The youth stomped in disjointed unison through the crowded shopping complex. They had their target in their sights and wouldn’t relent until they had done what they had set out to do.
She was scared.
Running from the hooded gang, she stopped, and was cornered.
“Miss, you forgot your handbag.”
Lewis Cole is an English author who writes leisurely . He aims to improve his writing abilities with practice. His work can be found at http://coleshideyhole.blogspot.co.uk.
I crouch, bound in tension, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink, lest I be discovered. The consequences would be extremely unsavoury…
Someone enters the room, stops, inhales deeply. Can they smell me? They depart.
I peek. The coast is clear.
This pie is MINE!
I could barely see him through the smoke, a wispy silhouette, dancing and swaying to the rhythmless music of the crackling bonfire. His erratic movements transported me to some other place, a far-off, magical land. He was ethereal, mesmerizing, screaming…
Screaming!?
“DON’T JUST STAND THERE! MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!”
This story was based on the prompt “through the flames” at TypeTrigger.
“Come away with me, my darling!”
“Oh, my dear, I thought you’d never ask! Where shall we go?”
“It doesn’t matter where we go, does it, my dove?”
“No, truly it doesn’t, so long as we’re together…”
She felt differently upon their arrival at his cottage behind the garbage dump.
This story was based on the prompt “away with me” at TypeTrigger.
Home alone, almost asleep, she freezes at the sound. Wide awake now, eyes straining in the dark, holding her breath, she listens. The faint rustling grows closer, an alarming noise: intruder!
She reaches for her pistol. Heart pounding, hands shaking, she rounds the corner, aims, and nearly shoots the cockroach.
Lauren McBride’s work has appeared in various science fiction, horror, nature and children’s publications including Scifaikuest (featured poet, August 2010) and The Drabbler (honorable mention twice). She shares a love of laughter, science and the ocean with her husband and two children.
This story was previously printed in Boston Literary Magazine, Fall 2008, under the pseudonym Elizabeth L. Collins.
“I’m sick of being single.”
“Yeah, me too. It’s totally lame. It’s hard to do anything about it though, you know?”
“Well, this is kind of counter-intuitive, but apparently if we don’t want to be single anymore, we have to split.”
“Worth a try. Anything’s better than staying single-celled forever.”
*click*
Oh no.
*click click*
It’s jammed! This is bad. REALLY BAD.
*click click click click*
What am I going to do?! Any second now he’s going to turn around and see me, and then…
*click click BANG*
Phew!
I thought I might get blamed for breaking his nail gun.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “faulty trigger”.
“You and me, we’re flanking, right?”
“I thought we were the vanguard.”
“What’s a vanguard?”
“The guys at the front, I think.”
“Aren’t those the shock troopers?”
“Only if they’re charging ahead and catching the enemy by surprise.”
“Like a blitzkrieg?”
“Sort of.”
“These water fights have gotten really complicated.”
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “and me.”
“I’m just a lonely cowpoke,” Billy admitted. “I ain’t no gun-totin’ hero, really.”
“Aw, shucks,” Milly muttered. “I was countin’ on you to save my ranch from Bad Bart!”
“I’m awful sorry, Milly.”
“Don’t be, darlin’. Truth is, I’ve been lyin’, too.”
“Pardon?”
“Y’see, pardner, I actually am Bad Bart!”
Every night the elves secretly finished the cobbler’s work.
The intricate yet sturdy shoes became very popular.
The king heard about this and the cobbler was called to the castle to make royal shoes.
Unfortunately he didn’t know how to prepare that style himself.
In the end he was beheaded.
This story came to Rammy in his three-quarter sleep.