writer, author, editor, photographer, maker of neat stuff
Fifty Word Stories publishes the 50-word stories authored by Jenise Cook.
“You’ll need to provide me with your password.”
“Uh, no.”
“I need it to research your website issue.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Didn’t you call us?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve hosted your website for ten years.”
“And?”
Sigh. “I’ll need your password to help you.”
“Can I trust you?”
Click!!
“Hello? Hello?”
He stood in the convenience store and stared as the TV above the cashiers’ counter blared news about food poisoning at the local “Chick ’n Cluck” restaurant.
He rushed outside, panicked. “Why does the health department always blame us?”
“Ella,” he shouted as he walked into their apartment.
“Yeah, Sam?
Edward massaged his seventy-three-year-old back as he sat in his cramped attic. When he opened the largest box, he laughed out loud.
“Grandpa?” Maddox tapped his phone and removed his earbuds. “What’s that?”
“My old vinyls and my record player.”
“Cool. Play them for me.”
Edward’s heart swelled with pride.
Cancel culture canceled his job, his fiancée, his condo lease over an online comment he wrote fifteen years ago that he forgot about and regrets as an adult.
Silenced, he found his voice, again, writing fiction from his van down by the river, living the nomad life on public lands.
She walked out the front door, grateful to be free after a difficult year. Free to inhale deeply the crisp scent of the morning’s frost. Free to absorb the songbirds’ cheerful choruses.
Her freedom revived her for a few moments, until the lock-down officers clamped the handcuffs over her mittens.
Published by Rejected Manuscripts!
Continue for my story behind this tiny story…
Are we alone?
I wandered the cave’s ice-water-cold rooms carved out of bedrock. The little children’s sobs echoed in the darkness. The trolls no longer roamed the chiseled passageways. Could we escape? As the only teen, the dire responsibility fell on me.
I fingered the magic wand in my pocket.
I walk into your empty room.
Your body’s impression and your scent still linger on the bed.
I caress your pillows as I had your baby curls.
When I’m ready, I’ll pull off the sheets and launder you away.
You’re at college now, but to me, you’ll always be here.
Propelled forward from the start of the race, I fought my way to the front. I carried in me the best of past generations, the genetic strength and intelligence my family offered. The future depended solely on me.
I possessed what she, what we, needed.
I had to be first.
They bought all the toilet paper, then the produce and the canned goods.
I lost my non-essential job.
How will I feed my family?
The nursery man gave me credit, compost, soil, seeds, and pots. I planted our family garden.
This summer, we ate like kings. I sold the surplus.
My father was lynched. Mama took her own life. Foster care rotated me from family to family. Then, the assaults. My body wasn’t my own.
Aged out, I slept in the library. My mind devoured the stacks of books, and the world opened before me, breathing new life into me.
I love this place. It’s so beautiful and peaceful. I play with my friends anytime I want to and eat good food every day. I’m happy here, but I feel like something’s missing.
Oh, the Rainbow Bridge has appeared. Some new friends must be crossing over.
Mom! Dad! You’re here!
“Look at her.”
“Which one?”
“The red sweater. Quick, sit up,” Felix purred to his sister. “She’s coming with the shelter volunteer.”
They posed in their kennel.
The woman held the two cats and nuzzled them. “I’ll take both of them.”
Felix sighed. “We did it. We’ve rescued another human!”
Honorable H. P. Child, Esquire:
Dear Sir,
I received your kind correspondence this week. I very much appreciate you thinking of me whilst the demands of your political schedule abroad consume you.
Your proposal will set me free from widowhood’s cage. I humbly accept.
Yours most sincerely,
Madelaine P. Smith
The campfire crackled as my terminally ill father shared family stories with my teenage son. The Milky Way above us witnessed the transfer of traditions. My chest puffed up with pride at my son’s rapt attention, until the final story.
That’s when I found out I’m not my father’s son.
Marty resolved to write a fifty-word story and submit it before the Friday morning deadline. But, his fingers faltered on the keyboard, staggering like drunken sailors. His vision, blurred by eight hours staring at his work computer, failed to focus on his fiction. Nevertheless, Marty wrote and he pressed Submit.
I ran into a ghost the other day. I think it was a ghost. It moaned a lot, and rattled chains like old Marley did when he visited Scrooge. I blinked and the vision cleared. The ghost was me, twenty years into the future, chained to a gray, corporate desk.
Brian hammered the For Sale By Owner sign into his front lawn. Neighbor Kevin walked over, staring at the For Sale sign in Brian’s truck’s windshield.
