“No one listens. NO ONE EVER LISTENS!!”
In the corner, several people were cowering. “Are you going to let us go?”
The irate tuxedoed gentleman whirled in fury, brandishing a handgun. “No!” he cried. “Ignorant fools. Listen. Appreciate. Learn. Grow.”
The captives cringed as the musician bent over his glockenspiel.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Jillers.
“Don’t forget your keys, dear.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Can you recite them for me, just to be sure?”
“Yes, mother… Patience. Perseverance. Perspective. Practicality. Proactivity.”
“Precisely! Oh, my brilliant, handsome young man. You’re going to make a great dictionary engineer.”
“Sure, unless they assign me somewhere other than the P division.”
Kevin clung desperately to the lip of the mile-high cliff, wondering which of today’s six poor choices had been most to blame for his predicament.
His sweat-slick palms gave way, and too late he noticed the ledge he could have dropped safely onto.
So, the seventh mistake, then.
Hope wasn’t a talented dancer, but a massive crowd was gathered around the field, watching her sway and leap.
“Park’s closing!” advised a groundskeeper. “She’ll still be here tomorrow. Always is.”
“Does she ever stop?” asked a tourist.
“Not in ten years. Just slows down a bit now and then.”
Every night the elves secretly finished the cobbler’s work.
The intricate yet sturdy shoes became very popular.
The king heard about this and the cobbler was called to the castle to make royal shoes.
Unfortunately he didn’t know how to prepare that style himself.
In the end he was beheaded.
This story came to Rammy in his three-quarter sleep.
“I’m the best hyperbolizer in the world.”
“Stop exaggerating.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone else like me? I’m a world-famous big-talker, man! One of a kind!”
“There’s only one thing you could claim you’re famous for, and that’s the size of your head.”
“Yep! Biggest noggin there ever was!”
This story is based on the prompt “hyperbolic” at TypeTrigger.
Sometimes when I fall asleep I see pictures moving across the back of my eyelids, strange pastel cartoons, usually, where a round-headed caricature of me is trying to escape from a cloud labelled “Future” or “Responsibility.”
My wife says that sometimes she can see the projector’s flickers behind my eyes.
Jennifer awoke in the lion enclosure, drowsy and confused.
She’d just rested her eyes for a few seconds in the library, awash in a sea of dull economics textbooks. How and why was she here?
She shrugged her new shoulders, flicked her tail, and padded softly out into the sunlight.
Jeremy is a shambling mess of unkempt hair and caffeine-induced twitches, currently based in Southampton in the UK. He doesn’t have a website of his own, but would like to direct people towards the band he’s involved with at http://www.thebluescreenofdeath.co.uk/ and their music video he starred in.
This shirt, this wonderful, beautiful shirt, has magic powers; its wearer, they say, will always gain his heart’s desires.
They also say that it’s invisible to those with evil in their hearts, but that doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t need to see it to know that it’s working.
Cynthia theatrically flung open the wardrobe. “Well?”
After an awkward pause, Greg said, “It’s…”
“I know! Isn’t it?” enthused Cynthia.
Greg paused. He wasn’t actually sure what he had been going to say. “It” was some kind of all-of-the-neons polka-dotted dress thing. “Yes,” he managed at last, “it really is.”