I crouch, bound in tension, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink, lest I be discovered. The consequences would be extremely unsavoury…
Someone enters the room, stops, inhales deeply. Can they smell me? They depart.
I peek. The coast is clear.
This pie is MINE!
I could barely see him through the smoke, a wispy silhouette, dancing and swaying to the rhythmless music of the crackling bonfire. His erratic movements transported me to some other place, a far-off, magical land. He was ethereal, mesmerizing, screaming…
Screaming!?
“DON’T JUST STAND THERE! MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!”
This story was based on the prompt “through the flames” at TypeTrigger.
Check the news, honey. Apparently something crazy happened at work today. I was napping in a storage room. (Hey, I earn my siestas!) The guys didn’t give me many details. When I woke up they said it was over already.
Haircut? What haircut? Why are you laughing? Did someone…?
Argh.
“I won’t recommend seafood dishes anymore,” the waiter explains. “It has landed me in hot water too many times before.”
“Oh?” I say. “Do people really get upset with you when they don’t like your suggestions?”
“I mean literal hot water,” he says sardonically, clicking his lobster claws.
This story was based on the prompt “won’t recommend” at TypeTrigger.
First night on the ward, the boss said, “Lookit, college boy, we got a load of patients. Most are only pick daisies in the park nuts, but them two in lockdown there is bona fide nuts-nuts. Don’t mess around with ’em.”
They didn’t look a lick crazier than the boss.
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.
“…So, between emigration and attrition, our population has been in steady decline, damaging our international image. That’s why today we’re announcing a moratorium on death.”
The press clamoured. “Ma’am! Ma’am! How can you possibly enforce this new policy?”
The president waved her hand dismissively. “Pharmaceutical bailouts and creative book-keeping, mostly.”
This story was based on the prompt “moratorium” at TypeTrigger.
“Shall we?” pondered Lord Flufferkins.
“Indeed,” said Sir Oakfeller.
“Tally ho!” cried Lord Flufferkins.
“Quite,” agreed Sir Oakfeller.
“En garde.”
“Touché!”
“Harry, what’re you doing?”
Harry started. “Er, nothin’!”
“Are you playing make believe with a stick and a bit of fuzz!?”
Harry blushed. “I’m just… Just practicin’ my ‘magination!”
This story was based on a title suggested by Master Gunner.
He left the run-down building, a smile on his face and full knowledge of what he had to do next.
As a bonus, his back and shoulders felt great. Who knew that Morse code could be so therapeutic?
For Markov Luhanovich, the great Russian spy, the medium was the massage.
Adam Michaud lives in Toronto, making bad puns and being kind to
strangers. Occasionally, he writes things.
He toddles up to me, hands cupped. “I made this, Daddy!”
I drop my briefcase. “What is it?”
His hands open and there goes the frog. We scramble after it, laughing.
I didn’t realize then that his statement had been literal. I still don’t know what he uses as materials.
This story was based on the prompt “for you” at TypeTrigger.
“During this voyage of a lifetime, always remember…” The priest’s nasally voice trailed off.
“Remember what?” said Captain Harkner.
“Just… remember,” said the priest. “In general. You’ll never complete your voyage if you can’t remember things! That’s why I’m staying safely here at home: mind like a sieve, that’s me!”
This story was based on the prompt “the voyage” at TypeTrigger.