“In today’s headlines,” said the news anchor on TV, “civil unrest rages on throughout the Middle East. Also, Hugh and Bob Mungus need to stop playing so much XBox and do their homework.”
“Huh?” said Hugh and Bob.
Mom grinned. She hadn’t told her sons about her new boyfriend yet.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt, “in today’s headlines.”
“I’m sick of being single.”
“Yeah, me too. It’s totally lame. It’s hard to do anything about it though, you know?”
“Well, this is kind of counter-intuitive, but apparently if we don’t want to be single anymore, we have to split.”
“Worth a try. Anything’s better than staying single-celled forever.”
She heard the saw cease its whirring.
Her love stomped in, dewdrops of sweat lining his creased forehead, clutching a crude cedar carving of a heart.
He had suffered so much, and still laboured under the weight of the memories, but today, it seemed, his stomps fell a little lighter.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
This story is based on a title suggested by @PoshPlatypus.
One after another, Meg ignored all of the warning signs that her blind date might be trouble: his deathly-pale complexion; the creaky door to his castle and the heavy drapes that kept the so-called solarium dark as a dungeon; his Transylvanian accent; the lobster bib with her picture on it…
John H. Dromey has had flash fiction published in a number of print anthologies, as well as online at Liquid Imagination, three minute plastic, Thrillers, Killers ’n’ Chillers, and elsewhere.
*click*
Oh no.
*click click*
It’s jammed! This is bad. REALLY BAD.
*click click click click*
What am I going to do?! Any second now he’s going to turn around and see me, and then…
*click click BANG*
Phew!
I thought I might get blamed for breaking his nail gun.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “faulty trigger”.
First their eyes danced, glancing and winking. Then their feet danced, carrying them in intersecting paths. Next came the dance of voices: introductions, banter, flirtation.
He anticipated the dance of lips: she replied with the dance of the open palm.
Nursing wounded pride and cheek, he retreated, his rhythm lost.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Wolfgang_Cloud.
You never know it’s coming until it arrives. You think you’re prepared, you think you’ve thought through all the contingencies, you think you’re a quick reactor, and then BAM, it hits you, and you find yourself crying to the Heavens, “Why me!?”
That unscratchable itch, just barely out of reach…
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “you never know.”
“Eighty-six consecutive rejections. I give up.” He downed his scotch.
“Pessimist,” I scoffed.
“Just let me crawl down into my Deep Hole of Lonelitude.” His glass being already empty, he downed my scotch next.
Nearby, a withered, watery-eyed man in a wheelchair said, “Psh. Romance? Wouldn’t solve your problem, anyways.”
This story is based on a title suggested by Jeremy Quinn. It is a companion to his previous title suggestion, Unlikely Ascension.
I love you.
Steve told me that you are into latin lovers, so I kneel before you and say, “Te amo. Cor meum te petit. Sine te non volo vivere. Et tu me amabisne?”
You answer, “What?”
Guess you do not want your lovers to be that Latin after all.
Lucas is a science student from Germany who likes to write stuff in his free time. You can find more of his work (in German) at his website: lucas.treffenstaedt.de.
My son told me his purple stuffed worm was alive. “I caught it sneaking out last night.”
“Where was it going?” I asked.
“To eat some tomatoes.”
I laughed, kissed him goodnight, and took my flashlight out to the garden.
Sure enough, I caught that sneaky tomato thief around midnight.
This story was based on a title suggested by @TheMoatman.