“Luke, I’m your father!” said Luke’s father.
“That stopped being funny when I was in fifth grade,” said Luke.
“Join me on the dark side!”
“Nah, I think I’ll play on the light team this week.”
It hadn’t taken many pick-up soccer games for Luke to start wearing white t-shirts.
“I reckon you best be moseyin’ off now, son,” drawled the drawling old cowboy.
“Well aren’t we Mr. McDrawlyPants?” snivelled the snivelling little sniveller.
“Ker-Bang!” shot the shooty six-shooter.
“You brought it on yerself,” grunted the grunting, grumpy cowboy.
“Ow, my chest cavity really huuuuurts…” whined the whiny, dying whiner.
I’m trying out a new way to write dialogue. I think it has promise!
Samuel was studying Soviet philosophy, but he was having a hard time with it.
“It’s simple,” said Hank. “To the Soviet school, what makes us human is our ability to subvert our raw, natural instincts with humour and creativity.”
“I see,” said Samuel. “Basically, in Soviet Russia, joke makes you!”
“Mom, my square-shaped brand-name cereal tastes like O-shaped brand-name cereal!”
“Don’t you mean diamond-shaped, dear?”
“No, Mom. That was just a clever marketing scheme! They’ve been square-shaped all along! And I don’t want them to taste like O-shapes!”
“You should write a letter and deliver it to the Post office!”
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“Dad,” said Junior, “I don’t think I understand women.”
Dad chuckled. “That’s common. Men never really know what women are thinking.”
“Yeah,” said Junior. “They open their mouths and all I hear is ‘blah blah blah.’ Literally!”
“Literally?”
“Literally.”
“Blah blah blah?” asked Mom, sticking her head in the door.
“Do you play any sports, Kylie Marie?”
“Why yes, Fuzzily Bear! I play badminton, ping-pong, volleyball, and hoppity-scotch!”
“Are you any good, Kylie Marie?”
“I always try my hardest!”
“That’s code for ‘I suck’, right, Kylie Marie?”
“That’s not nice, Fuzzily Bear!”
FUZZILY BEAR’S WORD OF THE DAY IS: TACT.
He walked down the street, head down and diagonal to his current direction. Every now and then catching dim reflections of himself in the windows of parked cars. He patted and smoothed his hair, clinging to fragile perfection.
Just then a gust of wind blasted it into disarray.
He cried.
Will Dawson is an art student from Reading, UK.
The big grey wolf was very lonely, but its howling scared away all of the other woodland creatures.
One day it came across a chubby little baby bunny, which had gotten lost after a farmer killed its family.
The bunny and the wolf became BFFs. No one got eaten. Yay!
“Which way is the wind blowing now?” sneered the chimney to the weather vane.
The weather vane just waved left and right a little.
The chimney huffed grumpily. “You cost ten bucks at a hardware store, but you act like you’re made of gold!”
It was the height of vanity.
Our Hero stood resolute in the middle of the rain-soaked, corpse-littered asphalt.
Zombie earthworms.
They inched closer, exuding sinister inevitability, crushed, broken, bloated, wasting away, and hungry.
Our Hero calmly set a bowl of oatmeal on the ground, flavouring it with his own blood.
That should keep them. For now.
I asked, on Twitter, what I should write a fifty-word story about today. @dotsam wrote, “Saving the universe with a bowl of oatmeal.” @RacoonResidue wrote, “Zombie earth worms.”