The monitor flickered, headset summoning clamouring sirens into his existence. A ballet of banality ensued, each reaction scripted, monitored.
Then a hiatus, sandwiches wrapped in cellophane and instant coffee.
He once dreamed of being a writer.
Now he lurked in isolation, constructing reassuring mantras.
Dreaming of sandwiches wrapped in cellophane.
Image Ronin wrote this story.
I woke up at seven
My face already shaven
For breakfast coffee or tea
Ready to be me
Walking down the street
Nobody to meet
Doubtful like Hamlet
Hands in my pockets
How to be alone
Curiously I want to know
Now I’m getting home
To finish this sad show.
Virginio is an Italian student of English language. He likes writing stories in English and sometimes playing with rhymes.
Bollenhall is not a nice place. It is hot, dry, and boring. Very few tourists go there on vacation.
Most of Bollenhall’s residents leave when they reach adulthood. The mayor passed a “free cake on Thursdays” bylaw to convince people to stay.
Bollenhall’s residents are hot, dry, bored, and fat.
This story was based on the prompt “but there’s cake” at TypeTrigger. Read other writers’ responses here.
“Sink or swim” was not a particularly relevant idiom for Nelson the narcoleptic turtle. He floated, and good thing, too, or he’d probably fall asleep, sink, and die. Instead he just bobbed along on the surface, snoring softly.
One day Nelson floated ashore and fell asleep there.
Narcolepsy is boring.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Vanguard1219.
She was a couch lump.
All day, she did nothing but sit and squint blankly at walls, as if trying to see one of those three-dimensional image things with the weird patterns that you have to look cross-eyed at.
After her parents kicked her out, she stared at trees instead.