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Read Short Stories Online: Page 47 Online Anthology

Since 2008, has aimed to cultivate interest in Canadian and International fiction from new and emerging writers. We publish a broad range of adjudicated fiction, selected for its originality and craftmanship. houses a continually growing library of original short stories submitted by new and emerging writers around the globe. At the moment, we're swamped with submissions, and in the process of updating the site, so cannot take more fiction just yet, but I will let you know when we're ready again. March 2019

Writers on Writing

What is Creative Writing? Three Vignettes


"What is creative writing?" Miss Smith asked my wide-eyed grade six class. This was back in the '70s and Miss Smith wore a psychedelic floral print and stood, flamingo-like, one knee perched on the desk of a front-row student. She was not our regular teacher but swooped in once a week to discuss simile, sonnets and rhyme. With Miss Smith, I learned to write compositions of vastly different style and process than my expository term-projects on fruit bats or Chile. READ MORE

Creative Writing Skill: Three Ways to Develop Yours

New Fiction



All through the evening meal the couple argued. He was right, then she was right, then he insisted and she insisted. It was enough to make you sick. As the young man sat at the table with the other dinner guests, all of whom watched this exhibition without speaking, he began to feel that maybe these two were enacting some sort of love ritual, one that only the two of them could understand. READ MORE

Previously Posted

Ham Sandwich Theorem JK Rowling

Welcome to Page 47 online anthology of Canadian and International short fiction, the place to read short stories online.

Page 47 houses a continually growing library of original short stories submitted by new and emerging writers around the globe.

Page 47 aims to cultivate interest in Canadian and International fiction from new and emerging writers. We publish a broad range of adjudicated fiction, selected for its originality and craftmanship. While a few of the authors have had fiction published in the past, many of the stories here are the authors' first published works.

All images on the site are originals, designed to suggest the content of the stories, and may not be copied without permission.

These are free short stories to read online, and the authors have been paid for their work. If you like the site, please "pay it forward" by using the social bookmarking links below or by sending friends a link to this page. Your support will provide additional exposure for the writers. The authors hold the copyright to their work, so please keep the author's name on any printed copies. Whether you want to read short stories online or are looking for a place to sell your short fiction, enjoy!

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Mia Eva Roa White

Mia The blue bucket dangles from the little girl's hand and scrapes the ground every time she relaxes her sore arm to stretch it. She has been carrying the bucket for a long time in the heat, and though it is empty and made of thin plastic, it feels heavy and bulky.

Joan's Garden Ann Thomas

Joan's Garden It's been two years, but not a week goes by that I don't think of Joan. I can see the yard from my kitchen window, often as it used to be—a Monet landscape framed by my kitchen curtains. There is grass there now, grass and her grandchildren.

Cartwheels S.L. Green

Cartwheels Would there be a thud when she hit the tile, or would Sheila hear the skull crack?

She shudders and clutches Emma more tightly. Thirteen beige Berber steps lead down to the basement. Such dingy linoleum tiles on the floor at the bottom. Sheila had wanted to tear them up and put in hardwood, but like everything else, that idea went on hold when she got pregnant.

The Verdana Obit Lee Hammerschmidt

The Verdana Obit "It's like that old joke," Goudy said. "The one that old guy used to tell. Who was it? Youngman? Dangerfield?"

"This isn't funny Goudy."

"The guy says something about having to read the obituaries first thing in the morning to make sure he's not in them."

Gill pointed to the open newspaper on the small table in front of them. ''It's no joke. That's mine. ''

love (lower case) Dallas Woodburn

love (lower case) "I really hope we can still be friends," you say.

Scrolling back through the worst moments of your life, this is at the top. Up there between the rejection from Brown and your dog Sammie being hit by a car in fifth grade.

Why Not a Duck? Laurie Boris

Why Not a Duck? "Holiday Help Line, this is Matthew. How can I help you?"

"I'm going to slit my wrists," she says. "I hate Thanksgiving. I hate that the Christmas decorations have been up in the stores since Halloween. I hate the Macy's parade and the Rockettes and cooking and cleaning and the men sitting on their asses watching football and I swear, when the sweet potatoes are done I'm taking the biggest knife I have."

Death Comes for Simon Max Clark

Death Comes For Simon The strip mall closed down for the evening; large, backlit signs flickered out and weary employees sparked matches to light cigarettes on the way to their cars. Beneath fluorescent lights set in concrete pedestals stood the curious ten o'clock small town gangs, hoods over their faces in an effort to look suspicious, but content to break the town loitering ordinances. Cars pulled in from time to time, cursed the operating hours of their pharmacies and retail outlets and completed the arc to drive out again.

Every Thursday Michelle Satchell

Every Thursday It wasn't that long ago that she had cleaned the grout on the kitchen floor, but already it looked dirtier than ever. She wracked her brain in an effort to remember why she had fought so hard for white tiles. Something about making the kitchen seem brighter, cleaner. But white tiles in a kitchen, clean? Every day she had to sop up a spill, sweep up cracker crumbs or wipe away a dirty footprint.

If He Should Gather His Breath LeeAnn Bonds

If He Should Gather His Breath The boy woke. His head rested on a thick cushion of moss that covered huge tree roots. He felt the sun through still-closed eyes, felt the warm breeze move the light and shade around through the leaves above him. He smiled a little, and remembered his delicious dream.

