earth and was recreated, phoenix-like. Now, at this train’s destination of concrete and artifice, I’m considered eccentric.
Sarah Savage is a horsewoman and an avid hiker currently living in New York. She writes to make sense of her outdoor experiences and to share them with others.
I’m on a train full of dead people masquerading as Powers That Be. Nearly one myself once, I escaped by the soles of my feet. Months I walked with the rhythms of the Earth and was recreated, phoenix-like. Now, at this train’s destination of concrete and artifice, I’m considered eccentric.
Sarah Savage is a horsewoman and an avid hiker currently living in New York. She writes to make sense of her outdoor experiences and to share them with others.