Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.
A monster slouched past my apartment window last night, its shoulder on the thirty-fifth floor. I tried to get its attention, but it just skulked onward towards the west.
This morning I woke up early to check the news. There was no mention of my monster. I was sadly disappointed.
Andrew Black is a writer of weird fiction and has had stories featured in anthologies by May December Publications and SNM Horror Magazine. Andrew has a blog with news of the weird and tips for writing at maskofreason.wordpress.com.
I asked Mom once why I had an uncle but no aunt. I figured they were a bundle deal.
Mom said, “Your uncle has three defining characteristics: veiny biceps, chest hair, and a fanny pack full of beef jerky.”
I still don’t know which of those is the bad thing.
“Pick a pig,” said the farmer. “Oh, Pig 3’s half price.”
Suzanna surveyed the oinking, grunting shapes wallowing in the sty. “Are you sure they’re all actually pigs?”
“‘Course I’m sure. I ain’t no swindler!”
“I only ask,” said Suzanna, “because Pig 3 looks like a stump with a tape recorder.”
This story is based on a title suggested by Michelle Sevenhuysen via Facebook.
Like many other runty rodents, Gus had an entirely undeserved nickname.
“Goofy Gopher,” his mom had affectionately called him. But the weasels found out.
Gus’s father said, “Reappropriate it. Go into stand-up. Make a name for yourself. Show them up.”
But it turned out Gus’s jokes just weren’t very funny.
“Where are we?” grumbled Trim, rolling out of bed.
“Planet X!” enthused Portly.
“What!? Why?!”
“I dunno,” said Portly. “It’s a ‘forbidden fruit’ thing, I guess.”
“But don’t you know about the Curse?”
“What curse?” said Portly.
Trim groaned haggardly. “Now we’ll never be able to recite the alphabet again!”
This story is based on a title suggested by @keab42.
Constable X was an enigma to Constables Murphy and McDonough.
The Captain said Constable X worked solo because he’d lost partners before.
Something didn’t feel right about that, so they did a bit of prying.
Turned out he slept in his office all day.
And donned a mask at night.
This story is based on a title suggested by @MisterFiendZero.
Evolution happens.
I found that out for certain the day I met a Tyrannosaurus X.
He had weak eyes, massive jaws, and stubby little arms.
He was cold-blooded. Scaly-skinned. Exclusively carnivorous.
I was intrigued. I asked for a blood sample. He roared.
He was the missing link, the old fossil.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Tally_LRR.
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!”