“Ooh, it says it’s recommended by four-of-five early childhood educators!” said the young mother, hefting a brightly decorated box. “Two for the kids, then?”
“Why?” grunted her husband, eyeing the Squeezy Huggables Parental Affection Replacement Device suspiciously.
“Between this and a nanny, we wouldn’t have to touch them at all!”
All the food was orange: carrot soup, pumpkin pie, and orange juice. I didn’t like any of it, but I ate it because I had been taught that when you are a guest you must show appreciation of whatever you are given.
I’m not going to like life on Mars.
Tanja Cilia lives in Malta, Europe, with her husband and three children. She freelances for print and online media in Maltese and English. You can read her latest blog post for the Times of Malta here.
“It’s barbaric!” she shrilled, her artificially smoothened, partially atrophied face stiff with a show of haughty dismay. “The thought of consuming such a creature!”
The manager watched the woman wobble out on four-inch heels.
“The octopus offended her,” he whispered to the chef. “With her looks, it must’ve seemed cannibalistic.”
This story was based on a request for prompts in the form of three adjectives beginning with the letters A, B, and C. The adjectives atrophied, barbaric, and cannibalistic, were provided by @keab42.
The care-free matador brought work home with him, dodging bulls by night and sidestepping commitments and responsibilities by day.
The stolid yodeler brought work home with her, bellowing music by day and shouting judgments and criticisms by night.
He reminded her of a song.
She reminded him of a cow.
This story is based on a title created by my sister, Lisa, while playing a microfiction party game that I will share via this site at some point in the future.
“Grapplin’ hooks, skeleton keys, guard uniforms… I got everythin’ you need, man.”
“You charge a lot, Skivvy.”
“It ain’t easy to get stuff like this into my cell.”
“True dat.”
“But let me tell you, gettin’ nabbed for murder’s the most profitable thing I ever done. I’m makin’ a killing!”
He’d killed his first outlaw after drinking bourbon for breakfast; it had become part of his routine.
For similar reasons, he drank saké for supper and lemonade for lunch, though he didn’t much advertise the latter.
One time he swallowed mud at midnight, so he let the train robbers go.
This story is based on a title suggested by the ever profuse @MisterFiendZero.
“Sink or swim” was not a particularly relevant idiom for Nelson the narcoleptic turtle. He floated, and good thing, too, or he’d probably fall asleep, sink, and die. Instead he just bobbed along on the surface, snoring softly.
One day Nelson floated ashore and fell asleep there.
Narcolepsy is boring.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Vanguard1219.
It made me mad that I couldn’t hide my sadness from them.
As the sun transformed my smile and let me age prematurely, I couldn’t forgive them for already moving on.
My last thought when my coal eyes hit the ground? “You little rascals will know the feeling soon enough!”
Originally from Germany, Tine moved to California about a year ago. Since then she has become a full-time mom taking care of a four-year-old chatterbox, which makes the fifty-word story a perfect format for her.
Rudolf hopped on one foot, pirouetted, leapt to and fro, wiggled his hips, do-si-doed, executed a graceful plie, moonwalked, discoed, waltzed, two-stepped, wriggled like a worm, jigged like a hillbilly, and slapped his knees, but no matter what he did, it kept snowing.
Apparently he wasn’t a raindeer after all.
I want to eat my flatmate
I think he knows it, too
He watches me suspiciously
Whenever we buy food
It’s happening tomorrow
I’m going to boil his head
Wait: is this a man-shaped pan
Hidden beneath his bed?
I want to eat my flatmate
He may eat me instead
This story/poem is based on a title suggested by @big_poppa_G.