“When I grow up, I want to be a pirate!” the young boy said, beaming up at me just before we boarded the ship.
I smiled as I bent down to straighten his clothes.
“You already are, kid,” I replied, hiding another flintlock under his bulky coat. “You already are.”
Cole Grinnell is letting his work speak for itself.
The cowboy drank until he’d had enough, then topped off his flask for later.
When he turned to go, a couple mean-looking gents had gathered.
“Had enough?” said one.
“Got my fill.”
“Well at this lemonade stand most folks pay before they drink. Now give the little girl her quarter.”
This story was based on the prompt “had my fill” at TypeTrigger.
Fifteen thousand and twelve things could happen between our car and his classroom.
I tell myself they won’t; I tell myself he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need me to walk him anymore. And I don’t.
But he’s my little boy, and it’s so very, very hard to let him go.
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina fiction writer and poet. Her work can be found in print in The Island Breeze, and Outer Banks publication, and online at Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Four and Twenty, The Camel Saloon, Apollo’s Lyre, Pond Ripples, Three Line Poetry, and the Journal of Microliterature.
“Are we there yet?”
“No,” Mary snapped. Two of the kids started crying.
Ben ignored them.
Mary groaned. “Why do we even go for these drives? We don’t like it. The kids don’t like it. Nobody likes it.”
“Fine.” Ben turned the car around.
Beneath them, the road sighed sadly.
This story is based on a title suggested by @THatherty2.
Mommy bought me a new pair of shoes. I am not allowed to get them dirty at all. New shoes are extra special, Mommy says.
A mean man stepped in a puddle and splashed my shoes today. I punched his face.
Mommy says faces are even specialer than new shoes.
This story was based on the prompt “new shoes” at TypeTrigger.
Shawn worked long hours, and at home there were diapers to change, bottles to warm, and feet to rub. He had only four sacred, personal minutes each day to kick off his pants and relax.
One day, he was interrupted: “Daddy, I hafta gooooo!”
Curse you, potty training, he thought.
This story is based on a title suggested by Zach Denoncour.
She stood at my door
one black glove, one red
and a lacy half-veil
Good evening, ma’am
icily
I didn’t want what she was selling
but my kids did
Of course, they hadn’t heard
the asking price
the surcharges
the cost-to-benefit ratios
Just the allure
the affect
I’ve been there
This story is based on the prompt “one black glove, one red,” suggested by @big_poppa_G.
Editor’s Note: for clearest interpretation, read affect as a noun, which has been, lately, one of my favourite words.
I clutch the pink note in my sweaty hand.
My heart beats furiously.
The room smells like chalk.
“Welcome, Dads!” is written on a big blue banner.
The cruel children laugh at my shoes while I hand over the note.
It reads, “Dear Ms. Wheatley, Elena’s father died last year.”
This story was submitted by Elena Agnello.
Jimmy always brought tater tots to school. Worse, he flaunted them.
That made him a target.
Ryan drew the plans up, Kevin swiped the locker keys, Megan played the decoy, and Aiden prepped the route to the hideout.
But Brandon forgot to bring the ketchup, so they tattled on him.
This story is based on a title suggested by a participant in a 50-word stories live-writing session.
It was very important to Monika that she raise her children right. She taught them Kindness, and Hospitality, and Manners, and Decency.
But setting a good example wasn’t always enough, so she sometimes snuck a squirt of dish soap into her baking, just in case they’d been using naughty words.
This story was based on a title suggested by @BRSsexyman.