“Hey, Brian, what’s up?”
“Stage IV cancer diagnosis, Kevin. I’ve got about twelve months left, so I’m going to travel and live it well.”
Randy stared at the cocoon hanging from the tree limb. He watched the butterfly struggle for hours, then emerge, wet but beautiful.
Why did I survive?
He pressed the contact on his phone.
“Veterans New Hope Center. How can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Randy. I have PTSD.”
“Auwuuuu.”
The full moon rises and an impulse overtakes me. My handsome body fleshes out with fur, claws, and canine teeth. Is this from what I drank at Justin’s New Years Eve party?
Maybe it was her. Strange, yet so beautiful. Irresistible.
One kiss, and my life is changed forever.
DJ Scone takes his cat Patches to every gig. One wedding reception, he forgot Patches’ carrier. Scone called his wife Latisha.
“Got a problem. Patches keeps swatting the discs.”
“I’ll be right over.”
She walked in with a box.
“That’s not his carrier.”
DJ Patches rocks the turntable scratch pad.
Angels filled the night sky with song. A light, brighter than hundreds of campfires, illumined our fields. Trembling with anticipation, I entered the stable, my lamb in my arms, and knelt before the manger. My lamb nuzzled the infant. His weary mother touched my cheek.
Tears blurred my vision.
“Immanuel.”
“Daddy, a monster scared me in my dream.”
He grabbed pen and paper. “What did it look like?”
Emma talked while her father drew. “Daddy, that’s it! And, you’ve scared the monster right out of me.”
She taped her father’s sketch on her closet door. Emma slept soundly that night.
Old Mr. Spencer adjusted the tool belt around his waist. He pounded the final nail into the plywood that covered the last store-front window. He gazed across the courthouse plaza. The stores on all four blocks wore wooden patches.
Main street was gone. The big-box stores owned the town now.
She haunts the two o’clock morning darkness of Hollywood Boulevard. Sword in hand, helmet strapped on, shield up, breastplate firmly fitted, feet shod with peace. She paces the street, leading teen-aged runaways to the shelter’s welcoming warmth.
Their stories set her heart ablaze.
She holds no sympathy for the devil.
Charles stood at a crossroads in his young, investment-banker life. His parents bragged about him in their social circles, but rarely spent time with him.
Allison’s travel IG account enraptured him. So did her private messages.
“Please come.”
Charlie gave his notice, packed his backpack, and flew to Phuket.
I sit in our attic, listening to my parents below.
“Can’t believe he’s 13 years old.”
“He needs to put away childish things.”
As I stare out the window at the moon, I think about their words.
I say good-bye to my toys.
Tomorrow, I join the Young Astronauts Program.
Barely able to put two sentences together, her brain feeling heavy, fuzzy, weary, Louise said good-bye to the team, walked across the business campus, and waited for her Uber driver.
Fourteen-hour days, constant meetings and reports. I’m not living.
Her Uber arrived.
“I’ve changed my destination.”
“Where to?”
“New Zealand.”
The witch tempted me with a boiling, unruly potion.
“It’ll transform you, my dear, into your hidden personality.”
Curiosity over-ruled me. I drank. I screamed at the mirror’s reflection.
Red-ruby lips, a nose clear of blemishes, and an eye bright with innocence and wonder.
“What horrid being lives inside me?”
On Monday, she charmed us.
On Tuesday, she asked invasive questions.
On Wednesday, she tried to intimidate me. I shocked her with details of her bad behavior.
On Thursday, I called her boss. She cowered.
On Friday, I whispered “Boo!”
She shriveled into the shredder, never to be seen again.
The one-room school house promised me boredom. The traveler promised me adventure beyond my imagination. I purchased the stagecoach fare, California bound.
An heiress joined us in Denver. The horses stumbled in the Rockies. Too much weight.
He pushed me over the cliff, and I haunt this accursed forest forever.
I’ve heard it before.
You think you’re so smart. You think you’re always right.
No, I don’t think I’m so smart. I don’t think I’m always right. His narcissism can’t deal with the fact that he’s sometimes wrong.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead before meeting with my boss.
“Rob, hurry up, stupid. We have to reach the trailhead soon or spend the night in the cold.”
After hours of hiking filled with my brother’s demeaning taunts, I whispered a wish. He screeched. I spun around.
Jack turned into a donkey.
I couldn’t help myself.
“You’re such an ass!”
“Shuffle. Shuffle. One, two, three, four. Shuffle. Shuffle.” The caller at Rooster’s Western Bar put the line dancers through their paces.
