He toddles up to me, hands cupped. “I made this, Daddy!”
I drop my briefcase. “What is it?”
His hands open and there goes the frog. We scramble after it, laughing.
I didn’t realize then that his statement had been literal. I still don’t know what he uses as materials.
This story was based on the prompt “for you” at TypeTrigger.
They gathered around the stump, some eyes wet, some eyes hard.
“This tree,” said the eldest, “meant many different things to each of us. We all have reason to mourn it.”
There were some sniffles.
“Now,” said the eldest, “auction’s open! Who wants to bring this hunk o’ wood home?”
This story was based on the prompt “the stump” at TypeTrigger.
You ripped out my heart. That wasn’t very nice.
I do appreciate your thoughtfulness in replacing it and stitching me up afterwards, and my new eyeballs work great, thanks, but would it have been too much trouble to remove these huge bolts from my neck, while you were at it?
This story was based on the prompt “ripped out” at TypeTrigger.
Death is an unsettling experience. The sudden weight-loss, poor circulation and depression has been known to drive many victims of death into suicidal states and impractical levels of homesickness.
Experts on the often fatal condition recommend emergency surgical obliteration of the brain as the most effective and efficient known cure.
Since his last submissions, Gavin has been writing for his local University and upholding a (mostly) weekly blog of his writings. He is quietly contented with life.
“So you say you gave birth to a… dinosaur.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“And that’s him, there? He looks quite normal to me.”
“He’s a dinosaur, really!”
“Well, if he is a dinosaur, when I place my finger in his mouth he should—HE BIT MY HAND OFF!!”
“I told you so.”
This was story was based on a title suggested by @Keab42.
When the new girl entered, my face was covered in slugs.
I’d done it to get Kayley’s attention, and she was suitably grossed out, but as soon as I saw the new girl, Kayley didn’t matter.
By then, unfortunately, it was too late.
I live alone, now, with my slugs.
I imagine this as the origin story for some tragic antihero…
Last night I went to bed early, which was a shame, really, because when I woke up (late), I found muddy dinosaur footprints all throughout the kitchen and dining room, and the big pot of soup in the fridge was empty.
I hope they come back again tonight. Chili’s on!
This story was based on the prompt “last night I” at TypeTrigger.
Georgiana shielded her face from the searing heat as she portioned out the molten silver. The cave echoed with the howls of wolf pups.
As sweat beaded on Georgiana’s forehead, she counted backwards aloud: “Nine… Eight… Seven…”
Not for the first time, she thought, There must be an easier way…
This story was based on a title suggested by @salmir.
What can I do with this hunger?
Feed it, when I must: satiate it, if I can, though it seems I’m never satisfied.
Ignore it, when I’m able, but it consumes me incessantly.
Surrender to it, when I can’t help but be overcome. Dance to it.
More Phil Collins, please.
This story is dedicated to Justin Boyd. It was based on the prompt “this hunger” at TypeTrigger.
You think you understand me? What a joke. No one understands me. No one even tries.
You write me off, dismiss me. You try to diagnose me, apply your useless labels.
Open your ears! Listen, for once. “Foogledy balpadons, hormeath!”
See? You’re making that distant, absent face again… Nobody understands.
This story was based on the prompt “understand me?” at TypeTrigger.