My grandfather was the Master of Time.
On rare occasions, when his power was at its peak, he would ask if I wanted to stay up later. Then, with a flick of his hand, he would turn the clock back an hour, and the entire world would follow his example.
Maximillian White has been telling stories since he could speak, and writing – often legibly – for almost as long. Check out more of his work at elitefool.com and ridiculousity.net.
Dad was jolted awake and screamed. Then he screamed again, but differently.
Mom ran in. Dad lay face-down, groaning.
Little Samantha stood beside him, holding a sparking wire.
Dad raised his head, and Mom saw… a toddler’s face?
“Samantha, what did you do?!”
“I electrocuted him,” she grinned.
“Do come in!” offered Gerald Bradge. “I have some tea on.”
Gerald was a softhearted older gentleman who had unfortunately grown a dark, heavy set of down-turned eyebrows, which had significantly damaged his reputation.
He had his pride, but I’d brought my clippers and chloroform this time.
He needed me.
This story is based on a title suggested by @hippodragon9.
Water is my favourite drink
I sure find it delicious
If some old bad guy stole it all
I’d find it quite malicious
What would we do?
Where would we go?
We’d get so dehydrated
That’s why I built this reservoir
And sat down here
And waited
My lifestyle’s underrated
He was charming and sweet, kind and wise. I told him so, and it made his face glow with pride.
But it was a fantasy. There were difficulties even love could not overcome. A great Dane like myself, married to a Pomeranian? Society’s hand was turned too strongly against us.
This story was based on a title suggested by @MaryHutson.
I am four years old, returning home from grocery shopping with my father, when I realize I’ve left my imaginary friend, Betty, back at the store.
My dad, so patient and kind, drives me back there, where we greet Betty on the sidewalk and he offers her a ride home.
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina-based fiction writer and poet. She has completed one novel and is at work on another. She has had several poems published both in online journals and in print.
“That’s twenty pounds, thank ye sir,” burbled the bumpy-faced imp of a man behind the counter.
“Twenty pounds?” protested the customer. “For some hole-ridden leather that hardly deserves to be called a boot?”
The shop assistant slammed and locked the door.
“Twenty pounds,” the imp cackled, “in currency or flesh.”
This story was based on a title suggested by @HBird_James.
Today we’ve got too many professional law-upholders sittin’ at home, out of a job. Why? ‘Cause they do their work too well! Nobody treats crime like business anymore. It’s a risk versus reward thing.
That’s why I got a government bank account and a brand-new job description: increase the reward.
“Catrina,” said Professor Brownhair, “you’ve been marking students’ papers with blue ink. What is the meaning of this!?”
“Red is so… angry,” said Catrina.
Professor Brownhair proffered a photograph of a winged child holding a pickaxe. “They mine the red ink,” he intoned. “Save the cherubs’ jobs, Catrina. Save them!“
She explained to me that produce was essential to progress. “Science?” she would say. “Show me science on an empty stomach!”
Farming was her calling. Everything else, she said, didn’t really matter.
A twist of fate brought me, undeserving, through the famine, left alone to carry her message of life.