A Different Waxing Tanya Brown

A Different Waxing She pursed her lips and flicked a sidelong glance at my daughter. If I were a mind reader, I would have seen one word flash across the girl's forehead... "eeeeyoooou!" But, with some decorum, she whispered behind her hand, "Do you want me to do her mustache, too?"

His Life Christine Kettle

His Life The world didn't seem any different to him when he woke. He got up, dressed and made it out the door as usual, but on the bus the thought stuck him that people stared. They looked at him, and when he caught their gaze they looked away. He'd shaved, showered, worn his usual business casual outfit; his hair was cut in the neat, trimmed, office acceptable manner of the majority of guys employed where he worked, so he felt affronted. What was wrong with these people?

Laundry Day Brianna Woolsey

Laundry Day The day after you left I crawled into the dryer. All I could think about was the big pile of dirty clothes you left behind and how, when you came back for them, they should at least be clean. So I sat on the edge of our bed, a bed too big for two people, a bed I thought I would drown in when I tried to sleep in it alone, and I sorted your clothes.

Silk Hema Raman

Silk I was a foodie. I cooked and served foods that had flavors and tastes enough to tantalize and satiate even the most finicky taste buds. I ran a small and exclusive catering business and wrote articles on food.

All this was before I created Silk. Not raw silk or those khaadhi varieties but the finest of the glossy and smooth. A halwa called Silk, that I made and remade to a texture so fine, that you just had to pop a piece into your mouth, and with the slightest touch of saliva, it melted.

A Rose in the Morning George Lea

A Rose in the Morning I turned on the lights, couldn't believe my eyes.

"Take it," Lowry insisted, proffering what he'd made in the dark.

I couldn't. Couldn't move, couldn't speak, think or feel, all that I was blasted away in the space of a breath; certainty evaporated, conviction dissolved.

"Take it," he repeated.

I did, and pricked myself. The miracle dropped to the floorboards, gone before it hit the ground, petals black as a spider's eye, wilted.

The Trashman Cometh A.W. McKinnon

The Trashman Cometh On Mondays, retiree William Bagley would move a kitchen stool to the living room window. From there he would watch as the trash truck stopped at the curb. Next to the stool, on a small table, lay a note pad and pencil.

Except for holidays, the trash truck stayed on schedule and arrived between 10:20 and 10:25 Monday mornings. William Bagley's notes, kept over the past two months, reflected the consistency of the driver and his helper.

The Witch's Mark Anika Scott

The Witch's Mark Barnesville was a scab on the desert. Locusts had decimated it once by the look of the beat-down shrubs and the sorry way the weeds lay in the pavement cracks. Ellis had never seen anything like it. He expected bleached skulls in the dust and found empty storefronts, and Buicks lined up along the curb like they'd been there since Nixon. He checked his rearview. No life there.

Across the street, a pockmarked cook smoked on the doorstep of a diner. He and two old men watched Ellis drive up slow, as if in Barnesville, a minute took 120 seconds.

A Day at the Flea Market Tina D.C. Hayes

A Day at the Flea Market Irene moved a glass figurine from the front of her display table to a safer spot in the center, to rescue it from destruction by the two little brats who handled her merchandise as if playing 'Duck, Duck, Goose.'

The Woman Under the Thames Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle

The Woman Under the Thames Francine marched past the grocers on Spa Road, past the station, toward the River Thames. Spring had arrived, but you wouldn't know it by looking around. A stiff breeze blew the scent of the ships towards her. Wheat for the mills, pickled herring, tea ... and over it all, the smell of humanity. The dirty clattering stomach of the British Empire.

A Thousand Tricks Catharine Kozak

A Thousand Tricks The bus weaves south from Marrakesh through Taroudannt, slowing as it climbs the dizzying highway of the High Atlas. The girl is still awake, her only thought to get as far away as she can. She pushes a strand of hair back under her headscarf and watches the Nigerian asleep in the seat in front of her, his black head bouncing back and forth as the bus lurches toward the pass. Nothing disturbs him, not the roadblocks, not the driver fumbling with the spare tire, not the malevolent exhaust seeping through the space between the back doors. Not even the weight of the sleeping woman collapsed against his shoulder.

Evolution of a Pantry Lorrie Miller

Evolution of a Pantry She had prepared this room, next to theirs in their two bedroom bungalow, the month following her first doctor's visit.

Polio CatsRita Ashley

Polio Cats A rare smile crossed Ben's lips as he remembered leaving Poland with the stolen money from Slavatizki's hidden stash.

The Universal Language of WomenMarianne Crone

The Universal Language of Women My husband and I stayed with Samarah's Moroccan family on the invitation of her husband, Hamid. We met him on the train, which chugged and spittered along the tracks through a countryside as flat as a billiard table.

To Be Longing ForMark Patrick

To Be Longing For A librarian once told me, "To forget a book is forgivable, but to forget the words is a travesty." I am returning a book late, and I haven't finished reading it, so I ask the librarian if she can tell me about the ending.

More stories:

I Work Hard for the Money

Wanna Carrot?


Thief Among Thieves

Between Love and Need


Sunset Dog Beach



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