Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing challenge. Feel free to share your response below, or simply read/comment to join in on the fun.
Prompt: Write a fifty-word story set in a wintery pub. For an extra challenge, make a brief reference to a Christmas song or lyric. Here are the other guidelines:
Make sure your piece is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or the word processor you use.
Write a title with the genre in the first line. (Example: First Snowfall, Fiction)
The title does not factor into the word count.
Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!
Special thanks to John Lightle for providing his photo for our writing prompt.
John Lightle is a Texas writer, poet, and photographer who spends many hours sitting on his woodpile contemplating. When away from his frame shop, he schleps his artwork among area art shows. The job takes him across the countryside, occasionally overseas, photographing the quiet resolve found within the golden hours.
For this sleepy town, it's scenery. Most don't think twice about that old black train, yet the exhilaration of machinery holds me. I know where it goes, I checked before. Further south to home and hearth, but the thought hurt. I go to Fillmore's, the new bird here to stay.
I throw back the last watery brown slug of bourbon. It does nothing to soothe the lump in my throat. The phone rings behind the bar. The bartender answers and her eyes land on me. She nods and hands me the receiver.
Thanks, Justin. This was so fun for me. I gave you a mention in my post this week. Hope it brings a few more people around the fire next time. 🔥I'll definitely be back for another round.
Meg, I must have missed this notification earlier! Just read your post and saw it. Thanks so much. That was incredibly kind of you! 🙏 (Loved your story, by the way!)
Awesome! I’m so happy to hear this. Fifties are a great challenge, and they’re even more fun when other creatives go through the process together. 😀
This is enchanting, Sharron! I absolutely love it. While reading I couldn’t help but think of an old painting depicting a winter scene similar to your poem. I can’t remember the name of the piece or the artist...hmm. Maybe it’ll come to me.
Oslo, last century. Before the unwanted sales career. Before the late ex-husband. Before an aquavit-free future. Melted snow puddling beneath the julebord: lutefisk, warm gingerbread pepperkaker and geitost, that nutty brown goat cheese. Amidst the clatter of conversation, we smile through wine-stained teeth. Raise mugs of glogg to brighter days.
I LOVE gjetost! I've eaten it with sliced apples, or pears, or melted on toast for decades!! You gave me holiday cheer by mentioning one of my favorite cheeses. (I worked at a cheese shop for six years, during high school and college.)
And, very good story, Amie. Sorry I got so excited about gjetost, but so few know about it here in the Southwestern US.
I turned to meet the bright blue eyes of a stranger. His jolly smile declared him trustworthy. The vintage Santa garb he was wearing shouted something else entirely.
“I’m not interested, buddy. Go peddle your “Happy Holidays” cheer somewhere else.”
I'd never seen anyone actually cry in their beer, but there he was, smutty face streaked by tears. Hands shaking from cold though he'd been here as long as me— Hours. Wanting to be discreet as he raised his pint again, I leaned in and whispered, "Zat You, Santa Claus?"
This piece is a perfect example of flash fiction, Garrett. Clear setting, characters, conflict, resolution. A fine opening sentence to hook us in and a twist at the end that leaves the readers' imagination full of questions. There couldn't be a better model. Sharon at 🍁Leaves
The hearth blazed hot inside the Star & Cross. The men of Churchwood raised their steins and celebrated the Christmas lunch they provided to the village’s poor.
Suddenly, they heard such a clatter they ran to the pub’s windows.
A host of heavenly angels serenaded them, “God rest ye merry gentlemen!”
~~~~~
I invite you to read my story on my publication, and find out more "About this Story". I'm new on Substack and I look forward to growing my readership:
I feel sorry for the guy! There’s an aura of sadness about him. Maybe he can never get back what he has lost / what he’s waiting for? Your story makes me think and want to know more about him. Well done, Chris!
Curious piece, Chris. Engaged my imagination. My impression was that he wasn't waiting, but that the bells never rang out for him, because, sitting in that armchair, he had died. That is the main point about flash fiction - it is meant to be open for interpretation by the reader. Nice work. Sharron at 🍁Leaves
Old Black Train, Fiction
For this sleepy town, it's scenery. Most don't think twice about that old black train, yet the exhilaration of machinery holds me. I know where it goes, I checked before. Further south to home and hearth, but the thought hurt. I go to Fillmore's, the new bird here to stay.
Poetic, and lovely.
Great voice in this piece! The image of the old black train - and where it goes - stands out clearly in my mind. Well done!
Home for the Holidays, Fiction
At the bar, Frederick wore his winter coat. He clutched a tall pint, a smile spread across his sweaty face.
“Screw ‘em,” Frederick shouted to the empty house. “I don’t need anybody, really…”
“All I want for Christmas is you,” he said to his drink. The bartender feigns a smile.
The title adds another layer to this story. Loved it, Geoffrey!
I can appreciate this, having spoken aloud to a few drinks myself over the years. Thank you for reminding me to count my blessings, Geoff.
This is sad, and sadly, true for a lot of people. I think you've captured it well.
BE HERE WITH ME – FICTION
I throw back the last watery brown slug of bourbon. It does nothing to soothe the lump in my throat. The phone rings behind the bar. The bartender answers and her eyes land on me. She nods and hands me the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Baby?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Please come home.”
Love this! I’m imagining their backstory and how they arrived at this point. Great stuff!
Thanks, Justin. This was so fun for me. I gave you a mention in my post this week. Hope it brings a few more people around the fire next time. 🔥I'll definitely be back for another round.
Meg, I must have missed this notification earlier! Just read your post and saw it. Thanks so much. That was incredibly kind of you! 🙏 (Loved your story, by the way!)
Awesome! I’m so happy to hear this. Fifties are a great challenge, and they’re even more fun when other creatives go through the process together. 😀
well played, Meg!
