The dragon was expecting him. Huddled against a crag, silver scales blending perfectly with the mountainside, she watched his approach.
Her claws flexed.
A tongue of flame curled at the back of her throat…
When the knight dismounted, she swept in and grabbed his horse. “Enjoy the walk home, bozo!”
is writing about dragons again. Everything is better with dragons!
Bored. I stretched out on the couch and took in the sunshine streaming through the gap in the curtains, luxuriating in the warmth.
For years, I’d imagined how great it would be to come back as a cat. And it was, but I’d never realized it would be so boring.
Philipp is a graphic artist, musician, historical martial artist, and professional copywriter. He has previously been published in Fifty Word Stories, and examples of his art, music, and writing can be found at pmselman.com
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.
After applying for many years he made it into Mensa. Finally, he was among the most intelligent people of his time. Cerebrally unmatched yet socially awkward, he wondered what he’d be doing there until he was told to put on some overalls, get a bucket, and mop out the toilets.
Amplitudes of emotion
coursed his veins, his young flesh
wed to eyes in constant motion.
On her perch he envisioned heavenly
auras enhanced by multitudes of color
from his imagination.
With a tongue numbed by inaction,
he sensed little to risk and quipped,
“Don’t I know you from church camp?”
Fred Miller is a California writer. Over forty of his stories have appeared in various publications around the world. Some of these stories appear in his current blog
One afternoon, a priest, a lawyer, and a dentist walked into a bar.
The priest ordered himself a martini, promptly choked on the olive, and died. The lawyer jumped up, crying, “This isn’t funny!” and bolted from the joke.
The dentist, never one for punchlines, quietly called for another round.
Dr. Toms receives a soil sample from planet Mars. Dr. Toms views the sample under a microscope.
At 5000X she sees hints of something different. She turns the magnification up to 20,000X.
Dr. Toms can see: it’s writing. The words say,
“If you can read this you are too close.“
Denny E. Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction at Postcard Shorts. See more at dennymarshall.com
Brass blazed, strings sang, and timpani boomed the finale to Venet’s Concerto, but when the orchestra lulled for the star instrument, there was silence.
The xylophone player lay unconscious under a fallen stage light.
“Don’t move him,” said the conductor. “He might have percussion.”
Not even the piccolo player laughed.
E. M. Eastick is an Australian writer currently living in Colorado.
A knock on my front door awakened me.
When I opened the door I saw a red fellow who stood three feet high. He asked me for a cup of sugar.
I was out of sugar.
He flew billions of light years and went home empty-handed.
Small tragedy I suppose.
Doug attends Wittenberg University. He hopes to entertain the world through the written word.