55 word fiction

A collection of 55 word stories written by various bloggers.

Gaurav Mishra




A man and a woman, strangers, see each other from opposite sides of the street, as they walk through rush hour London traffic. As she steps onto the street, she is hit by a cab.

Later, in the hospital, he tells her what happened: “You came to. You focused on me. You said, ‘Hello, stranger.’”


Later, in a bus, he tells her that he writes euphemism-filled obituaries for a newspaper.

“What would my euphemism be?” she asks him.

“She was disarming”, he replies.

“That’s not a euphemism,” she protests.

“Yes,” he looks into her eyes, “it is.”

Stunned, she turns away from him and looks out of the bus window.



As she photographs him for his book-jacket, they realise that they are about to kiss.

“I don’t kiss strange men,” she hesitates.

“Neither do I,” he replies, as they lean forward and kiss.

Later, when she refuses to see him, “You are taken”, he protests: “You kissed me!”

“What are you,” she taunts him, “twelve?”



He enters the aquarium, in his doctor’s white coat, and looks around for the nymph, named Anna, he had met in a cyber-sex chat room last night.

She answers to her name, but tells him that he has been set up by someone pretending to be her, by a man who thinks he loves her.



A year later, at an exhibition of her photographs, she smugly tells him how he had set her up with Larry, “Nice work, Cupid.”

When he asks her if she loves him and she says “no”, both of them know that she’s lying.

Later that night, strangely irritated, she finds herself snapping at her boyfriend.



He confesses that he has been seeing Anna for a year, “because I fell in love with her”, “because she doesn’t need me”.

“How do you do this to someone?” she asks, then remembers that she had been on the other side.

“I’m the one who leaves, not you,” she repeats incoherently and runs out.



“I slept with a whore”, he confesses, but realizes that she also has something to confess.

“Are you leaving me? Because of this? Because of Cupid?” he asks her. “Why did you marry me? But we’re happy, aren’t we? Is he a good fuck? Better than me? Did you cum? Did you ever love me?”



He sees her in a strip-club; she strips for him, opens her legs wide to let him have a look.

When he repeatedly asks for her real name, pleads, she replies: “Jane”.

When he begs her to sleep with him, she first tells him, “I’m not a whore”, and then, “I’m not your revenge fuck.”



She meets him at the opera, a free woman, her divorce papers finally signed by her ex-husband.

He is happy first, then suspicious, “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

“He wouldn’t sign the papers otherwise,” she pleads, “please forgive me.”

“He’s clever, your ex-husband,” he sighs, “All I can see is him all over you.”



Alone, without Anna or Alice, Dan breaks down in Larry’s office.

Larry tells him about the club: “Yes, I saw her naked. No, I did not fuck her. She still loves you. Go back to her.”

But, as Dan is about to leave, indebted, Larry stops him: “I lied to you. I did fuck Alice.”



They whisper sweet-nothings to each other, in post-coital bliss, until… he tells her that he needs to know the truth about the club

“Then it’s over,” she replies, “because I cannot tell you the truth.”

He suddenly realizes that their entire relationship is a lie.

“Who are you?” he asks her, and slaps her hard.

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