The neighbors had loud arguments at all hours.
I tried everything: I beat on the walls, left increasingly hostile notes, got up at night and screamed through the walls as revenge. Nothing worked.
Finally, I called the landlord.
He told me the unit next door had been vacant for months.
Andy Koopmans wrote this story.
I asked my mom, “Why do dogs eat grass?”
It was then that she started feeding it to me, and I found out that the answer was because it makes them throw up.
I told her my findings but she keeps feeding it to me anyways. I still wonder why.
Joe Russo has been published on two other sites. He is a current writing student and active blogger. He is also an avid fan of Sex and the City.
The knock at the door in the middle of the night caught her off guard. When she answered the summons, the person on the other side said, “Guess who.”
“I don’t know who.”
“Guess.”
“Um…”
“Give up?” the person asked.
“Yeah.”
“Nobody.”
She pulled the door open. Nobody was there.
Kymberli Roberson lives in Illinois where she is currently hunting down the goblins of writer’s block.
I’d been here innumerable times. A genuine Sisyphean nightmare. Still, ever a slave to destiny, I stepped from my accursed box and threw the dagger. It was instinct now.
My aim improved constantly, but I never had time. The universe is no stranger to irony.
I returned to the box.
Steven is a writer of fiction and Facebook updates. He is proud of one of these and hides another. Alternatingly. Depending on his Facebook posts that day. Read his blog at intimateknowledge.blogspot.com.
Gene paces back and forth. He thinks to himself, “How has it come to this? Look at this beautiful scenery… What am I doing?” He feels the pain again. It’s like chronic hunger.
Silence. More eerie silence. Suddenly, a splash like no other. The ripples emanate into eternity.
The never-end.
Michael Lyons is a trier.
On our first date, she told me cigarettes and coffee are the best way to cure any case of constipation. I couldn’t help but notice her teeth were caffeine-stained and specks of ash clung to her lips.
Halfway through dinner, she went to the restroom.
She never came back.
Emily Ramser currently attends Salem College in pursuit of a degree in Creative Writing. Lately, she seems to do more writing than classwork, though. Check out her stuff at chickadeesweetie.wordpress.com or on Twitter, @ChickadeePoems.
“I won’t recommend seafood dishes anymore,” the waiter explains. “It has landed me in hot water too many times before.”
“Oh?” I say. “Do people really get upset with you when they don’t like your suggestions?”
“I mean literal hot water,” he says sardonically, clicking his lobster claws.
This story was based on the prompt “won’t recommend” at TypeTrigger.
Georgiana shielded her face from the searing heat as she portioned out the molten silver. The cave echoed with the howls of wolf pups.
As sweat beaded on Georgiana’s forehead, she counted backwards aloud: “Nine… Eight… Seven…”
Not for the first time, she thought, There must be an easier way…
This story was based on a title suggested by @salmir.
Cynthia theatrically flung open the wardrobe. “Well?”
After an awkward pause, Greg said, “It’s…”
“I know! Isn’t it?” enthused Cynthia.
Greg paused. He wasn’t actually sure what he had been going to say. “It” was some kind of all-of-the-neons polka-dotted dress thing. “Yes,” he managed at last, “it really is.”
“I’m a world-class artiste!” the actress pronounced. “I require the perfect environment to nurture my delicate muse.”
“So it’s your muse who eats six pounds of blue Smarties every day, then?” muttered her browbeaten young assistant.
“Silly boy; we don’t eat them! We throw them out the window at people.”
Creative people are weird. Cough.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Vigafray.