50-Word Stories

Our Hero stood resolute in the middle of the rain-soaked, corpse-littered asphalt.

Zombie earthworms.

They inched closer, exuding sinister inevitability, crushed, broken, bloated, wasting away, and hungry.

Our Hero calmly set a bowl of oatmeal on the ground, flavouring it with his own blood.

That should keep them. For now.

---

I asked, on Twitter, what I should write a fifty-word story about today. @dotsam wrote, “Saving the universe with a bowl of oatmeal.” @RacoonResidue wrote, “Zombie earth worms.”

“What do you think would happen if a yodeler got turned into a zombie? Would it cry for our brains with yodels?”

“…No.”

“Ok, stupid question, fair enough. Oh man, you know what would be really freaky, though? Zombified birds. Because they could fly.”

Sometimes I really hate my friends.

---

@DashP responded to a request for two nouns and a verb with the words “zombie”, “yodels”, and “fly”.

“Aaaaah! A zombie!”

The room full of business executives burst into chaos as the fatcats scrambled for the exits.

“Wait!” called the zombie. “I’m not like those horror-movie zombies! I don’t want to hurt you!”

Everyone froze in astonishment. Then:

“Aaaaah! A talking zombie!”

The zombie sighed. “Theodore was right…”

Cliven dove head first into a bush.

He heard snuffling nearby, the sound of a predator searching out its prey.

“Dear Lord,” Cliven prayed, “I know my pet dragon started this whole thing, but… Could you stop the zombies from eating my brain? Please?”

The snuffling stopped.

The zombocalypse didn’t.

THE END

Cliven followed the zombie dragon and the pudgy princess until they finally alighted on a rooftop.

“Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Come down! Please don’t hurt her!”

Nogard shook his head playfully, turned, and very gently nipped Emeldatine on the shoulder.

The princess started to cry.

Then she turned very, very pale.

“Bad Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Bad!”

The Veterinary Cleric writhed on the ground, clutching his charred intestines.

Perching in the shattered window frame, the little dragon licked its lips with a serpentine tongue, flames hissing through its dilated nostrils.

Cliven wagged his finger. “Do you want me to get the muzzle?”

“I won’t let you kill my dragon!” cried Cliven.

“He’ll become a zombie!” insisted the Veterinary Cleric. “Hundreds could die!”

“I don’t care!”

Nogard shuddered in Cliven’s arms. His eyes rolled backwards, and all his muscles went slack.

“No!” Cliven screamed. “Is he dead!?”

“Well,” said the Cleric, “kind of.”