“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.
“Help me, Doctor!” yelled Harry.
“What’s the problem?”
“I can’t write 50-word stories.”
“I’ll check your head bumps. A-hah! Your Inflated Prose, Trivial Detail, and Superfluous Description bumps are too high. I’ll lower them for $300 cash.”
Harry paid.
“Brace yourself. This is going to hurt. Nurse, hand me that sledgehammer.”
Michael A. Kechula’s flash fiction and microfiction has been published in 132 magazines and 42 anthologies. His four books of flash fiction are available from BooksForABuck.com.
He was a subculture within a subculture. Cowboys called him “bisonboy,” which wasn’t technically accurate, but it had a better ring to it than “buffaloboy.” He listened to country southern music and wore a 9-gallon hat.
But when he was sad, his tears made mud puddles, just like everybody else’s.
This story was based on a title suggested by @metcarfre.
It was late. Mintred and Neldred were on their way home from Neldred’s retirement party from Municipal Dolphin Transport.
Suddenly, they heard a shout and a splash. Hardly thinking, Neldred dove and kicked, arriving just in time to save the man’s life.
Thus began a series of new aquatic adventures.
This story is based on a series of tweets in which I asked people to guess what form of transport I was riding.
It was Mars-ish. (Mars-like? Hmm. Red and dusty, anyways.) Regardless, it was his backyard, and he was proud of it.
Land ownership was one of the purest forms of power, and it felt good. He knew his great-great-great-great grandfather Karl would agree.
Now all he was missing were some factories.
This story is based on a title suggested by King Kool.
“Didja see that new offer on the television set?”
“Yeah, I seen it.”
“Sez we can get internets fer only a coupla bucks a month!”
“I said I seen it.”
“So, d’ya wanna?”
“Heck, alright. How’d we go ’bout it?”
“Offer sez order online.”
“What’s ‘online’?”
“Heck if I know.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @klancashire.
He really didn’t want to go in.
He’d heard stories about this place, and they weren’t good. The person in charge was mean and scary.
He knew that once he was in, there was no way back: he would be trapped – at least until his mum collected him at three.
Mike Jackson is a retired primary school head teacher who is enjoying having time and freedom to write. You can read more of his writing here.
He lived inside his phone, drifting from app to app and nesting in the dim recesses of the End Call button.
He’d been there since the rotary days. The passing years had drastically reduced his living space.
He had no idea how he’d fit his mattress into a Bluetooth headset.
She watched arrogantly as the valet flung the bags into the trunk.
There was a tinkling crunch.
She turned to her husband. “See? They broke. I’m packing next time.”
He feigned sheepishness. Packing sucked, and they’d both hated Aunt Gertha’s gift. As far as he was concerned, this was victory.
Every Saturday morning the tables were set up. Goods new and used, handmade and home baked, were put out to browse through.
Every Saturday morning they came, tails tucked between their legs, cowering at the ends of their leashes.
The dogs would never understand the draw of the flea market.
This bonus story was written by Larissa Thiessen. It’s her birthday today, the last birthday she’ll have with the last name “Thiessen,” and that’s largely my fault!