“I heard on the radio today that statisticians are wealthier, happier, and awesomer than people in other professions.”
“Oh really. Who collected the data? And who published the report?”
“Stats Canada.”
“And you don’t see anything suspicious about that?”
“Nope. Statisticians are great!”
“…Yeah. You’re right.”
“I’m gonna marry one!”
Jorge was a racist. He hated purple people. He wanted to do mean things to them all.
Jorge was also a mulish ignoramus. He wouldn’t listen to anyone who tried to tell him purple people didn’t exist.
“Fools!” he muttered to himself every night, as he repainted his skin brown.
“My dear, can you hear me?” said the voice.
“I can,” she replied.
“I am your angel of music. I will teach you to sing like no other. Together we can achieve great things. We’ll make the music of the night.”
“Then you want Christine next door. I’m the custodian.”
JP originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest. It is a reference to the Phantom of the Opera.
“Did you know,” droned the lecturer, “that until a few short centuries ago, the human body was made of sixty percent water rather than sixty percent weaponry?”
“Weird,” commented a student, holding up one shotgun arm and flexing his finger-pistols. “Makes you wonder how they survived long enough to evolve.”
Thousands of ducks overwhelmed the streets of North Crundria. The city was in an uproar.
“Ducks!?” cried the frightened, confused masses. “But… Aren’t they extinct?!”
A zoologist stood on his porch. “I warned you all,” he said. “The balance has shifted. And I, for one, welcome our new Duck Overlords.”
This story was inspired by suggestions from @gameking128 (“duck”), @Graham_LRR (“North Crundria”), and @HootieD (“to shift”) via Twitter.
“Caw,” said the crow, turning its blind eye towards her. She always fell for it. What would today’s treat be? The big knife meant cooking day. That meant meat scraps or fish-guts or chicken skin. It hopped greedily to her outstretched hand.
She stroked it. It was finally fat enough.
Today’s story was originally submitted by Lenny as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.
Life as a superhero has become difficult with the preponderance of cell-phones. Phone booths are getting so rare as to be nonexistent. One is forced to change into tights in a Port-o-Potty when one can find one. Unfortunately, clothes left in a portable toilet usually aren’t there when you return.
This story, by L. Christopher Bird, was originally submitted for the Mere 50 Words contest.
The kids crawled all over the playground.
“Who’s It?”
“Jimmy is!”
“The ground’s lava! If you touch it, you’re It!”
Tamara thought being It might be fun. So she went to one of the ladders, took a deep breath, and hopped down…
Lava burns. A lot. But she died painlessly.
He had the biggest, bushiest, amazingest beard.
People would approach him in restaurants or on the street and ask to take his picture. He was half celebrity, half tourist attraction.
The mayor accused him of using a fake beard, but testing determined that it was real.
The mayor was impeached.
Sigmund dove for cover, gunshots ringing in his ears.
“Hello,” said Carl’s ghost.
“Girly scream!” said Sigmund.
“You just killed me,” said Carl’s ghost.
“…Sorry?” squeaked Sigmund.
Carl’s ghost shrugged.
“Blam!” said Carl’s partner’s gun as it shot Sigmund.
“Girly scream!” said Carl’s partner.
“I’m really hungry,” said Carl’s ghost.