Amanda sighed. Rob’s so handsome and nice. I wish he’d notice me.
She stood, steadied herself with her walker, and moved her brace-supported legs in time with the music.
He slammed on the van’s brakes when he saw the deerstalker hat and calabash pipe.
He texted the psychiatrist: I found him. 5th street bridge. He’s safe.
Head Nurse Derrick approached his ward and whispered, “Mr. Holmes, it’s time to return to your room. Dr. Watson is waiting for you.”
Alice cringed as the black cat walked in front of her. She paused before entering the convenience store and sighed.
I don’t need any more bad luck.
A piece of paper on the sidewalk caught her eye. She gave it to the store clerk.
“Congratulations, ma’am, you’ve won the Powerball.”
“Mom, throw the ball. Please?”
Charlene sat in shock in her patio chair and stared at Reilly.
“Mom? Don’t you want to play with me?”
Charlene looked down at her drink on the side table, then at her dog. She texted her husband.
What did you put in my coffee?
The cathedral’s bells caressed Segovia’s hills, then echoed off into the Spanish countryside. Burdened with a broken heart and engagement, she stared at the brutalized crucifix inside the chapel.
“So realistic.“
Grief stricken, she turned to walk away.
“Mary.”
She gasped, turned, then looked. Hope filled her weary eyes.
“Rabboni!”
I moved like a specter through the dark parking lot, the lights of the stadium blazing behind me.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
He found my detective’s badge. His K-9 found the fentanyl.
“I’ll just keep this,” he said.
I smirked. “One of these days, Lieutenant, you’re going down.”
Sarah parked her car and read her husband’s mysterious, secretive text again.
Meet me at our attorney’s office at 5 p.m.
Troubled, she opened the office door.
“Surprise!” The chorus from her family and friends deafened her.
James kissed his wife on the cheek. “Congratulations, sweetheart, you passed the Bar.”
The sycamore trees whispered. “Are we alone?”
“Yes,” hooted the owl. “The campground’s empty.”
The aspens quaked with delight. “Summer vacation is finally over. It’s our time, now.”
The trees uprooted themselves, ran, and jumped into the lake. They swam with abandon knowing the humans were gone for the season.
The man and the woman walked in the garden, the soft grass embracing their feet. The breeze caressed their naked bodies, mimicking their tender kisses moments before.
“Psst, eat this fruit,” said the serpent. “You’ll be wise.”
“No,” shouted Eve.
Adam smashed the snake’s head with a rock.
“We’re free.”
Proceed At Your Own Risk Warning: Before you read "He Made It", I need to let you know it's a bit of "cozy horror" rated PG-13. It suggests something unpleasant that might occur during an apocalypse. Some readers might feel queasy and others might recoil in disgust. Others have applauded me for the twist at the end with a hearty "Wow, I didn't expect that." Your mileage may vary, so if you feel any hesitation, feel free to skip this story.
Eddie and Sylvia survived the apocalypse in their bunker. Six months later, Eddie was in bad shape. His stomach clenched and growled with hunger. He needed more than rations. He knew what he had to do.
“Eddie, where’s the dog?”
He turned the filet on the grill. “I don’t know.”
Thirteen years old, I sit on the floor, staring at our new TV bought for the occasion.
Large boots descend the ladder.
Lunar surface awaits.
One small step. One giant leap.
I catch my breath.
My heart changed, my imagination quickened, I plan my own small steps toward my dreams.
The acrid smell of July fourth fireworks burned Stella’s throat. She handed the firecracker to the pyrotechnician. He attached a wire and set it off to the side.
At nightfall, the crowd cheered as it burst into red, white, and blue.
Stella watched Ed’s cremains descend. “Enjoy your wish, sweetheart.”
Jason stared at the Queensland Heeler in the shelter’s kennel.
“This one’s blind,” the volunteer told his parents. “The rancher said he could only keep dogs that could work.”
“Yes, I want this dog,” Jason signed to his parents. “I can be her eyes and she can be my ears.”
The Sheriff’s son. Yeah, that’s me. He rides me harder than that bronc he loves. I hate horses and this rural county. So I lie on the sidewalks and hug my bottles. Damn those blinding, flashing lights.
“Officer? Let me be.”
“Get up, son. I love you. Let’s go home.”
“Thanks for dinner.” James stood at the door as Cindy shook his hand.
She gazed over his shoulder. “Where’s kitty?”
James walked away longing to do anything for Cindy’s affections. Her cat emerged from the bushes and James rubbed the amulet in his pocket.
Leo kneaded Cindy’s lap with vigor.
