First night on the ward, the boss said, “Lookit, college boy, we got a load of patients. Most are only pick daisies in the park nuts, but them two in lockdown there is bona fide nuts-nuts. Don’t mess around with ’em.”
They didn’t look a lick crazier than the boss.
Gary Clifton was forty years a Federal officer, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published in Spinetingler, Broadkill Review, Yellow Mama, and Dumb Butt Mag.
My wife spotted the chip in our car’s windshield first. “That’s a safety hazard,” she said.
“It’s no big deal,” I replied, but when I bumped out of the driveway it split into a larger crack. I was staring disgustedly at the crack when I missed the stop sign.
Crunch.
“…So, between emigration and attrition, our population has been in steady decline, damaging our international image. That’s why today we’re announcing a moratorium on death.”
The press clamoured. “Ma’am! Ma’am! How can you possibly enforce this new policy?”
The president waved her hand dismissively. “Pharmaceutical bailouts and creative book-keeping, mostly.”
This story was based on the prompt “moratorium” at TypeTrigger.
“Shall we?” pondered Lord Flufferkins.
“Indeed,” said Sir Oakfeller.
“Tally ho!” cried Lord Flufferkins.
“Quite,” agreed Sir Oakfeller.
“En garde.”
“Touché!”
“Harry, what’re you doing?”
Harry started. “Er, nothin’!”
“Are you playing make believe with a stick and a bit of fuzz!?”
Harry blushed. “I’m just… Just practicin’ my ‘magination!”
This story was based on a title suggested by Master Gunner.
Mara’s seasoning shop specialized in rare spices.
As a Jewish woman, barely scraping by amid the loneliness of big-city life, she found it pleasantly validating that her most profitable time of year was Passover, when hundreds of customers came to her for bitter herbs.
Occasionally she wondered: was this irony?
This story was based on the prompt “bitter herbs” at TypeTrigger.
He left the run-down building, a smile on his face and full knowledge of what he had to do next.
As a bonus, his back and shoulders felt great. Who knew that Morse code could be so therapeutic?
For Markov Luhanovich, the great Russian spy, the medium was the massage.
Adam Michaud lives in Toronto, making bad puns and being kind to
strangers. Occasionally, he writes things.
He toddles up to me, hands cupped. “I made this, Daddy!”
I drop my briefcase. “What is it?”
His hands open and there goes the frog. We scramble after it, laughing.
I didn’t realize then that his statement had been literal. I still don’t know what he uses as materials.
This story was based on the prompt “for you” at TypeTrigger.
“During this voyage of a lifetime, always remember…” The priest’s nasally voice trailed off.
“Remember what?” said Captain Harkner.
“Just… remember,” said the priest. “In general. You’ll never complete your voyage if you can’t remember things! That’s why I’m staying safely here at home: mind like a sieve, that’s me!”
This story was based on the prompt “the voyage” at TypeTrigger.
Before we knew what was happening, I was hanging by my fingertips over about a billion miles of empty sky, my buddy and his parachute were dwindling into an invisible speck somewhere below me, and the chicks were whooping like banshees.
What’s wrong with being boring? I LIKE being boring!
This story was based on the prompt “before we knew” at TypeTrigger.
“I’m returning this puzzle.”
“Sorry, we don’t do returns on products that have been taken out of the packaging.”
“But there were pieces missing!”
“Which pieces?”
“The corners.”
“Oh… I see the misunderstanding. You can’t get the corners here.”
“What? Where do I get them?”
“At a Corner Store. Duh.”
This story was based on the prompt “corner store” at TypeTrigger.