Mr. X lived seven lives, one for each day of the week.
Monday, he was a fisherman.
Tuesday, he was a chef.
Wednesday, he was a restaurant critic.
Thursday, he worked in sewage treatment.
Friday, he studied marine ecology.
Saturday, he went scuba diving.
Sunday, he was a Pacific Cod.
This story was based on a title suggested by @vxicepickxv.
Milos wanted to stand out, to be remembered.
As he wheeled the life-sized, entirely edible cake replica of himself into the room, he knew he had succeeded.
Every member of the cannibal collective oohed and aahed.
“The volunteer provides dessert, right?” Milos beamed. “Now you get to eat me twice!”
One day an evil wizard turned a lizard into a goat. “I am the evilest of wizards!” he said. Then the goat kicked him. He turned it back into a lizard so it couldn’t kick him again. Then the real evilest wizard sued him for misusing the Evilest Wizard trademark.
“How will the end begin?” my daughter asked me one night. “And I don’t want you make any jokes about the letters ‘T’ and ‘H’ or tell me I’ll find out when I’m older or change the subject!”
Just then, a billion trumpets sounded.
“Whoa,” she said. “Never mind, daddy.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @stealingzen.
“Look at that!” says Bandylegs.
“I know. Children don’t believe anymore and now the grownups are melting us down and squeezing us into those!” Pinknose says, pointing to a bottle. “And look, they’ve even put our names in plain view!”
Next to the sink is a bottle of Fairy Liquid.
Martin Shone is a cleaner who is getting very close to being fifty, but he’s only twenty-eight, really.
There were no keys to the city, boisterous parades, Nobel prizes, or television interviews for the man who conquered friction. (His call-in to local radio was unrelated.)
Hal Miller’s millstones, which once kept the whole neighbourhood awake, were now silent, and also completely ineffectual.
Too bad NASA never followed up.
This story was based on a title suggested by @ecocd.
She knocked on the door, then nocked an arrow.
“Greetings, homeowner,” she said. “Would you like to sign our anti-longbow petition?”
“Uh, sure,” said the citizen. He signed. Then she shot him in the leg.
“Thanks,” she said. “Register your assault charge with the police to help advance our cause!”
Two rectangular prongs and one round prong. Perfection.
Joe had worked at Hob’s Hardware long enough to know that, at least. These three prongs were the holy triumvirate, the electron bearers, the voltage senders, the ohm inducers.
In these troubled days, that was all he was truly certain of anymore.
The mobster had many fancy rings. His fingers were all the same size, due to a meat-packing factory accident, so he frequently rearranged his rings in patterns.
Sometimes he sent messages to his CIA handler using ring-based codes, but mostly he tried to distract people from his freaky-weird breakfast-sausage-shaped digits.
“Ruff woof,” said Fido, wagging his tail, but Max just said, “Bad dog,” and put him out in the back yard, because Max didn’t understand the witty wordplay (barkplay?) Fido was using, which involved a canine equivalent of something like “putting the ‘toy’ in ‘toilet’,” and was really very clever.