Two bodies sway across the living room, their dance accompanied by the soothing strains of Barry Manilow.
“Mmph,” says the woman. “Your chin is… prickly.”
“Yeah,” says the man. “I’m going for sort of an ‘anthropomorphized wombat’ look. Do you like it?”
“…Here’s a razor. Your choice: chin or throat.”
Editor’s Note: This story was based on a call on Twitter for a noun, an adjective, and a verb. @Sarahkitten responded with wombat, prickly, and dance.
Noon: the sun stood still overhead.
A man in a black hat faced a man in a brown hat.
“Take ten paces!” cried the sheriff.
One, two, three, four—BANG!
Brown hat fell. Blood pooled in the dust; black hat smirked.
BANG!
Black hat fell. “Filthy cheater,” said the sheriff.
“Tell us a story, Grampa!”
“Alright, kids! Once there was an old man with fourteen grandchildren. He was a grumpy man, so he took all their toys away and burned them. The End.”
“Thanks for the story, Grampa! Can we play dolls now?”
“Sorry, Susie. It was a true story.”
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.
Muscles rippled under the skin of the runner’s mighty thighs.
BANG!
They were off!
He kept his head down, pouring all of his energy into each stride. No challengers were close behind, and only a few yards remained!
WHOOSH!
The rest of the pack swept past, moving the opposite direction.
“Put a catheter in that!” the veterinary Cleric called as he emerged from the Operating Room.
A woman and her son stood at the counter, holding a small, whimpering dragon.
“Looks like he’s got the mange,” said the Cleric.
“Can you fix him?” asked the boy.
“Maybe,” said the Cleric.
“Lights! Camera! Action!”
“Tamara, I’m not very good with words, but I guess what I’m trying to say is… Will you marry me?”
Tamara blushed convincingly. “Really?” she said. “Yes, of course!”
They kissed.
“That’s not how the script goes!” said the director. “Oh, I get it. Congratulations, you two.”
Twelve ravens settled on the field.
“Raaawk, twelve of us? Somethin’ big!” croaked Elwitch, the biggest raven.
“Death, death, raawk!” agreed Eegar, the oldest.
Esaud, the loudest, squawked, “Raawk, George, the farmer!”
George, left leg missing below the knee, hobbled past on crutches, with a shotgun slung across his back.
“I think I dropped it over here somewhere. It might’ve rolled under something.”
“You should be more careful.”
“I’m sorry! I don’t know how it happened!”
“You’re so absentminded… What did you lose this time, anyways?”
“My brain.”
“What? Are you out of your mind!?”
“No, it’s out of me!”
“See, Ma? Nogard’s got the mange!”
“You’re right, Cliven. Why didn’t I notice before? Dear, poor Nogard. You must itch something fierce!”
“What should we do, Ma?”
“We could treat it ourselves, but it looks pretty advanced. We should probably call the Veterinary Cleric. I’m pretty sure he treats dragons.”