Did you ever just stare up at the night sky? Jeez, it’s beautiful.
I wish my girl was here, I really do.
They were mouthing off, I told ’em to go to hell. Big mistake.
The stars are getting blurry.
I don’t wanna be found with tears in my eyes.
Simon is a voice over artist and short story writer based in London, England.
Jeff said it was a silly toy. It was a wooden gun from my halloween costume. I went as a pirate that year.
Jeff always laughed at me. He said the gun could do no damage. I was the one laughing when I hit him in the head with it.
John has interests that range from guitars to the Incredible Hulk. He was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri and still lives there to this day. You can hear him on the weekly podcast at www.comicbookshowdown.com.
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.
“When they open up that door, you’re gonna whop ’em on the knees with your shovel, okay, son?”
Little Harley nodded his freckled nose and gripped his shovel as tight as he could.
Jim leveled his shotgun. Wasn’t every year you got to do the surprising on your own birthday.
This story was based on the prompt “when they come” at TypeTrigger.
They stood by the charred crater that had been their home and listened to the wind.
It told them, You’ve been hard done by.
It said, They had no right.
It whispered, Independence is our destiny.
It commanded, Hoist the New Antland flag, stand tall, and let the humans come.
“What are you up to?” muttered Wendel, eyes narrowed.
None of the fifty-seven fuzzy orange caterpillars inching across his driveway offered an explanation.
“I don’t trust you,” said Wendel. Then he stomped one, for emphasis.
Deep underground, the Caterpillar Council murmured grimly. Casualties had always been inevitable in this war.
With waxy wings buzzing, and multifaceted eyes glowing maliciously, the fruit flies attacked.
In mere seconds, the unsuspecting picnickers were covered with a two-inch-deep blanket of angry, but harmless insects.
“We have them!” buzzed Franklin Fruit Fly. “What do we do now?”
And the swarm realized it had no follow-through.
This story is based on a title suggested by Nancy Cavanaugh via Facebook.
She watched arrogantly as the valet flung the bags into the trunk.
There was a tinkling crunch.
She turned to her husband. “See? They broke. I’m packing next time.”
He feigned sheepishness. Packing sucked, and they’d both hated Aunt Gertha’s gift. As far as he was concerned, this was victory.
On Friday nights the walruses fight
They stab and tear and grimace
With merciless glee they redden the sea
The wounds they inflict are grievous
Alliances crumble, allegiances tumble
For walruses love to betray
Their blubbery bellies wriggle like jelly
With laughter, blood-lust, and dismay
On Fridays the walruses play
This story was based on a prompt from @Ad134, who responded to a call for two verbs and an adjective with laugh, betray, and blubbery. (I took a bit of liberty with “laugh,” though.)
“Who do you think would win in a fight, Luke Skywalker or Aragorn?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?”
“How about Gandalf versus Darth Vader?”
“I’m not even going to acknowledge anything so dumb.”
“R2D2 versus Gollum?”
“Try this one: my boot versus your butt.”
Surprisingly, the butt won.