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.
“I’m the best hyperbolizer in the world.”
“Stop exaggerating.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone else like me? I’m a world-famous big-talker, man! One of a kind!”
“There’s only one thing you could claim you’re famous for, and that’s the size of your head.”
“Yep! Biggest noggin there ever was!”
This story is based on the prompt “hyperbolic” at TypeTrigger.
Jennifer awoke in the lion enclosure, drowsy and confused.
She’d just rested her eyes for a few seconds in the library, awash in a sea of dull economics textbooks. How and why was she here?
She shrugged her new shoulders, flicked her tail, and padded softly out into the sunlight.
Jeremy is a shambling mess of unkempt hair and caffeine-induced twitches, currently based in Southampton in the UK. He doesn’t have a website of his own, but would like to direct people towards the band he’s involved with at http://www.thebluescreenofdeath.co.uk/ and their music video he starred in.
This shirt, this wonderful, beautiful shirt, has magic powers; its wearer, they say, will always gain his heart’s desires.
They also say that it’s invisible to those with evil in their hearts, but that doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t need to see it to know that it’s working.
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.”
“You have been a great comfort to me, softening the hard times and cushioning the blows. Without your support, I would have found it much more challenging to sleep on so many difficult nights.”
With these words, and a waterfall of tears, I eulogized my dear, old friend, the sofa.
“There’s a monster under my bed!” whimpered Sophie.
“I know,” said Mom. “I put it there. It likes dark places.”
“Won’t it come out at night and eat me!?”
“No, it’s a vegetarian.”
Sophie put fresh heads of lettuce under her bed every day for the rest of her life.
“You are eighteen, Ahradok. Here is your sword. Come join the fighting men!”
“Father,” said Ahradok, “I wish to remain in the kitchens.”
“Son, men work with drawn swords, not wooden spoons.”
Ahradok honoured his father’s advice, but soon found that a sword is highly impractical for chopping and dicing.
“Who is that? Why are they treating her like a celebrity?”
“Maybe she is a celebrity.”
“I don’t think so. I read every gossipy blog and magazine out there, and I’ve never seen her in any of them.”
“Maybe she’s a really well-behaved celebrity.”
“Ha, like that’s even a thing…”
Darla’s commute was awful: it took two hours to get from her downtown apartment to the wastelands, where she hunted the secret dragons.
Her friends thought she was a paralegal. They might ask uncomfortable questions if she moved to the suburbs, and it was already hard enough hiding the scars.