Ellie wriggled her toes, grinning with grim satisfaction as the joints cracked. She looked down at the delicate, elfin girl nestled underneath the covers beside her.
“Morning,” her husband whispered as he entered the room. “Is she still asleep?”
Ellie nodded, beaming, gently stroking the girl’s sun-dappled cheek. “My baby.”
Vikkie the Mimm originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.
The ancient bard settled more comfortably into his furs and breathed in deeply. The air held the scent of pine needles, campfire smoke, and eager anticipation.
His audience held their breaths with rapt attention, awaiting the bard’s words of adventure, beauty, and wisdom.
The bard opened his mouth to begin…
@gameking218: “I forgot the Smores,” he said. Everyone up and left.
@VikkieTheMimm: …but alas, he’d lost his voice. Darn that Mage Flu.
What happens next? Write your own conclusion to this story and either write in a comment or send it to me via Twitter at @50wordstories. Your conclusion must be ten words or less!
I’ll add in responses as I receive them, though I may make some edits of my own before including them.
She was the foxiest lady I ever met.
There was nothing “faux” about the furs she wore. In her mind, “animal cruelty” was a term for describing bear attacks.
I finally asked her to go to dinner with me, but it turned out she was a vegetarian, so I walked.
“I heard on the radio today that statisticians are wealthier, happier, and awesomer than people in other professions.”
“Oh really. Who collected the data? And who published the report?”
“Stats Canada.”
“And you don’t see anything suspicious about that?”
“Nope. Statisticians are great!”
“…Yeah. You’re right.”
“I’m gonna marry one!”
Maurice accidentally sautéed his beloved pet snail. As it fried, it moved in the pan in a strange, almost rythmic pattern.
On the gravestone in the backyard, Maurice wrote, “He was slow to make friends until he started coming out of his shell, but sadly his hopes were ultimately crushed…”
This story was assembled using pieces sent to me via Twitter from @MoosePhysh, @gameking128, and @piers_hollott.
Jorge was a racist. He hated purple people. He wanted to do mean things to them all.
Jorge was also a mulish ignoramus. He wouldn’t listen to anyone who tried to tell him purple people didn’t exist.
“Fools!” he muttered to himself every night, as he repainted his skin brown.
“Crumpets!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Muffins!”
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
“Biscuits!”
“I, uh… Are you ok?”
“Scones!”
“I usually pronounce it ‘scawns’, myself.”
“Croissants!”
“Hold on, are you just yelling out the names of various baked goods?”
“Cookies!”
“Ok, ok, I think I’m getting the picture.”
“Cupcakes!”
“Danishes!”
“Charcoal!”
“…Huh?”
“My dear, can you hear me?” said the voice.
“I can,” she replied.
“I am your angel of music. I will teach you to sing like no other. Together we can achieve great things. We’ll make the music of the night.”
“Then you want Christine next door. I’m the custodian.”
JP originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest. It is a reference to the Phantom of the Opera.
“Did you know,” droned the lecturer, “that until a few short centuries ago, the human body was made of sixty percent water rather than sixty percent weaponry?”
“Weird,” commented a student, holding up one shotgun arm and flexing his finger-pistols. “Makes you wonder how they survived long enough to evolve.”
Thousands of ducks overwhelmed the streets of North Crundria. The city was in an uproar.
“Ducks!?” cried the frightened, confused masses. “But… Aren’t they extinct?!”
A zoologist stood on his porch. “I warned you all,” he said. “The balance has shifted. And I, for one, welcome our new Duck Overlords.”
This story was inspired by suggestions from @gameking128 (“duck”), @Graham_LRR (“North Crundria”), and @HootieD (“to shift”) via Twitter.