There once was a dragon named Scott Davidson. The higher-ups liked him, a real go-getter. He was destined for the top.
One day, he was covering for Robert, the hiring manager. An applicant walked in and screamed, “HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL! IT’S AN UGLY DRAGON!”
Scott ate him.
The End.
Ebon Wumon originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.
Tara told Tammy to try to stop telling tall tales. But Tammy bragged about her bossy big brother Ben: he had the hugest, heaviest head. Fortunately, Fred’s freakish feet were far funnier. Larry and Laurie laughed and laughed and laughed, long and loud.
Alice ardently, angrily ate all the alliterators.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the doctor. “You’re dying.”
The words hit me like a boxing glove with a fist inside it swung intentionally towards my head by a professional martial artist.
“What!?” I gasped.
“Only kidding!” he said.
My fist hit him like his words had hit me. But harder.
“You know what’s so great about lunch?”
“Yeah! It’s spelled like ‘launch’ but without the A!”
“That is great, but what’s even greater is that it’s like the contents of the sandwich, and breakfast and supper are the bread! That’s why lunch tastes the best!”
“I hate sandwiches!”
“Me too!”
She was the foxiest lady I ever met.
There was nothing “faux” about the furs she wore. In her mind, “animal cruelty” was a term for describing bear attacks.
I finally asked her to go to dinner with me, but it turned out she was a vegetarian, so I walked.
“I heard on the radio today that statisticians are wealthier, happier, and awesomer than people in other professions.”
“Oh really. Who collected the data? And who published the report?”
“Stats Canada.”
“And you don’t see anything suspicious about that?”
“Nope. Statisticians are great!”
“…Yeah. You’re right.”
“I’m gonna marry one!”
Jorge was a racist. He hated purple people. He wanted to do mean things to them all.
Jorge was also a mulish ignoramus. He wouldn’t listen to anyone who tried to tell him purple people didn’t exist.
“Fools!” he muttered to himself every night, as he repainted his skin brown.
“My dear, can you hear me?” said the voice.
“I can,” she replied.
“I am your angel of music. I will teach you to sing like no other. Together we can achieve great things. We’ll make the music of the night.”
“Then you want Christine next door. I’m the custodian.”
JP originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest. It is a reference to the Phantom of the Opera.
“Did you know,” droned the lecturer, “that until a few short centuries ago, the human body was made of sixty percent water rather than sixty percent weaponry?”
“Weird,” commented a student, holding up one shotgun arm and flexing his finger-pistols. “Makes you wonder how they survived long enough to evolve.”
Thousands of ducks overwhelmed the streets of North Crundria. The city was in an uproar.
“Ducks!?” cried the frightened, confused masses. “But… Aren’t they extinct?!”
A zoologist stood on his porch. “I warned you all,” he said. “The balance has shifted. And I, for one, welcome our new Duck Overlords.”
This story was inspired by suggestions from @gameking128 (“duck”), @Graham_LRR (“North Crundria”), and @HootieD (“to shift”) via Twitter.