The girl cries in the subway station. I leave my friends to themselves and go over to her. We have a couple of drinks while she talks her sorrow away. The next morning I leave her, knowing she’ll be alright.
That’s what I should have done.
Please forgive me.
Jonas has written this story a couple of times before in different formats for different purposes in different languages.
They played the tape of his wife’s murder for him and studied his face carefully. It was paper white. Innocent.
The tape restarted. Once more they watched the brutal stabbing.
Back at home, a single thought pounded through his mind as he stroked the still-bloody knife: “There was a camera?!”
Jennifer Slade: tall, beautiful, luscious blonde locks, sparkling eyes, excellent singing voice, doctorate in art and design… In reality, a high school student with a passion for drawing and music. She also has a vivid imagination.
The life of a pygmy banana is short and sweet.
As buds on the branch, they live with joy, innocence, and enthusiasm.
The growing process is a time of learning and maturation.
Some fall from the branch and freely give of themselves to the grateful wildlife.
Others simply rot.
Her works were renowned throughout the world. She was a teenaged aardvark sculptor, the greatest that ever lived. She worked with stone, ice, and clay: every medium was her domain, subject to her whims.
She hid in anonymity, each masterpiece a portrait of self-loathing, of her wish for human form.
This story was based on a title suggested by @VikkieTheMimm.
She moves past you. You see pain.
He gets on, sits beside her. Both uncomfortable.
An awkward exchange, both speaking at once. He wants to “take care of it.” She acquiesces, nodding silently. He gives her his card.
He disembarks, then she.
You look at the seat. Paper scraps everywhere.
James loves Linux, gaming, and, apparently, fifty-word stories (who knew?). Find him at http://skynet.ie/~program9.
Editor’s Note: I’d love to hear other people’s interpretations of this story. I know what I think it means, but I think it could be understood in a lot of different ways, which is really cool. Offer your explanation by leaving a comment!
“Sleep. Don’t cry. There is nothing you can do.
“They are gone, never to return. We cannot bring them back, and I am sorry, but you must live with that.”
That’s what she said, but today they died, and I will cry with the rain.
Today I am an orphan.
Matthew Trotter is 21 and lives where the wind carries him. He enjoys writing to pass time and reads as much as he can.
She’d forgotten where it came from. Maybe she’d won it in a game of bingo that time she went to Paris…
Now and then it made funny noises when she went down the steps.
It seemed so content, sitting there under her front porch. Her very own happy little universe.
This story was based on this prompt from @Haberley.
They shared everything together. Every scrap of bread; every whispered word; every somber smile. They were a community: they shared a goal, a common end. After all, the only thing worse than awaiting death was awaiting it alone.
On sad days, their numbers shrank; on sadder days, their numbers grew.
The title for this story was suggested by Ragepyro.
“Stand away, American!”
“If my intentions were hostile,” growled the warrior, “your staff would not avail you, Wizard.”
“My kind must be careful,” said Sir McDonald. “In your land, I might wake up a slave.”
Abraham Lincoln gripped his sword. “That is why my country goes to war with itself.”
Historical fantasy is weird. But you should check out the Alvin Maker series by Orson Scott Card if you like that kind of thing.
The kayak rolled with the swelling of the ocean. Its lifeless occupant had stories to tell; the forensics officer in the nearby boat was certain of that.
An eruption of bubbles at the rear of the boat wasn’t a loud enough warning to prevent him from becoming the second victim.
This story was based on a prompt from @brucerytel.