He led the eager men into the cold, white room. He was a well-to-do gentleman with time and blood on his hands. It was a relief to finally reveal his passion for taxidermy.
“Is the collection finished?” they asked.
“Almost,” he said, his eyes out-gleaming the scalpel in his hand.
Kell wrote this story for a school assignment, with the title as a prompt.
“Dad,” said Junior, “I don’t think I understand women.”
Dad chuckled. “That’s common. Men never really know what women are thinking.”
“Yeah,” said Junior. “They open their mouths and all I hear is ‘blah blah blah.’ Literally!”
“Literally?”
“Literally.”
“Blah blah blah?” asked Mom, sticking her head in the door.
It had been Saturday for over twenty-three hours, and Georgia was beginning to Freak. Out.
What if Sunday never came? What if she was stuck in an ever-elongating, never-ending, self-perpetuating Saturday?
Suddenly, the clock stopped.
It stayed stopped.
And then it started again.
Georgia had no idea what that meant.
Disclaimer: No, it doesn’t make any sense. It really is Saturday today, though.
“Do you play any sports, Kylie Marie?”
“Why yes, Fuzzily Bear! I play badminton, ping-pong, volleyball, and hoppity-scotch!”
“Are you any good, Kylie Marie?”
“I always try my hardest!”
“That’s code for ‘I suck’, right, Kylie Marie?”
“That’s not nice, Fuzzily Bear!”
FUZZILY BEAR’S WORD OF THE DAY IS: TACT.
He walked down the street, head down and diagonal to his current direction. Every now and then catching dim reflections of himself in the windows of parked cars. He patted and smoothed his hair, clinging to fragile perfection.
Just then a gust of wind blasted it into disarray.
He cried.
Will Dawson is an art student from Reading, UK.
“How long do you think it’s been since the waitress last stopped by our table?”
“I dunno. Twelve minutes?”
“Wrong. Try nineteen.”
“Wow, really? Nineteen minutes?”
“Nope. Try thirty-seven.”
“It definitely hasn’t been thirty-seven minutes.”
“True. You don’t have to keep guessing the numbers I’m suggesting.”
“…I hate this game.”
“Taco chips taste just about as exciting as being in Mexico would be.”
“That is a ridiculous statement,” said Angie.
“I don’t think so,” said Alice. “I’ve been to Mexico, and it wasn’t very exciting.”
“This is probably the lamest conversation I have ever transcribed,” said Harold Garfinkel, the ethnomethodologist.
His cold silhouette was hunched over. He wasn’t even enjoying his cigarette. It was like a chore to him. He took his stabs at it quickly while he paced around on the balcony.
He always blew the smoke upwards. This was probably the only time his eyes looked towards God.
Charlie Dunn is a college student who also wrote Full Count and Tracer Bullet.
The big grey wolf was very lonely, but its howling scared away all of the other woodland creatures.
One day it came across a chubby little baby bunny, which had gotten lost after a farmer killed its family.
The bunny and the wolf became BFFs. No one got eaten. Yay!
“Which way is the wind blowing now?” sneered the chimney to the weather vane.
The weather vane just waved left and right a little.
The chimney huffed grumpily. “You cost ten bucks at a hardware store, but you act like you’re made of gold!”
It was the height of vanity.