In the ward, pudgy little T.O. Wilson, a prisoner of his own mind, spent all day, every day, writing “T.O.” in spit on the back of his hand or the floor or wherever. A hopeless lifer, if he still lives, by now he’s surely worn that finger to a nub.
Gary Clifton was forty years a Federal officer, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published in Spinetingler, Broadkill Review, Yellow Mama, and Dumb Butt Mag.
“Mr. Chang, your program has come a long way. What gave your team such motivation to work with folded paper?”
“Origami has been our lifelong passion. We’re just thrilled to push it to its limits.”
“So what’s next?”
“Now that we’ve achieved a paper-based, human-bearing aircraft, we’re looking towards space!”
This story was based on the prompt “folded paper” at TypeTrigger.
Joey was super great at bouncing on his trampoline. He bounced so high that he flew all the way to Mars, but they didn’t have trampolines there, because Martians are boring, so he had to build a giant slingshot to fling himself back home.
That’s what he told me, anyways.
You ripped out my heart. That wasn’t very nice.
I do appreciate your thoughtfulness in replacing it and stitching me up afterwards, and my new eyeballs work great, thanks, but would it have been too much trouble to remove these huge bolts from my neck, while you were at it?
This story was based on the prompt “ripped out” at TypeTrigger.
Glenda sashayed into the house pulling an overflowing shopping cart.
Trevor nearly fell off his chair. “What in the world? Where’d you get all that butter!?”
“I was couponing,” explained Glenda, “and I got on a roll…”
“What are we supposed to do with it!?”
“…Put it on some rolls?”
Death is an unsettling experience. The sudden weight-loss, poor circulation and depression has been known to drive many victims of death into suicidal states and impractical levels of homesickness.
Experts on the often fatal condition recommend emergency surgical obliteration of the brain as the most effective and efficient known cure.
Since his last submissions, Gavin has been writing for his local University and upholding a (mostly) weekly blog of his writings. He is quietly contented with life.
“When I was much younger, I could bench press a fat man!”
“Oooh!” said my granddaughter, eyes twinkling.
“Yep, your grandpa’s pretty strong! And even though I’m getting older, I bet I could still do it, if you gave me a chance.”
My granddaughter said, “I can do push-ups, too!”
This story was based on the prompt “much younger” at TypeTrigger.
He had the eyebrows of a Greek god.
He kept them in a vacuum-sealed glass display case, mounted onto a simple plaster bust, and reluctantly loaned them to museums for a few months every year.
Few people noticed that these months always coincided with The Olympian’s annual vacation from superheroism.
This story was based on the prompt “the eyebrows” at TypeTrigger.
Mister Adolphus Finnegan was a pleasant chap, if a little seclusive. His daily forest-path meanderings were routed so as to minimize chance meetings with other meanderers. He called these his “refreshing ambulations”, and continued them well into his elderhood.
He lived a long, well-refreshed, pleasant, but secluded kind of life.
This story was based on a title provided by @Keab42.
The ghostly spectre silhouetted against the dark window sighed, the symptom of Death’s long-suffering passion.
Inside, cold breaths rattled through the lungs of Enid Westerhapf, 112 years old and at long last preparing to die.
Having awaited her for so long, Death finally welcomed her to stand by his side.
This story was based on a title provided by Master Gunner.