This is lovely!
So evocative and very moving!
Last orders at the Lonely Shepherd, Fiction
When the bell rings, Jimmy McClarty wobbles to his feet, insisting that he’s driving home for Christmas.
“You’ll do no such thing,” you warn him.
Ruddy-cheeked, he waits until you’ve chased out the other stragglers.
You know there’s nobody waiting for him at home.
You’re just the same.
“I’ll drive.”
Excellent, Jonathon! Like Sharron said, I really enjoy the use of second person as well. It grounded me in the story.
So smart to have written this in the second person. Many writers would have used "I" instead of "you". I think it enhances the readers' perception.
Thank you Sharon! I really enjoy second person at times but was in two minds about whether or not to use it here 🫣
I like to think they ended up sharing something non-alcoholic and a few laughs over the course of the evening. . .
I like to think so too ☺️ Thanks for commenting!
WINTER FESTIVAL, SCOTLAND / a prose poem
This night in Scotland is a dazzle of lights!
Enchanted children glide ‘round the ice rink.
Snow-kissed carolers stroll the lanes,
Singing of holly and ivy.
Glistening Christmas markets offer endless treasure.
The pub fills our heads with the warmth of mulled wine.
Toes tap to fiddles and pipes.
This is enchanting, Sharron! I absolutely love it. While reading I couldn’t help but think of an old painting depicting a winter scene similar to your poem. I can’t remember the name of the piece or the artist...hmm. Maybe it’ll come to me.
What a great picture is painted here--I could really imagine it.
IN THE BLEAK-MIDWINTER, NONFICTION
Oslo, last century. Before the unwanted sales career. Before the late ex-husband. Before an aquavit-free future. Melted snow puddling beneath the julebord: lutefisk, warm gingerbread pepperkaker and geitost, that nutty brown goat cheese. Amidst the clatter of conversation, we smile through wine-stained teeth. Raise mugs of glogg to brighter days.
There are so many beautiful, evocative lines in these fifty words, Amie! I like the use of repetition here to paint this individual’s history.
"the clatter of conversation" Very nice, Amie.
I'm eating pancakes as I read and this still made me hungry. 😊
I LOVE gjetost! I've eaten it with sliced apples, or pears, or melted on toast for decades!! You gave me holiday cheer by mentioning one of my favorite cheeses. (I worked at a cheese shop for six years, during high school and college.)
And, very good story, Amie. Sorry I got so excited about gjetost, but so few know about it here in the Southwestern US.
Your excitement made me smile. 😊
If you find any, do tell!
I buy it at Sprouts and at Fry’s, which is our local Krogers store.
SERIOUSLY??? I haven’t been looking hard enough. I’m in PHX and will hunt it down.
Beautifully written. I feel like I could have been there!
This makes me feel warm and hungry!
Meeting Santa
“Twas the Night Before Christmas.” He spoke.
I turned to meet the bright blue eyes of a stranger. His jolly smile declared him trustworthy. The vintage Santa garb he was wearing shouted something else entirely.
“I’m not interested, buddy. Go peddle your “Happy Holidays” cheer somewhere else.”
And he did.
Bah! Humbug!
Seems to embody the feelings a lot of people have these days. . . lol!
Christmas at the Fillmore, Fiction
I'd never seen anyone actually cry in their beer, but there he was, smutty face streaked by tears. Hands shaking from cold though he'd been here as long as me— Hours. Wanting to be discreet as he raised his pint again, I leaned in and whispered, "Zat You, Santa Claus?"
Love that first line. Nicely done!
Thank you for giving the opportunity to write it out.
You’re so welcome! 😊
The Last Christmas, Fiction
The pub smells of whiskey and cedar. People chat over the hums of Christmas songs.
The bartender slides another drink in front of you. Your ring clinks against the glass.
Your phone vibrates from a text: I’m sorry.
You delete it and twist the ring off of your finger.
Nice sensory details in this story, Garrett!
Thank you Justin!
This piece is a perfect example of flash fiction, Garrett. Clear setting, characters, conflict, resolution. A fine opening sentence to hook us in and a twist at the end that leaves the readers' imagination full of questions. There couldn't be a better model. Sharon at 🍁Leaves
Thank you Sharron!
Yuletide Mashup, Fiction
The hearth blazed hot inside the Star & Cross. The men of Churchwood raised their steins and celebrated the Christmas lunch they provided to the village’s poor.
Suddenly, they heard such a clatter they ran to the pub’s windows.
A host of heavenly angels serenaded them, “God rest ye merry gentlemen!”
~~~~~
I invite you to read my story on my publication, and find out more "About this Story". I'm new on Substack and I look forward to growing my readership:
https://jenisecook.substack.com/p/yuletide-mashup
A fitting and unexpected final line, Jenise!
Thank you so much, Justin!
I’m going to come back later and share a 50-word story. I love this image!
Looking forward to it!
Waiting By The Fire, Fiction
As he waited, huddled in the cracked leather armchair by a fire perfect for roasting chestnuts, Christmas Eve bundled on. The pub emptied.
Still he waited. For what? Nobody knew.
But, for him, the bells never rang out for Christmas Day.
Somewhere, he is still waiting.
I feel sorry for the guy! There’s an aura of sadness about him. Maybe he can never get back what he has lost / what he’s waiting for? Your story makes me think and want to know more about him. Well done, Chris!
Thanks Justin! My next challenge is to write one a bit more upbeat!
Curious piece, Chris. Engaged my imagination. My impression was that he wasn't waiting, but that the bells never rang out for him, because, sitting in that armchair, he had died. That is the main point about flash fiction - it is meant to be open for interpretation by the reader. Nice work. Sharron at 🍁Leaves