Wouldn’t it be nice
if life
had handlebars?
A simple way to steer;
Something to hold
for balance;
A little bell,
to let people know
we were coming;
And a headlight
to help us see
the road in front of us.
Come to think of it,
how about some brakes?
This story was based on the prompt “handlebar” at TypeTrigger.
For the Dying Race, there is no place,
In worlds of field or forest
For that breed, there is no need
There is no hope of trying.
Yet hope remains, that hope’s campaigns
Will break those chains
And overcome reigns
Of races better fit.
Do not outsource.
Stay the course.
Bobby Langhorne is a programmer and a wishful storyteller.
There’s a valley in the mountains
where the blue grass grows,
where the blue wind blows,
where the blue sky glows.
There’s a shepherd in the valley
searching wide and deep
for his lost blue sheep;
never stops for sleep.
There’s a valley in the mountains,
bluest place I’ve seen.
This story is based on a title suggested by Larissa via Facebook.
She stood at my door
one black glove, one red
and a lacy half-veil
Good evening, ma’am
icily
I didn’t want what she was selling
but my kids did
Of course, they hadn’t heard
the asking price
the surcharges
the cost-to-benefit ratios
Just the allure
the affect
I’ve been there
This story is based on the prompt “one black glove, one red,” suggested by @big_poppa_G.
Editor’s Note: for clearest interpretation, read affect as a noun, which has been, lately, one of my favourite words.
Water is my favourite drink
I sure find it delicious
If some old bad guy stole it all
I’d find it quite malicious
What would we do?
Where would we go?
We’d get so dehydrated
That’s why I built this reservoir
And sat down here
And waited
My lifestyle’s underrated
Australia, the young man knew,
Held many things for him to do
And proud Brazil, whose flag was green,
Was filled with things that he had seen
He’d studied well the Paris streets
Some day, he said, he’d visit Greece
A wanderer, he called himself
Exploring books upon his shelf
Thrashing through the midnight darkness,
he stumbled
but did not cry out.
Silently he lay
listening to silence.
Then he fumbled
in his pocket
for a match.
In the flame’s flickering glow, he was struck
by irony
and the traitor’s arrow.
He had assumed
he would die
by the sword.
There was a man at the corner with one third of a hat and half a pair of shoes. I offered him my boots. He sold them to a homeless guy for ten bucks and gave the money to a woman at a bus stop.
I really liked those boots…
Alternate Version:
He stood there on the corner, with tattered hat and coat. His backpack overflowed with toys that he was handing out.
His shoes were only halfers: they covered just his heels. I offered mine, but he declined, ungrateful little eel.
He made me feel guilty, and guilt is not genteel.
This story, and the supplementary poem, were inspired by a title suggested by @hexapodium.
I want to eat my flatmate
I think he knows it, too
He watches me suspiciously
Whenever we buy food
It’s happening tomorrow
I’m going to boil his head
Wait: is this a man-shaped pan
Hidden beneath his bed?
I want to eat my flatmate
He may eat me instead
This story/poem is based on a title suggested by @big_poppa_G.
You tell me that I’ve changed,
My priorities rearranged.
Did you ever really know me
At all?
It’s been a long time
Since you swept me off my feet.
But I won’t admit defeat.
I have faith enough for both of us.
That’s the one thing that’s never changed
At all.
J Dianne Waye found a link to Fifty-Word Stories on Kelley Armstrong’s writing forum. She isn’t the first to submit a story because of that link, and hopefully she won’t be the last!