“I’m sorry, sir, we’ll simply have to assign you an entirely new model.”
The Hardware Maintenance Commission representative smiled sympathetically, leafing through his papers.
“I know this procedure can be painful, but unfortunately your current version is no longer the standard.”
I sighed, lifting my son out of his stroller.
This story earned the First Runner Up, with a $25 prize, in the Mere 50 Words contest.
“You find me attractive?” the mermaid asked the derelict sailor.
“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Don’t you agree?”
She frowned. “No merman did.”
It seemed impossible. “Why?” he asked.
“My figure,” she said. “I’m not streamlined.”
“Is that why humans only ever see mermaids with curvaceous figures?”
“We go where we’re appreciated.”
This story earned an Honourable Mention, with a $10 prize, in the Mere 50 Words contest.
They weren’t there before I slept last night. I would have noticed for sure. The dusty shapes stood out in stark contrast on the otherwise pristine surface. Size 9 at a guess. Two sizes larger than my own. Two clearly defined footprints.
Why the hell were they on my ceiling?
This story earned an Honourable Mention, with a $10 prize, in the Mere 50 Words contest.
The helicopter buzzed over the city like a truck-sized mosquito.
“I can see my house!” cried little Jeremy.
“You’ll never see it again if your parents don’t pay up,” grunted one of the masked men.
“You want money?” said Jeremy. He gave them his allowance, and they let him go.
“You should try to write more neatly,” Miss Gillian said to Little Joey. “I can’t read what you wrote!”
“It’s a secret language!” said Little Joey. “I call it Scribblinglish! I just scribble something, and it turns real!”
“Very imaginative,” said Miss Gillian.
Teacher-eating flying killer whale, wrote Little Joey.
Grampa rolled his rocking chair back and forth, back and forth.
He rubbed the twin barrels of his shotgun with the polishing rag, up and down, up and down.
He spit a wad of chewing tobacco into a jar, stood, and said,
“Missy, don’t you never–ever–kiss no boys.”
When the smoke cleared, she felt… different, somehow. Her skin tingled, her biceps bulged, and when she squinted at her hand she saw right through it!
“Wow,” she thought. “I should choose a name for myself. Glory Girl? The Menacer? Peace Defender? Hot Commodity?”
She decided to stick with Melanie.
It was Jasmine’s birthday.
“It’s my birthday!” said Jasmine.
She had been born seventeen years before.
“I was born exactly seventeen years ago!” said Jasmine.
Jasmine wanted to have a party.
“Yay!” said Jasmine.
“Darling,” said Jasmine’s mother, “your birthday is tomorrow. Go back to bed.”
“Oh,” said Jasmine. “Whoops.”
The first day of school was like a nightmare for Billington Washburn Crabcakes. He tried to make friends, but everyone wanted to know what his name was, and he knew that if he told them he’d be made fun of for always.
So he kept to himself and ate crayons.
“Oh, come on, you’re pulling my leg…”
“I am not. It’s true!”
“If gasoline is really flammable, then why doesn’t my stomach explode? I’ve been drinking that stuff for years.”
“Well you’d need a spark to set it off.”
“Here, I’ll swallow a lit match to prove it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
This story was inspired by a title supplied by @gameking128 on Twitter.