“Road trip!”
We’d packed that hatchback so full of clothing, food, and camping gear that we could hardly buckle our seatbelts. We had no plan but “Go”, no destination but “Good times”.
We put the car in gear, and
BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM!!
all four tires burst simultaneously.
“…House party!”
“It was the gardener! J’accuse!”
“Uh huh,” said the unimpressed homicide detective. “On what grounds, ma’am?”
“My husband was killed with a garden hoe last night, was he not?”
“Uh huh. But the gardener says you just hired him this morning. Off a street corner.”
“The filthy beggar lies! J’accuse!”
This story was based on the prompt “the gardener” at TypeTrigger.
“I wish she’d come down from her ivory tower.”
“I doubt she knows how. I think she was born there.”
“Hmm, you may be right. That’s kind of sad, really. She’s like Rapunzel, trapped within an inflated conception of her own intellect.”
“Yeah, sure. Tragic.”
“Let’s go pull her hair!”
This story was based on the prompt “born there” at TypeTrigger.
We were lost in the enchanted woods.
“Some shortcut, Krayg!” Tixen’s green eyes flashed.
“Relax,” I said. “Krayg, find some kindling. Night’s coming.”
We huddled close around the flames.
“Now,” I said, “a spell to read the stars… Where did my wand go? Krayg, what did you use for kindling?”
This story was based on the prompt “in the woods” at TypeTrigger.
One morning, as he woke in his bed from troubled dreams, Gregor Samsa discovered that he had been transformed into a monstrous cockroach.
Moments later, as World War III began, civilization was destroyed by a nuclear missile. Gregor was lucky to survive.
It’s nice how sometimes things just work out.
Kieren McCallum has just finished an English Literature degree and dreams of becoming an author, as well as a few more practical things. He has a blog at lemonmachine.wordpress.com with some creative writing on it.
Editor’s Note: This story is a clever modification of the classic novella The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.
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.
Check the news, honey. Apparently something crazy happened at work today. I was napping in a storage room. (Hey, I earn my siestas!) The guys didn’t give me many details. When I woke up they said it was over already.
Haircut? What haircut? Why are you laughing? Did someone…?
Argh.
“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.
First night on the ward, the boss said, “Lookit, college boy, we got a load of patients. Most are only pick daisies in the park nuts, but them two in lockdown there is bona fide nuts-nuts. Don’t mess around with ’em.”
They didn’t look a lick crazier than the boss.
Gary Clifton was forty years a Federal officer, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published in Spinetingler, Broadkill Review, Yellow Mama, and Dumb Butt Mag.