Posts Categorized “Guest Writers”
King Rigel watched as the ship drew out of sight.
The officials on board believed themselves bound for the Outer Lands. But the King knew: when the ship passed the base on Vallanger, the royal navy would completely destroy them.
Rigel sat back on his throne. He loved being evil.
She moves past you. You see pain.
He gets on, sits beside her. Both uncomfortable.
An awkward exchange, both speaking at once. He wants to “take care of it.” She acquiesces, nodding silently. He gives her his card.
He disembarks, then she.
You look at the seat. Paper scraps everywhere.
Editor’s Note: I’d love to hear other people’s interpretations of this story. I know what I think it means, but I think it could be understood in a lot of different ways, which is really cool. Offer your explanation by leaving a comment!
“Sleep. Don’t cry. There is nothing you can do.
“They are gone, never to return. We cannot bring them back, and I am sorry, but you must live with that.”
That’s what she said, but today they died, and I will cry with the rain.
Today I am an orphan.
She was charming, witty, intelligent, and beautiful. I had to ask her out.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do that.”
“Ah. Boyfriend?”
“It’s not that. I’m an NPC. I’m not programmed to move from this spot.”
I paused, stunned. “Oh. That’s terrible.”
She nodded slowly. “I really have to pee.”
Editor’s note: An NPC, or non-player character, is a computer-controlled character in a video game.
Husband arrives home having forgotten a significant anniversary.
Wife greets him, expecting dinner, flowers, cards, anything.
Husband apologizes, profusely. Wife demands recompense: ”Something in the driveway tomorrow that goes zero to 215 fast.”
Next morning she discovers a small flat package. Imagine her surprise at a new set of bathroom scales!
One shot is all it takes. He is dead.
Her blouse is wet with blood. Her cigarette rests between her swollen lips as she drags him through the dead leaves with a shovel in hand. She doesn’t cry until she drops his limp body in the hole.
His collar jingles.
A reader sent me this, and I thought it was too clever not to share. Thanks, Hugh3s!
I found your site, “Fifty Word Stories,” and found it interesting. With a few weeks of no updates, I was depressed to find that you were on hiatus.
So I decided to write a fifty-word story instead. I sat down at my computer and came up with nothing…
Fleeing my prison, driven by the hunger, I found my victim. I struck. His blood flowed. The hunger was satiated, but then: panic.
The body was stuck on my tusks, and my flippers were too short to remove it.
The zookeepers apprehended me, ending the reign of Chumley, Vampire Walrus.
I see you smile at the gift he sent you.
It’s dead, you know.
Smile, as you care tenderly for it. All the care you lavish on his tribute won’t make it last. Won’t stop the smooth, slippery red from drying to a lusterless, coppery brown. Smile for your rose.
He led the eager men into the cold, white room. He was a well-to-do gentleman with time and blood on his hands. It was a relief to finally reveal his passion for taxidermy.
“Is the collection finished?” they asked.
“Almost,” he said, his eyes out-gleaming the scalpel in his hand.