It wasn’t Georges fault and, as usual, it was most unfair. He hadn’t been the only one smoking. The school had been really dry after the hot weather, and full of unnecessary paper.
And he had only struck one match and he hadn’t even flicked it.
Not very much, anyway.
Richard Wheal is a writer and trainee carpenter who live in a forest in Dorset and spends a great deal of time gathering winter fuel.
Even from beyond its flickering glow, we could feel the heat of the raging fire, harsh against our alabaster skin. We were drawn closer, forced forward by the spears that pierced us. Our flesh erupted, becoming golden and charred, just before we were shoved in between chocolate and graham crackers.
Maximillian White has been telling stories since he could speak, and writing – often legibly – for almost as long. Check out more of his work at elitefool.com and ridiculousity.net.
He also wrote Saving Daylight.
The kids crawled all over the playground.
“Who’s It?”
“Jimmy is!”
“The ground’s lava! If you touch it, you’re It!”
Tamara thought being It might be fun. So she went to one of the ladders, took a deep breath, and hopped down…
Lava burns. A lot. But she died painlessly.
“Huh. It was dead.”
“Told you. What do we do with it now?”
“Bring it to a scientist? That’s what you’re supposed to do with aliens, right?”
“Do you know any scientists? Any that survived, I mean.”
“Good point. Let’s just burn it, I guess.”
The invaders saw the smoke.
“Wow, that thing’s huge!”
“It’s my latest invention!”
“Very cool.”
“I’m really proud of it. It can burn almost anything as a fuel source. Gas, wood, flour, cigarette butts, human flesh…”
“How about this mud?”
“It’ll run on mud, yep.”
“That’s so awesome. What does it do?”
“…It burns things.”
Editor’s Note: This story is based on a call on Twitter for a noun, an adjective, and a verb. @mochrie_rocks responded with mud, huge, and run.
“Tell us a story, Grampa!”
“Alright, kids! Once there was an old man with fourteen grandchildren. He was a grumpy man, so he took all their toys away and burned them. The End.”
“Thanks for the story, Grampa! Can we play dolls now?”
“Sorry, Susie. It was a true story.”